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Conventional Sex
In the year after I turned 18, three incredible things happened to me. The first two sucked. I guess the third did too, but you'll get that joke later. The first thing was that I hit puberty. Like a brick wall. One day I was a normal kid, a decent second-baseman in the school softball games, no problem bigger than sweating out whether I'd get a C- or a D+ in penmanship from Sister Mary Margaret. Sister Margaret had taught penmanship, and nothing but penmanship, for it seemed like a hundred years. Anyway, she'd taught my sister, who was six years older than me, and she looked old enough to have taught my mom and dad, too. Nothing I could do for Sister Margaret was as good as my sister had done, as the old nun was very open about telling me. Since my going to the summer Scout camp was dependent on keeping all my grades passing -- even though penmanship didn't count toward graduation -- I couldn't just ignore Sister Margaret's crotchetiness. It did seem that the harder I gripped the No. 2 Eberhard-Faber, the worse my loops got, but I was confident I could curl them enough to squeak out the C. Then everything went nuts. All of a sudden I was missing easy grounders and throwing 12 feet over the head of Eddie, the first-baseman. I couldn't seem to control any muscle, most importantly the ones in my fingers. My handwriting looked like the chart of a drunk's stumble down a dark alley. And one gray, rainy morning I got up and looked in the mirror and some stranger was looking back. Some ugly kid with big red pimples all over his face. And it was me. For the rest of my life, I have studiously avoided reading anything about adolescence, because I don't want to know just how late I was to the party. All I know was that I at last understood why our class softball team had sucked so mightily the year before. We weren't that great as eighth graders, either, but that was mostly because several key players skipped a lot of the weekend games to spend time with girls. I began to get a vague inkling why they thought that was a better way to spend their time, too. You might think that having a klutz at
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