Thursday, November 2, 2017
A High School Boy Gives Me His Underwear
Fort Wayne, Indiana, December 1969
When I was growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, we visited my parents' home town in northeastern Indiana about twice a year, at Christmastime and during the summer. My favorite part of the visit was when Grandma Davis announced "Let's go on a trip to Fort Wayne,"
When we were very little, Mom and Dad came, too, and when we were older, my baby sister came with us, but for many years it was just Kenny and me, fighting over who would get to ride "shotgun" in Grandma's brown Chevy Impala as she drove through Butler Center and Laotto and Huntertown, and finally (really only about a half hour later) Fort Wayne.
The biggest, brightest, most exciting city in the world.
It was unimaginably huge, bigger than Rock Island, Moline, and Davenport put together, and it had the most fascinating places I had ever seen. There was always something new: a gigantic County Courthouse; a candy factory much nicer than that scary one in the Willy Wonka movie; a Children's Zoo with its own train; an art museum; the history museum at Old City Hall; Kern's Toy Store; a memorial to Johnny Appleseed.
Somehow Grandma Davis always knew where there were a lot of cute boys: playing basketball in schoolyards, crowded into booths at the soda shop, competing in athletic events, running around in groups at street fairs. She let us play with them while she sat on a bench, reading a magazine.
We usually stopped for lunch at the Famous Coney Island on Main Street: hot dogs with chili, cheese, and onions, and steamed buns. Plus french fries, onion rings, and root beer floats (vanilla ice cream floating in a gigantic mug of root beer).
And a never-ending supply of cute high school boys in white shirts, black pants, and black bow ties who brought out your orders.
On a cold day just before Christmas in 1969, when I was in fourth grade, we were having lunch at the Coney Island, and my brother and I were rough-housing, stealing fries off each other's plates, shoving each other, and laughing. Grandma Davis told us to settle down, so I stopped and picked up my root beer float.
Then Kenny shoved me again. I dropped the heavy mug onto my chest, drenching my shirt with root beer. More root beer splashed onto my pants, and the clump of melting ice cream fell right onto my lap.
Gross! Cold and wet! I pushed it onto the floor.
"It looks like you peed your pants," Kenny said.
"Oh, no, you're soaked!" Grandma Davis exclaimed. She grabbed some napkins and tried to dab me, but the root beer and ice cream had already soaked in. "You can't ride all the way back to Garrett like this -- it's freezing out!"
A high school boy came running up: short, compact, muscular, with long brown hippie-hair and a bright smile. He was carrying a little pad and pencil. I don't remember his name, if I ever knew it, so I'll call him Jim.
"Don't worry, Ma'am, I'll take care of him," he said. Then "Come on, champ, let's get you cleaned up."
He took me by the hand and led me past the staring patrons to a little door marked "Employees Only." Inside it looked like a kitchen, with tables and chairs and a little refrigerator. There was a bank of lockers on on side, and a rack with a lot of coats hung up on it.
"We had a little accident," Jim said. "Give me a hand here, ok?"
They pulled my shoes off, and I took off my pants and shirt. It was cold! I was shivering in my underwear and socks. Rich gave me a towel to dry off with.
"Do we have a spare pair of pants the kid can wear?" Jim asked.
"There's an extra uniform...not his size. He'll be swimming in it."
"Better than nothing." While Rich went to get the uniform, Jim helped me dry off.
"Um...your underwear is soaked, little buddy. That was one busy root beer float. Better slip out of them, too. I'll keep watch to make sure no girls come in."
I nodded and pulled off my underwear. It was oddly exciting to be standing naked with high school boys.
Rich appeared with a pair of black pants and white shirt. "Um...you can't put this on with no underwear. Your area will pop right out and scare the poor ladies to death!"
They looked at each other.
"I have an idea. You don't mind used underwear, do you, buddy?" Jim slipped out of his pants, and then dropped his white briefs, revealing a dark mass of pubic hair and thick hairy balls and a penis! Long, thick, veiny, as big as my Cousin Joe's.
I stared in awe.
Jim handed me his briefs, still warm from his body, and I slipped them on. His penis had just been pressing against this thin cotton a moment ago!
He pulled his pants back up, with no underwear. I stared, trying to see an outline or a bulge. But the lines were straight.
Then Jim and Rich helped me pull up the black employee pants and roll up the cuff. They were so loose that I had to squeeze them together with my hand. I pulled on the shirt, and they helped me button it and tuck it in.
"Now you're an honorary employee of Famous Coney Island," Jim said.
"We're going all the way to Garrett," I protested. "You'll never get your...um...underwear back,"
"That's ok. Keep it as a souvenir."
The job done, Jim put my wet clothes in a bag and took me out to Grandma Davis.
"A coat and hat, and he'll be good to wait up for Santa Claus. Oh -- and I almost forgot -- I'll get you a new root beer float."
I was in no mood for ice cream. I was too overcome by the sight, sound, and smell of the masculine. My area was touching where Jim's had been! It was like we were pressing together!
The next weekend, Grandma Davis returned the pants and shirt. I never told her about the underwear.
I kept it hidden in my dresser drawer for years.
And I order a lot of root beer floats in restaurants, hoping that history will repeat itself.
See also: My First Kiss from a Boy Vampire