now? I didn't know."
"Why
should you? It's a private matter."
"A
man thing."
"Don't
you use that tone of voice with me, young man." She sputtered a moment
before reaching for the screen door. "What in the world has come over you
two? Why, you're acting like... Uh..."
"Men?"
Clark offered.
Mom was silent.
She couldn't even sputter.
I raised
a finger as if to a child. "Mom, you're the one who started this."
"Yeah,
insinuating we were doing dirty things..."
“...upstairs
in our bedroom. I tell ya ..."
“...accusations
like that make a kid grow up real fast."
"Boys,
this kind of talk is completely unsatis ..."
Clark cut
her off. "Oh, one more thing. Don't call us boys. We're not boys
anymore."
"But
you are. You're only fifteen."
"No,"
he said sharply. "We grew up the day you accused us of doing dirty things
with each other. We don't do dirty things with each other."
I smiled
helpfully. "If you have to call Uncle Clay by six, you'd better go find
Dad. See you in the kitchen. Twenty minutes."
The
moment we were out of her sight, both Clark and I began to shake at our own
temerity. Clark's hand found mine. All he said was: "God, that took
balls."
Down in
the basement, we stood under the makeshift shower Dad had rigged up, our
airborne dicks locked in each other's sudsy fists. An old mirror had been hung
directly behind the shower, and we were staring into it, watching ourselves
kiss. Little puffs of steam floated through our line of vision, but we kept our
eyes wide open, storing up memories, I guess. Have you ever watched yourself
kiss someone? Have you ever watched yourself being kissed?
"Time's
running out," said Clark, letting go of me and reaching for the Burma
Shave.
I nodded,
reluctantly released him, opened the cellophane packet with my teeth, and took
out one of the razors. I was surprised at how lightweight the plastic handle
felt. I'll always remember it was orange.
I watched
him spray a dollop of shaving cream into the palm of his hand. He smiled,
leaned close, and let his tongue lick slowly across the golden fringe on my
upper lip. And then, as gently as he had ever touched me, he began petting the
cool, pine-scented cream into my sideburns, my jaw, my chin, my cheeks, and
last of all, my upper lip. He motioned me to face the mirror, and we exchanged
a nod before he took the razor from my hand and traded it for the Burma Shave.
I
squirted out an equal portion of the creamy foam onto my palm and motioned him
to watch in the mirror. He nodded. I stared down at the golden fringe on his
lip and shook my head sadly. In a few moments it would be gone forever. I
kissed it half a dozen times before I set about coating the lower half of his
face as he had mine. That done, we studied the image of the two selfsame men in
the mirror until the portrait was fixed in our memory.
Finally,
Clark took the Burma Shave and set it aside. "You first," he
whispered and handed me back the razor.
I d
watched my father shave dozens of times, maybe hundreds, and I was confident
that I could execute the task with a certain amount of skill. Still, it ha d to be perfect, and
I took my time, until finally there was no unshaven area left but my brothers
upper lip. I looked at him and then at his reflection in the mirror. It urged me
to proceed. In five seconds, Clark's promise of stubble was gone.
After
rinsing off, Clark extracted a fresh razor from the cellophane packet and began
the process all over again, on me. I did not watch him do it, except in the
mirror. Consciously but not calculatedly, I began to slide my nervous er ection across his stomach.
He responded to this new sort of slow dancing even as he continued to give me
my first shave. Neither of us entertained the slightest concern that he might
slip and, in the heat of the moment, nick me. That was not going to happen.
Even so, as he finally completed the last razor stroke across my upper lip, I
exploded without touching myself.
I looked
down. So had
"Why
should you? It's a private matter."
"A
man thing."
"Don't
you use that tone of voice with me, young man." She sputtered a moment
before reaching for the screen door. "What in the world has come over you
two? Why, you're acting like... Uh..."
"Men?"
Clark offered.
Mom was silent.
She couldn't even sputter.
I raised
a finger as if to a child. "Mom, you're the one who started this."
"Yeah,
insinuating we were doing dirty things..."
“...upstairs
in our bedroom. I tell ya ..."
“...accusations
like that make a kid grow up real fast."
"Boys,
this kind of talk is completely unsatis ..."
Clark cut
her off. "Oh, one more thing. Don't call us boys. We're not boys
anymore."
"But
you are. You're only fifteen."
"No,"
he said sharply. "We grew up the day you accused us of doing dirty things
with each other. We don't do dirty things with each other."
I smiled
helpfully. "If you have to call Uncle Clay by six, you'd better go find
Dad. See you in the kitchen. Twenty minutes."
The
moment we were out of her sight, both Clark and I began to shake at our own
temerity. Clark's hand found mine. All he said was: "God, that took
balls."
Down in
the basement, we stood under the makeshift shower Dad had rigged up, our
airborne dicks locked in each other's sudsy fists. An old mirror had been hung
directly behind the shower, and we were staring into it, watching ourselves
kiss. Little puffs of steam floated through our line of vision, but we kept our
eyes wide open, storing up memories, I guess. Have you ever watched yourself
kiss someone? Have you ever watched yourself being kissed?
"Time's
running out," said Clark, letting go of me and reaching for the Burma
Shave.
I nodded,
reluctantly released him, opened the cellophane packet with my teeth, and took
out one of the razors. I was surprised at how lightweight the plastic handle
felt. I'll always remember it was orange.
I watched
him spray a dollop of shaving cream into the palm of his hand. He smiled,
leaned close, and let his tongue lick slowly across the golden fringe on my
upper lip. And then, as gently as he had ever touched me, he began petting the
cool, pine-scented cream into my sideburns, my jaw, my chin, my cheeks, and
last of all, my upper lip. He motioned me to face the mirror, and we exchanged
a nod before he took the razor from my hand and traded it for the Burma Shave.
I
squirted out an equal portion of the creamy foam onto my palm and motioned him
to watch in the mirror. He nodded. I stared down at the golden fringe on his
lip and shook my head sadly. In a few moments it would be gone forever. I
kissed it half a dozen times before I set about coating the lower half of his
face as he had mine. That done, we studied the image of the two selfsame men in
the mirror until the portrait was fixed in our memory.
Finally,
Clark took the Burma Shave and set it aside. "You first," he
whispered and handed me back the razor.
I d
watched my father shave dozens of times, maybe hundreds, and I was confident
that I could execute the task with a certain amount of skill. Still, it ha d to be perfect, and
I took my time, until finally there was no unshaven area left but my brothers
upper lip. I looked at him and then at his reflection in the mirror. It urged me
to proceed. In five seconds, Clark's promise of stubble was gone.
After
rinsing off, Clark extracted a fresh razor from the cellophane packet and began
the process all over again, on me. I did not watch him do it, except in the
mirror. Consciously but not calculatedly, I began to slide my nervous er ection across his stomach.
He responded to this new sort of slow dancing even as he continued to give me
my first shave. Neither of us entertained the slightest concern that he might
slip and, in the heat of the moment, nick me. That was not going to happen.
Even so, as he finally completed the last razor stroke across my upper lip, I
exploded without touching myself.
I looked
down. So had
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