“Show me yer’ dick”. If delivered in just the right way, that phrase can still get a rise out of me. As mundane as those four words may sound, for years they have served as my Viagra. I was once a member of a very exclusive sex club. No, it was not during my Manhattan heyday, but rather in West Buttfok, the summer between Kindergarten and first grade after my mother lifted the travel embargo she’d imposed on me. I could now locomote the entire block on our side of the street. This covered an area from “the school bus corner” to the bottom of the hill that ended in the main thoroughfare in town. There were exactly twenty houses and two vacant lots, which we termed fields, even though the frontage could not have been more than forty feet and they were entirely overgrown. And because I was allowed to manuever two corners, I met kids from the streets that flanked ours on either side.
Most of us had stuff in our backyards to keep us occupied: swing sets, sandboxes, pools and outdoor toys. Regardless, we gravitated to those empty lots, most probably because they were postage stamp sized microcosms for jungle warfare, cowboy and indian massacres or whatever backdrop was required for our own particular brand of pretending. Of the two places, my favorite was the more popular one near the school bus corner. It had a large tree (perfect for climbing) almost dead-center, a few boulder sized rocks for crawling on and hiding behind, over grown scrub bordering the lot all around and ankle high grasses covering everywhere else. As long as it wasn’t raining, you could count on finding somebody to play with from early morning to supper time. Enjoying my new-found freedom, I typically spent a good part of my day there. I confess that most of these new friends from the neighboring streets are now both nameless and faceless.
On one particular summer’s day several of us were engrossed in play. Even though the place was closely sandwiched between two houses, we were protected by the over-growth so we couldn’t see out, and being so small, we were hidden from the street. We weren’t able to see anyone coming until they were inside our private world, unless they were bigger kids, and none of them were interested in hanging around with us babies. Suddenly, into our field appeared Donald Bianchi, my older brother’s best friend. His family lived near the bottom of the hill. He came over our house all the time to hang out with my brother and they usually went to the railroad tracks on their bikes a mile or so away to smoke cigarettes. I knew about it, but helped keep the secret for them so my brother wouldn’t give me a harder time than he already did. Donald was a bit older than my brother, probably around fourteen. He was a good-looking kid, with beautiful brown hair combed back into a duck’s ass just like Elvis and full pouty lips like Ricky Nelson. Even at six years old, I could notice such things and find them most appealing.
Donald went over to the tree and climbed into its Y-shaped crook, putting himself several feet above our heads. He looked down at our group as the five or so of us congregated in front of him. He started to give us orders to do silly things – his own version of Simon Says. He told us told to hop on our right foot, then maybe on both, or turn around quickly in circles. We did as he instructed, having a great time being silly at the direction of a big kid who was actually being nice to us. Very soon the commands changed and it became “girls show me your butts” and “boys pull down your pants”. We giggled. Maybe a few blushed or hesitated, but Donald’s orders were dutifully met and we were laughing like crazy. He smiled warmly, as though he was letting us in on the usual game that big kids played when they were together.
Before we left, he swore us to not tell anyone about our special play, because now we had our own club and he was our leader. As the kids began heading for home, he jumped down from the tree to talk to me alone. He told me not to tell my brother about our club, that this would be our secret – his and mine – that we would keep like the cigarette smoking one. He was paying attention to me and I was totally enthralled. I would do anything this handsome older boy asked me to do.
The next time Donald came to the house, I wondered if he would treat me differently. He made no sign that we shared our unique confidence. In time, he wandered back into our field and took his place in the tree again. Some kids left right away and I remember it being only me and one other boy and girl. It began the same way and soon after the boys pull down your pants routine, it came down to only the girl and me. In almost no time, we ended up totally bare assed, standing there waiting for Donald’s next command. Then he announced he wanted to see the girl pee. I don’t remember now whether it was that she couldn’t pee or just didn’t want to, but in minutes she got dressed and ran home.
I pulled my pants back on and he jumped down from his tree. Now he was standing in front of me. I was ready to leave, assuming our club meeting had adjourned. Donald looked into my eyes and murmured “Show me yer’ dick”. I had no idea what a dick was; I had never heard the word used as anything but a guy’s name before. I only knew wiener, which most of my peers called it, or peeney, what my mother insisted I call it. I always hated her word because it sounded like something tiny or totally insignificant. “My what?” I questioned. “Yer’ dick” he pronounced more seductively, – ” yer’ wiener”, and he grabbed at his own through his jeans for clarification. I thought it was the coolest sounding word for that heretofore very private part of my body. My dick.
I had only glimpsed a few of my contemporary’s wieners. I had never seen my father naked, only in his boxers which he slept in. Nor had I seen my older brother, because his white briefs never came off anywhere except behind a locked bathroom door. I responded to Donald’s request by saying something to the effect that he’d already seen mine. He told me he wanted to look at it up close. How I ever found the courage I’ll never know, but I countered with “Show me yer’ dick first”. He looked around cautiously, then knelt down at my feet, leaning back on his haunches against a rock. He opened his jeans, exposing his white boxers. My eyes were riveted on his crotch. I remember him nonchalantly pulling down the elastic waistband and all at once seeing a crop of dark curly pubes, something I never even knew existed before Donald’s tantalizing unveiling. I was mesmerized as though I were viewing some alien creature. “You have hair down there?” just tumbled out of my mouth. He laughed, realizing from my face and reaction, that he possessed something I had never seen before and he was enjoying all of this so very much. Then he reached down into his shorts and pulled out his meat and flopped it over his boxers. The image is still retrievable from my memory as sharp and clear as my young eyes had recorded it that very day. His fat, hairy dick.
I did take mine out, only because he insisted I do it. Even though I had already grown very fond of my own penis, it paled in comparison to Donald’s and I had not taken my eyes off his from the instant he’d exposed it. I remember liking this feeling that came from the two of us showing off what we had to each other, and he studied mine with a genuine interest that bonded us for that moment. He never touched mine, but I am almost certain that I had to stop myself from reaching out to fondle his tempting surprise. He never visited our field again, although I continued to play there until school started in September, praying each time he would return. He still came to our house regularly to hangout with my brother throughout high school. Every once in a while he would leave our bathroom door open when he knew I was near and could see, and he would show off a bit for my private delectation. It was Donald who made those four words come alive and his image that I substituted on many nights for many years to come.