#1 Crush
Everyone remembers their first crush.
ROLL CALL
I would die if anyone knew. Absolutely, one hundred percent, drop dead on the spot if my secret ever got out. I monitored my actions. I made sure I didn’t reveal any tells that would give myself away. I worked hard to temper the anticipation, check my impatience, and not give anyone a reason to question why I was so eager—so thirsty—for it to arrive.
I hadn’t always been like this, but at some point, somewhere in the recesses of my psyche, a trigger went off. It was one of those before-and-after situations. Once I knew, once I felt that longing and yearning, I could never not know, never not have these feelings stir every time I saw the Eaton’s catalogue’s cover, let alone the pages designated Men’s Underwear.
That every year, with the movement of the sun across the sky, there would come a day when a new edition of the storied department store’s catalogue would appear on the doorstep of our home, wrapped in a protective plastic bag protecting it from the elements. To the rest of the world, it was as inconsequential as the daily mail, an event of so little importance they could hardly remember if it had actually happened at all. But I knew. I sensed when it was time for last year’s catalogue to be replaced by a new, glossy version full of fresh images of scantily clad models of machismo, teasing glimpses of their natural, raw state from under loose boxer shorts, tight briefs, tank-top t-shirts, and pyjama sets where they left the top seductively unbuttoned.
What I loved the most, though, were the hulking men in their longjohns and union suits, standing side by side proudly with their arms folded or planted firmly on their hips, puffing their chests in full-length portraits that did very little to disguise the bulge in their crotches, the “comfort fit” of the underclothing on full display. Little did these models know their images were filling out my crotch, making the fit of my own underwear anything but comfortable.
I had to be smart, though; I had to be stealth. I had to run reconnaissance like a sniper, knowing where my target was at all times, without letting on that I was ready to strike at every opportunity. I needed to know what pages had been earmarked, what corners turned down, the exact position of the catalogue in its assigned drawer in my father’s desk. And most importantly of all, I could not leave any traces of my lingering and longing over those illicit, erotic adverts for unadulterated masculinity and animal magnetism.
Are you ready for more, Mister?
