It occurred to me as I lay in bed last night waiting for Morpheus to whisk me away in his gleaming black Escalade that I really have no idea what it might be like not to be avidly admired. Ever since I was a small child, well before I developed any of the broad range of skills by which most people I meet are so impressed — awed, even! — people have been drawn to me. When I was a kindergartener, for instance, all of the prettiest girls wanted to sit beside me during fingerpainting. One of them, Susan something-or-other, memorably remarked that she found my work unusually sensual, though I can’t imagine either of us knowing the meaning of the word at five and a half.
As I progressed through elementary school, I was always the cynosure of groups of boys who I realize in retrospect perceived me as the boy they wanted to be — trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent, though as the years went by and it became clear that many of the teachers, clergymen, and government officials to whom I was supposed to kowtow reflexively were irredeemable nincompoops, obedient and reverent fell by the wayside. Ironically, it was my very repudiation of obedience and reverence — my palpable indomitability, my wonderful maleness — that made me even more attractive to other boys, and by the time I entered middle school, I was at all times surrounded by a coterie of sycophants. My winning the school’s creative writing contest two years in succession made it only larger. Someone proposed a bond issue to widen the corridor in the History building to accommodate what had come to be called the johnnyboys who followed me wherever I went.
In high school, I was captain of the football, basketball, swimming, wrestling, chess, and debate teams, and, as a sophomore, lost my virginity to Ms. Freida M—, my beautiful young Chinese-American Social Studies teacher, who, afterward, murmured, “If that was really your first time, I can’t even begin to imagine how happy you’re going to make women after you’ve learned a thing or two.” Her words proved prophetic. I am unable to recall a single lover over the years — and this includes no fewer than three Miss Universe Runners-up — who hasn’t described me as the best she’d ever had. It’s just something you’re born with, I suppose.
I’ve always been inclined to be a one-gal fellow, though, and at age 23, with my master’s in civil engineering in hand, I made an honest “woman” (she was only 19 at the time!) of the first of my several (four, unless you count the marriage to Tawni that was annulled within 48 hours) wives. Beautiful children, not a single one of whom doesn’t phone or at least “text” me a couple of times a week even today, followed, and a number of magazine-cover-level successes in civil engineering, which may not be the most glamorous profession, but just try to get along without it!
Hobbies? That I’ve a slew will surprise no one aware of my voracious natural curiosity, my avidity for life. I and my present wife, Elise, who used to spell it Elisa, but came in around 1991 to regard the French spelling as somehow more glamorous, especially enjoy foreign travel. We have in the past half-decade visited countries as diverse as the present Africa and the former Yugoslavia, and are looking forward to seeing Japan one day very soon, or, actually, several days, as it would make little sense to spend 14 hours flying there and then go home after a single day.
When not traveling, I enjoy fly-fishing, handball and football, erratically subtitled foreign films (it’s fun to figure out what’s going on!), gourmet cooking, fellatio (receiving, not giving!), and staying abreast of current events. I write a blog enjoyed by thousands each day, except for those when I’ve written nothing new. There is, after all, only so much one can say.