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By Root 298 0

phone conversations with Wendy, theatrically whispered; I left notes and letters from Wendy laying out for my brothers to “find.” I stayed out all night. My family had long suspected I might be gay—asking my parents to take me to the national tour of A Chorus Line for my thirteenth birthday didn’t help—but my family was Catholic and religious. So even though I knew I was gay, and even though everyone else knew, and even though I knew they knew, we also all knew—knowed? —that I was never going to come out.

That meant I had to learn to like pussy. So I had to go out there and find a Wendy, a series of them, women I could fool, women I could take advantage of. And, yes, I was, at fifteen, taking advantage of twenty-one-year-old Wendy.

These were my options: fake being straight or join the priesthood.

While the big house, fancy dresses, and naïve altar boys were tempting, I had concluded the priesthood wasn’t for me. So even though I could never truly fall in love with a woman and even though every fiber of my being screamed “No!” it was my intention to live a straight life. I was going to find a slightly boyish, flat-chested woman, fuck her just enough to fool her, keep her busy with babies, and bang the occasional callboy on the side.

But could I do it? Could I fuck a woman? Could I learn to like pussy? I had to find out before I married one.

The first time I slept with Wendy was a success, it’s true, and I was relieved that I could do this thing. I could put my dick in a woman and leave it there until I came. But I also knew that it wasn’t enough for me to like pussy when it was full of some hot guy’s spunk, or some hot guy was cupping my balls and lying beside me. That set of circumstances seemed unlikely to occur with any frequency in, say, my anticipated heterosexual marriage. No, I had to learn to like how pussy smelled and how it tasted and how it felt all by its lonesome. Or learn how to tolerate it, like so many closeted gay men before me.

Alex wasn’t around the second time I slept with Wendy. We were at one of her friends’ apartments, just two blocks from my parents’ home. This time it was just the two of us. We started making out. Wendy got undressed. I got undressed. And there we were, standing together, in the living room, the two us, bare-ass naked.

I missed Alex.

Wendy guided my hand down.

I missed Alex more.

Today third base is—what? Double penetration? Pegging? Sucking off a she-male in the backseat of your dad’s Hummer? In 1980 third base was finger-banging—it was a more innocent time—and I knew what I was supposed to do when Wendy placed my hand over her vagina. I slipped a finger in.

Then two. Then three.

It’s hard to describe the sensation, but I’ll try: It felt like I’d slipped my hand into a large, lukewarm piece of lasagna that had been stood on its side. Only this lasagna had a pulse.

And hair, this lasagna was covered in hair.

I kept my fingers in Wendy’s vagina long enough, I hoped, to give her the impression that I liked hairy lasagna as much as the next guy. Then I executed what I, at age fifteen, thought was an exceedingly smooth move. I removed my fingers from Wendy’s vagina and pulled her into an embrace. I brought my hand up her back slowly. I caressed her—but just with the palm of my hand and my thumb and pinky, the fingers that hadn’t been in Wendy’s vagina. I brought my hand up to her shoulder. I leaned way in to kiss her neck, positioning my nose so it was angled over her shoulder. I brought my wet index, ring, and middle fingers up to my nose.

You see, back in the tent I hadn’t really got a chance to smell Wendy. By the time I got in there, Wendy already smelled like Alex’s sweat and spunk. Not that I’m complaining, but the whole point of my adventures with Wendy was, well, learning to like pussy.

Wendy’s vagina smelled awful. Really awful. Like no hairy lasagna I’d ever eaten.

I need to take a time out here.

For the record, I really don’t mean to be ungracious about Wendy or her vagina. I want to make it clear that I’m not stating Wendy’s vagina smelled awful. Although