Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,120

at dating.

In grade school he was the target of playground bullies. This continued. In high school phys-ed he wore his jock strap over his white cotton Y-fronts, afraid to expose his tiny dick and almost hairless crotch. When the gin-soaked coach forced him to take a shower, the rest of the boys made jokes about the size of his dick and its fringe of pale blond hair. Then they’d flap his ass with rolled up rat-tail towels as he struggled back into his Y-fronts.

He was born on the cusp for school admission, perpetually almost a year behind his dark-haired classmates. A year is important when you’re growing up.

It peaked when he was forced under threat of a beating to suck dicks in the shower room while the others watched. They were hairy. He hated hairy crotches. There were painful thrusts up his ass by soapy dicks. They were most of them virgins, although they bragged about back seat conquests, and came almost instantly. Just masturbating into a hairless wimp. A laugh riot. Rites of adolescence.

Five minutes or so in the shower room, over with, towel off, find white cotton Y-fronts, find algebra class, find snickers and stares, then find the bus home.

Word spread. Coach caught them eventually, and broke the crowd up. Maurice was expelled for a week and sent for psychological therapy. The rest got detention hall for rowdy behavior.

They beat him up after school when he returned.

Maurice never had any luck in dating after that. Not that he’d had much before. Somehow he graduated.

His grades were good. Maurice was quite intelligent, but because of his record as a sexual pervert who had been undergoing therapy (your record will follow you everywhere, he was warned), no college would accept him. His parents said that they would support him for another year. His family was strict Southern Baptist, and he had never been forgiven for his wanton deviant behavior. He never forgave them.

Maurice landed a job as file clerk at a hospital in Los Angeles. Far from home. He was very competent. Before long he was promoted to a minor supervisory position. His immediate superior occasionally gave him curious looks, but all went well for a time.

It was 1961.

Except for the shower room rapes, Maurice was still a virgin. And he was twenty-one.

Maurice had been enjoying an active sex life, however, on his own. It suited his needs. It bad suited his needs.

He frequented the sleazy newsstands, as he had done since high school. Playboy and all the rest, even the sleaziest magazines. Bare tits and ass, panties, bras and lingerie. Not a hair showing of a cunt. At age twenty-one, Maurice Tarwater had never even seen a photograph of a cunt, much less seen one in the flesh. Once, in high school, he had put his hand on his date’s breast, outside her dress. She had slapped him, called him a creep, and the party chaperons had told his parents.

A cunt was all a great mystery. His parents never explained or spoke about it, and his classmates all knew he was a queer.

He knew they didn’t have dicks. Somehow or other they still managed to pee. And have babies. He wondered if babies came out of their ass. That must be it. The pictures never showed it all.

This was because Maurice most enjoyed nudist magazines, sold from under the counter. He’d paged through them as a teenager—once he could find a newsstand dealer who would sell them to him—then masturbate frantically into rubbers he had bought with great stealth at a local hamburger joint. Saved and washed, he could get a dozen or more jerk-off fantasies at two for a quarter before they burst. His parents never caught him. He was lucky in this.

The nudes in the nudist magazines were always air-brushed. Cunts and pubic hairs all whisked away. Nothing but a smooth V between groin and thighs. Where then was this furry cunt that the boys at school had talked about? Probably they were making it all up to confuse him, like the time in the shower when they told him to pick up the soap and then goosed him with more than a finger.

Some of the book stores in Los Angeles had very large and very expensive books of classical art, mostly of nudes. Maurice bought several. Little help. He had known that women had breasts; their hands or something else was always in the way of their mysterious V. The men usually had something obscuring their