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The pre-macho boys were typically the best at playing kick-ball and inevitably turn out to be recess and PE team captains.
Focusing on my embarrassing apparent lack of skill, they were always quick to ridicule and loudly point out my utter worthlessness. After even the smaller girls got picked, I was always the default last man standing. The often cruel unthinking banter of boys seemed deliberately vicious.
They starved to remain thin and described themselves as boys in gay-sex-adverts.
As they got older, their age-range for a potential “daddy” similarly increased.
From porn, I sort of knew what to expect; I had seen such ominous similarly titled films like: “Daddy It Hurts,” “Stop It Hurts,” and “Its Gonna Hurt.” I imagined my transition to masculinity as an initiation rite.
And at the near height of the AIDS crisis, like male youths in tribal cultures, who had to endure some sort of physical torment or trial in order to join the community of men, I was willing to suffer anything in the process; even to die.
In the afternoon, I would rush home to see after-school reruns of “Batman” and imagine myself as Burt Ward.
The mature and supremely masculine always ushered into manhood the fresh-faced and less physically impressive youthful rookies.I looked to my left and to my right and met the cold hard stares of a few intense looking guys. In the process, the one-day growth of hair on his chin brushed against my newly shaved face.