Eight or nine months ago my friend Dwayne and I were
walking past the Pace Galleries on East 57th Street.
I had never been inside, but I was familiar with the
Pace name; it was a Saturday and there appeared to be some
kind of demonstration going on outside the gallery building.

I ignore these things. I refuse to sign petitions or anything
else thrust at me on a city street -- I do not care what the
cause. So I ignored whatever was happening and just walked
through a very large crowd of people holding signs and
laughing among themselves -- that is all I would have
remembered from that brief brush with them. Oh, I also
remembered that they all seemed to be wearing goofy
glasses, the kind of fake glasses with the mustache
and the huge nose.

Well, after we had passed through this crowd Dwayne
informed me of something pretty surprising. He said that
we had just walked through a crowd of about 50 women,
and all of them sported gigantic dildos strapped to their
waists. I did not believe him, but I wondered why he would
make up something like this; I turned around and indeed beheld
the highly unusual silhouette of a bunch of people with
dildos bobbing up and down from their waists. Two of the
people seemed to be sword-fighting between themselves,
so to speak.

I turned to my friend and asked, "Did I ever tell you the
one about Peter?" Peter is a person we both knew in college.
He said he did not know if I had told him anything about Peter,
and I said that he would remember if I had told him this one.

We turned away from the dildo-strapped army and turned
south on Lexington Avenue. I was glad I thought of P at the
time, because we had to walk all the way to 20th Street and
there was really nothing much to talk about. So I told
my story of Peter.



---------
During my first or second week at college I had the
opportunity to meet Peter. Both of us freshman at the time,
both of us piano majors, we seemed to be the only people
each other had met in those early college days, and we spent
many hours nervously rapt in desultory chatter.

It was his idea that we go over to the gym on the
other side of the campus and go swimming, and we
arranged a time to meet and walk over there.

While walking to the pool our rather uncomfortable
conversation touched upon such profound stuff as this one
woman to whom he was attracted. I do not remember
what we said exactly, it was nothing of any substance, and I
did not know the woman about whom he spoke. The subject,
in fact, seemed to have dried up and I thought we
were talking about other things until I realized that virtually
all conversation had come to a stop. I was doing all the
talking and he was walking very slowly and just staring
ahead. It was not so extreme that I thought it appropriate
to comment -- people are moody and this does
not bother me -- so we walked in near silence, the
unsuccessful attempt at conversing about this woman still
lingering, not really going away for some strange reason.

We got into the gymnasium and found the pool. We went
to the locker room to get lockers, and he needed to rent a
swimming suit because he did not have his own.

We got into the locker room and started changing. I am not
the most modest person on earth but I did face away from
Peter while I performed this little business of "getting nekkid,"
as they said in college.

When I was suited up, as they say, I turned around. Peter had
not suited up, but he had gotten as far as removing all of his
clothes.

He had the most enormous penis I have ever seen; to be
more precise he had the most gigantic erection imaginable.
He was standing over in another corner, about 10 yards
away from where me, idly fidgeting with the
combination lock on his locker. He was folding his shirt
and pants and screwing around with his gym bag and for
Christ's sake his erection was at least 18 inches long and
completely, completely hard, locked into that pumping tumescence
that pubescent teenage boys know so well.

I did not remark on The Obvious, but excused myself, saying "I need
to get weighed." I walked out into another corridor and stepped onto
a scale, not really giving a rat's ass how much I weighed.

I stopped thinking smart-ass, puerile buggery about Peter's massive
penis, and returned to my locker and sat on a bench several feet
from my new friend, who was still buck naked and completely erect. I
confirmed to myself that this thing really and truly was 18
inches, and Jesus Christ I've never seen anything like it.

Since weighing myself I had not said anything, nor had he. I
sat in idle discomfort, waiting for him to get into the swimming
suit he had rented. I think there was some chatter, I know
I asked him if he knew what time the pool closed. If he
knew, I don't remember. It really did not matter to me.

As I sat there I read something, maybe it was a
flyer about Gymnasium Rules & Regulations, when he
walked over to me. He stood about 3 feet from where I
was sitting, and his penis was waving in my face. I lurched
backwards just a little; for some reason I did not want him
to notice that I did this, that I reacted to the fact that his
erection was coming within a few inches of going up my nose.

I said "What's up?" Yes, I really said that. He said "I don't
think I can get this swimming suit on." I said "What do you
mean?" He said "I can't get rid of this hard on, it won't fit
into this swimming suit."

In all fairness, his rented swimming suit was extremely
tiny, the Speed-O variety. I had brought my own swimming
suit, so I had no problems fitting in. Now while a gentleman
as generously distributed as Peter could easily
have problems, I also think it's something he should have
considered beforehand if, in fact, he considered a
broomstick-sized erection a problem and not a joy to behold.

I said "Why don't you just sit down and take it easy for a
while. Take your mind off of it."

He agreed to this and sat down. I stepped out into the hall
and weighed myself again, killing time by studying the
charts which list a person's ideal weight based on their
height and age and oh! it was so terribly stimulating
absorbing all this jock-culture. When I came back he was
sitting on a bench with his back up against the lockers and
his penis was every bit as erect as it had been a few minutes
earlier.

Thinking about it now, I mean thinking about him sitting
there like that with that giant rafter bulging up into the
damp locker-room air, I think I will share this very short
poem, I mean as long as we're on the subject

It is by Rick Prose, and it is printed in a back-issue of
Exquisite Corpse, a truly great magazine.

This is the poem:

-------------------

NOTES FROM MY GOLDEN YEARS


school bus
hard on
school bus
hard on

every day
same thing

school bus
hard on

-------------------------


O.K., that's the poem. Anyway, I did not know what to say
to Peter; it was getting late and I wanted to either go swimming
or get the fuck out of there.

After several ungainly moments of silence he stood up and
walked toward me -- I never, ever was able to look at him
again during our four years of college without thinking of
him waddling toward me with this tremendous erect penis
bobbing up and down in concert with his steps.

I said nothing, he was waving it at me again and he stood
even closer than before -- he had actually pulled the
swimming suit up to just below his waist and then, as if he
had come over to me just so he could do this, he started
trying to push his erection into the swimming suit. He was
bending it and trying to fold it or something and it made me
wince and I actually felt a little breeze on my face, this wind
produced by the flailing of his penis which came even
nearer than before to slapping me across the cheek or
poking me in the eye. He said "I can't get it in. It won't
stay. I can't go out into the pool like this."

I tried to look him in the eye, and said nothing. For several
moments he stood less than three feet away from me trying
repeatedly to cram his big fat cock into his entirely
un-accommodating swimming suit, and then he seemed to give up.

I asked "Has this happened before?" He said "Well, that's what
I was just thinking." I said "Oh?" He said "I think I have to
go to a stall." I said "What?" He said "I think I have to go
masturbate in a stall." I can not explain why but I
stutteringly said "Oh, well.. well.. you don't have to do
that..." I do not think he heard me, though. He nodded
his head repeating "I think I have to go masturbate in a
stall. I think I have to..."

Again, I do not know why but all I could think was that
there must be some other solution. In retrospect, though, I
should have thought of this in the first place, but dammit
we had been sitting there for over a half hour and I think
that he could have thought of this sooner, especially if this
was what he usually did.

He was gone for several minutes, and during that time I
began to put things together. Our conversation about this
woman he said he was attracted to must have prompted
this uncontrollable hardness in his loin. It seemed very
extreme to me, but at least it made sense, I mean the way
our conversation stopped, the way our gait slowed.

He came back from the stall walking at a far brisker pace
then before. His penis, still remarkably huge, now swung
freely, having been purged of its almost priapic tenseness.
He suited up all the way, I mean this inky-dinky Speed-O
thing certainly did nothing to conceal his tremendousness
(even in its flaccidity) in any way but he seemed
at last prepared to go into the pool.

I intended to swim around and forget about what had
happened. But the water was extremely cold, and the
first thing he said upon jumping in was "This cold water
should keep my dick from getting hard." I nodded and
swam around for a while. After swimming the perimeter of
the pool I returned to the place at which I had last
partaken of those eloquent words. He was still standing
there in the water, right next to the side of the pool --
right next to the pump.

I said "What're you doing?" He smiled very, very widely and
with fake embarrassment and said "The bubbles from this
pump are giving me a hard on." I said "Well, I think the
pool is about to close. Everyone seems to be leaving." This
was correct, everyone was packing up and there were only
5 or 6 people left. I suggested that we get out of the pool
anyway. He agreed, but only in principle. "My erection is
sticking out of my swimming suit," he said. "Could you go
get my towel and hand it to me as I'm getting out of the
water?' "Sure," I agreed, assuming I could never live with
myself knowing that I had once cast a man into public view
under such circumstances.

He stood there in the water at the edge of the pool (and I
might add that he could not seem to tear himself away from
that bubble-making pump) and I handed him the towel, somehow
not even wanting to touch the hand of a person with an erection.
I said I was going to take a shower and that I would see him
inside, I had seen just about enough of this guy's erect penis
for one afternoon.

I was inside for several minutes taking a shower. It was an
open shower type of place, and there were maybe 10 or 12
other guys in there bathing. I was washing my hair and
not thinking about anything when I looked up and saw Peter
walking directly toward me, his penis stiff as a redwood
and his posture, again, slightly contorted to accommodate
this shift in his center of gravity. Suddenly I felt
different about this whole situation. I felt different because
now there were 10 or 12 other people seeing him and his
foot-and-a-half hard on, and goddammit they were seeing
him walk over toward me!

He talked casually about this and that, but now I did not
even look at him. I rinsed my hair and got the fuck out of
there. Call me insensitive, call me unsupportive, call me
what you want -- just don't talk to me in a crowded place
while slapping your erection up against your stomach.

I got dressed and waited outside for him to get out of the
shower. Several minutes passed and I figured he had had to
"go to a stall" again. Finally he appeared, walking briskly,
and we returned to our dormitory where we ate dinner.
It was September, 1986.