Here's a story of when I really started digging younger men. It started on a regular day. Freshman orientation at Fresno State. There was this guy among the fresh faces. You know how old you are by how young college freshmen look and I was sprouting a bit of grey. It was Tom! Tom Dixon from home. I didn't really know him. His uncle Roy and I played football together. Roy's brother, Tom's father was 10 years older than us. I'd see Tom every holiday in Merced, watched him grow from afar. And now here he was, going to college at Fresno, where I taught and was working on my doctorate. I had a double major, Phys Ed and Psychology. My dissertation was on the mind body connections, psychosomatic responses out side of.... oh sorry I just can't stop blapping about this stuff and I know you want to hear about me and Tom doing the dirty boogie, and we did, more than once... wanna take a guess at how many?
Tom was slim, a nice swimmers body, very narrow waist, which I love and lean muscles. I saw him one day getting in the water, he played polo. Water polo is an interesting sport, part agility and part brute. But there were rules that made it safe. At least in the water. Sacramento State had just barely won a game and wouldn't you know it, chock full of knuckle dragging brutes. I was walking past the locker room attached to the showers and I hear, "That fucking faggot!" and then a bang.
I walk in, Tom is on the floor, over-towered by a few of the Sac Staters. I start barking, "Back off!!"
The Sac State guys turn as if to challenge me, except one guy who knew immediately to back off. Another guy had about 5" and 30lbs of muscle on me. "Maybe you're next, what do you think about that?"
I started cracking up. What this Beave didn't know was that the study of the mind-body connection had led me through the halls of philosophy in trying to sort out my bewilderment of this planet. So much beauty and love in contrast to a vast panorama of horrid violence, death, pain and an inherent mean streak that seemed to run amok. The Eastern Schools talk of the sufferings of human experience and how to gain peace of mind. The Chinese have the Tao, the Way that talks about everything including the subtle energies that are portrayed as super-powers in the fairy tales told. Yet.... blah blah about Chi and how to work it.. blah blah Chi Gong... blah blah Tai Chi, so the Beave doesn't know I've studied Kenpo, a fighting art, and other Eastern Arts, and philosophies. It gave me a sense of my bearings in this world, a comfort.
"Well Buttleak, I'm faculty here. You lay one hand on me and you're thrown out of that turd school. You'll go to jail. Even the progeny of mendacious pariah can think this one out. Or, do I just break your back?" How I stood and the voice I made put ole Poindexter's tail between his legs. I turn to Tom who was shook up but didn't look damaged, at least physically as the slithering Sac State slugs exited stage right.
Tom said. "Thank you." but kept his head down as I helped him get up. "I got to take a shower." He reached for his locker but his hand started to shake and he started to sob. "I hate this, I hate it so much...." he was gasping as if trying to say something that he just couldn't say, "And now I'm crying like a little girl in front of you".
I lifted his face up, "Your face gets wet, so what?" I looked him up one side and down the other, "A couple of bruises, and, ah," I let him look up before I said, "And you don't look like a girl". He seemed better but I could see the storm of turmoil he ventured with in life.
I found myself often hanging out around the locker room right around the time polo practice was finishing. One day I saw Tom standing by the bulletin board. As I passed I said "Hey Tom."
He was looking at one of the flyers about the extra-curriculars. I had two classes there. One in Tai Chi Chuan and one in Kenpo. "Hi, Mr. Wilson, you teach martial arts? I really feel I need that... I've been such... it's why I was crying.. I.."
Tom was flustered, tongue tied, which I hoped was in part because of me. "Yes, Tom, I do teach those classes. And please, call me Brian when we're alone together."
There are no words that go beyond 'perfect' as was his body. I had felt this attraction and it was obvious it was mutual but how to broach the subject. It is often done by acts and not words. He felt comfortable being naked in front of me clothed. His muscles were long and well defined, supple must be the right word to say. As he walked his hips swayed but not like Marilyn Monroe but like a lion as muscle rise and fall under their smooth skin of soft. His back was wide and hips narrow. Imagine how good it would feel to feel his abs.
We had coffee once and really talked. This became a regular thing. I was his confessor as he talked about his not knowing how to handle all his feelings, deep feelings about sex and relationship. "I'm not sure but I might be gay but I don't even know what that is. I get turned on around guys but I'm not sure they are what is turning me on."