“You know what’s fascinating to contemplate?” Danny Vanderpool. Fourteen and tall as a tall nineteen year old. When he sprawls on the folding chairs on our patio, his jams drape over a man sized cock, semi-erect, it’s normal adolescent state. “Mind boggling in fact.”

I am 18 and too young to appreciate or ignore age difference. Not, though, too young to appreciate Danny. I love making him wait. He sits and stares at me, licking his lips in anticipation, ready to tell me, waiting to hear if I want to know. His mind and body are still pretty much one. His hair, all over his body, is deep auburn. His skin is the color of blood orange pulp. My palms itch to discover whether he feels auburn warm. Steaming.

“What?” I ask.

“I walk through the halls at school and look at all these guys, these dorks, like Jimmy, Junior and Doogan, Rick, you know, and I think, all these guys are going to fuck a woman, someday. It just doesn’t seem right, dorks being allowed to fuck.”

I am surprised that he is past the age of agonizing that he will never fuck a woman. I think he is still a virgin, and I am not experienced enough to handle a male virgin.

Twenty years later my sister calls and quizzes, “You’ll never guess who I dreamed about.”

I know immediately. As though I just remembered having the same dream.

She is stunned. Says nothing.

I am thinking, you had a crush on him, too?

“I wonder what he’s doing, now,” she says, her voice meandering through a private image.

So do I. I sit straighter at the phone. “He was so earnest,” I recall.

“I’ll bet he has good sex.” Robin hesitates. “I hope he has good sex.”

I never ask her what her dream was about.

Later that night I think about Danny, again, imagine him lying on top of me, a virulent evangelist, chanting that sex is only for the worthy. Always needing to see my eyes, continually reevaluating if I am one of the elect. I am lying next to Daniel and thinking about Danny. I wonder if Danny is thinking about me. I remember that we used to discuss metaphysics. He inspired me to write a poem about him. I fantasized about him when I masturbated, hoping that he was provoked to think of me.

Text & Graphics © 1999 by Gail Rae Hudson

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