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According to the only two people on the planet with inside information, Susan and Herb, my name was supposed to be Rachel. Rachel Josepher, RJ for short. Sounds good, right?
One small item messed with those plans. My gender. I exited the birth canal a screaming, curious, animated boy. So much for Rachel.
Susan and Herb, otherwise known as my parents, went to Plan B. Plan B was not a Rachel-like name. Something, for instance, down there at that end of the alphabet. Ralph or Rory or even Raphael. Rafa for short. I would have liked that.
Plan B was to reverse course and jump to the beginning of the alphabet. Plan B was to land at Brian. Brian Josepher, BJ for short.
Growing up a BJ meant nothing extraordinary to me. I was still able to partake in all of the regular childhood activities. Hopscotch, Kick-the-Can, Twister, Monopoly.
Growing up a BJ didn’t interfere with my burgeoning interest in girls, either. Sex, any expert will tell you, differs according to age and maturity. For me, sex at age ten meant sneaking into a closet with a girl to kiss. Or kissing after school in the big tractor tires on the playground. Or jumping on the trampoline and bumping into each other, surreptitiously, serendipitously. My initials didn’t interfere with my sexual development.
That all changed sometime in high school. Suddenly my initials had an ulterior meaning. Suddenly my presence met a whispering campaign, giggles in the hallways, leering glances, tongue-tied friends, ostracism. BJ didn’t mean BJ anymore. BJ meant… something else.
As a late developer, I didn’t know what BJ meant. Something sordid, I assumed. An affliction. I wondered if I had a disease. I wondered if it was communicable.
Like most adolescents, I was afraid to ask. I didn’t want the attention. I didn’t want the doubt. I didn’t want to be made to feel like a suspect. Or worse, a victim. I didn’t want to be exposed for what I was, a BJ. Whatever that was.
It took me a long time to learn what BJ meant. I learned from my best friend’s older brother, Kevin. While he jumped on the trampoline. While he demonstrated with a peeled banana. While his younger brother, Kirk, and I watched with both awe and horror.
Kirk and I wanted to ride bikes and shoot baskets and occasionally kiss girls. We weren’t ready for that kind of… interface.
As I remember the event now, Kevin had truly terrific technique. He understood the rhythm, the curvature, the undulations. Kevin must have been a rare breed: the prodigy blow job artist. Sadly, for those on the receiving end, Kevin would never put his talents to use. He would grow up to be a straight male, marry, settle into a suburban lifestyle, leave his true genius behind. The gay community lost a gold medalist.
In retrospect, I owe Kevin a debt of gratitude. From Kevin and his demonstration, I learned that my disease wasn’t communicable. I felt like there was hope.
The night before I left for college my father sat me down for the sex talk. The scene was an Italian restaurant in strip mall suburbia. My father, feeling uncomfortable, embarrassed even, drank his share of red wine. Being a growing boy, I ate my share of lasagna. When the cannoli came, so came my father’s speech.
I don’t remember his exact words. I do remember his stuttering and his stammering and his many condom references. I heard his message but I didn’t really receive it (but that’s another story for another column).
I do remember, as my father worked his way through his speech, that I stared at the cannoli. I do remember thinking about Kevin and his banana. I remember thinking about the way he maneuvered the fruit in his mouth, the way he delicately nibbled, the way he nimbly adjusted, the way he never gagged.
As my father talked, I studied the cannoli. I studied the tubular exterior. I studied the ricotta cheese interior. And I came to a great realization: cannolis are delicious. That led to a much larger discovery: I didn’t have a disease. I just had initials.
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Clubdouble is pleased to welcome Brian Josepher to "Ask Away." Brian
is a novelist, a historian, a journalist and an advice columnist. If
you have a question for Brian on love, relationships, sex, dating, or
anything else (politics, history, or even a great recipe for
chicken cacciatore), please, Ask Away.
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