Cubby suggested I write about when I first recognized that I desired a man, rather than when I first just desired a man; a distinction which would never had occurred to me. In other words, when did I first acknowledge the desire for what it was; a sign that I was gay? That's a tough one! I'll have to think about that! For now, I will start to answer that question with stories about the first two times that physical contact with a man gave me an erection. I don't think that neither story qualifies as "recognition."
As soon as he began massaging my prostate it was BOING!! an instant massive erection. It was a point-at-the-ceiling erection, as only a nineteen-year old can produce.... alas, for me, now a distant memory. This was a bit embarrassing, but as a gravely ill cancer patient, I had more important things on my mind.... it really was a non-issue.
I think this erection, which persisted for quite a while, was just a physical reaction to the prostate exam and had nothing to do with "desire" let alone recognition of anything bigger.
Peeve: at work, I occasionally hear a 50ish colleague whining about the fact that he had to go for his digital prostate exam. "Ewww! I'm too manly to have a doctor stick his finger up my bum-bum!!" The exam only lasts for a couple of minutes, for Pete's sake. I tell them, first, that this exam is pretty minor compared to all the indignities that a woman have to endure for their examinations and in particular, during childbirth... where her va-jay-jay gets stretched out to the size of the Grand Canyon. Secondly, I tell them (from Shakespeare), "Methinks he doth protest too loudly! Your problem is that you actually love it when the doctor massages your prostate, and it scares the hell out of you!!"
Erik Rubright's story about his hot-dentist-man with a basket-of-plenty. My story is similar. I had radical surgery with zig-zag incisions running up my neck from shoulder to above my ear. I was in pain and doped-up on pain medication.
A young, handsome, clean-cut doctor came to take out the many dozens of stitches. I was asked to lie close to the edge of the bed; Dr. Clean-Cut leaned way forward, rested an elbow on the bed beside my chest and the other on my shoulder and mashed his basket very firmly against the back of my hand lying by my side. (hard to describe the position; it must have been pretty awkward for him) . I don't think that it was a "basket-of-plenty", but it was a real live basket, nonetheless. I made no attempt to move my hand away. I now wonder what would have happened if my hand had been facing towards his package.... plenty of cupping action, that's for sure.
I instantly popped a big erection, tenting my hospital gown, my penis yearning heavenwards. It was an intensely intimate experience as he took the dozens of stitches out. It took a very long time. After 28 years, I still remember his face inches from mine, his warm breath against my face (very pleasant), his scent (aftershave?) and the pressure of his body lying partially on top of mine as he yanked the stitches out, one after another. Was there desire? You, bet! Did I recognize that I desired a man and there was something unusual about that? Not a chance; I was so unaware, I had no idea that a man could "desire" another man in any way; it was just something that never would have occurred to me.
Aside: Years later, I heard a comedy troupe on CBC radio performing a sketch. One actor played a do-gooder woman from The Children's Wish Network. She asked the other actor, playing a young black boy dying of cancer, what he would like as his final wish. A trip to Disneyland? A meeting with a famous athlete? The boy answered, "For my wish, I would like to cradle a white man's balls." (politically incorrect, I know, but this was about 10 years ago, and I think Canadians are a lot less uptight about race)