Monday, June 5th

2:04 P.M. CST, on U.S. 51, near Bloomington, IL

This is a time-out. I had to stop for awhile because I was about to get that carpal tunnel thing. And I also had an upset stomach.

Then, as though my stomach wasn't already upset enough, the last of the rabbit salad sandwiches was passed back to me and I was expected to EAT it.

It would be nice if we stopped at Taco Bell or something, but while other people may have money to waste, we're not made of money, so we eat on the road. Carrot sticks, celery sticks, potato chips and sandwiches. Yummy! In the sandwich department, we have roast beef, tuna fish and... rabbit salad.

So what kind of sandwich did I want?

Trying not to think about the rabbit salad, I answered, "I don't know. I guess I'll have two tuna fish."

"Now see here little boy," said Mildred, "there might be somebody else in this here car who wants tuna fish, so you'll take one tuna fish and one of the other. Which do you want?"

So I asked for roast beef plain, no mustard, no mayonnaise, nothing at ALL but roast beef and bread.

"Don't you at least want some lettuce on it?"

"Just roast beef and bread, please."

"Your mom might not let you be so picky."

Last summer my mom usually just gave me five dollars and told me to get something at Taco Bell or something and I imagine that's the way it'll be this summer too, but I didn't say anything.

Mildred asked, "Do you want ketchup on it?"

"No ma'am."

So finally I got my sandwiches and then while Julie was offering thanks for the food we were about to partake in, I was checking the roast beef for fat, and I'm glad I did. Which is why I didn't want anything on it. I ate the roast beef with my fingers, carefully avoiding the fat. Anything remotely near the fat I left between the slices of whole wheat bread and after awhile the whole entire mess went out the back window. And it's not littering because it's biodegradable.

But shortly after I'd finished what I could of the first two sandwiches my father bellowed, "You sure you don't want a rabbit salad before it's all gone? You don't know what you're missing!"

Yeah, well, I do know what I'm missing. It makes me gag.

"It tastes just like chicken salad. You won't even know the difference," he continued. "We're trying to put a little meat on your bones. Honey, give that boy a rabbit salad."

"I'm full," I blurted out.

My father goes, "You need to put some weight on, Wesley."

But finally Mildred said maybe I'd eat one later.

Julie ate two. She's a good eater. But for the life of me I can't see how she can manage that rabbit salad. She might be eating George! My ex-pet rabbit. She liked him too. I should have known better than to make a pet out of one of my father's rabbits. I mean, one day he's letting me scratch between his ears, next day he's in the damn freezer. Rabbit salad always did make me gag, but that definitely reinforced it.

But slightly over an hour ago, there being only one rabbit salad left, my father told Mildred to give it to me and I had better eat it. He was tired of me being so finicky.

He keeps thinking just because he tells me to do something, I'm automatically going to do it. He's driving, so he can't see if I do or not. But even so, I guessed maybe I shouldn't immediately throw it out the back window. He might be watching his side mirror.

That sandwich made me VERY angry and my stomach became even more queasy. It was close to a stand-off. I looked at that sandwich for about ten minutes I guess, and the longer I stared at it the less inclined I was to take one teeny weeny bite, but at the same time I had almost given up any hope of my just chucking it out the window, even if there was a 95% chance he wouldn't be looking at his side mirror at that moment, I could not DO it. This seems to be a microcosm of my entire life. So finally I hid it under the morning paper and considered the possible consequences of my rebellion.

At home he would most likely take his belt to me, but on the shoulder of U.S. 51 or at a roadside park... well, he still might use his belt, but not with his normal enthusiasm. People passing by might not understand.

But he still might. And I'm not sure what other damning evidence could come to light. Or lack of evidence.

Oh good. Now I have something else to worry about.

So back my jeans went on again! I still didn't eat that sandwich though, UH UH. But I didn't throw it out, either and so it just lurked under The Atlanta Journal-Constitution and waited.

This state of affairs continued for about thirty minutes, which was time enough to reconsider the original reason for my upset stomach and the carpal tunnel flare up. And while not so superstitious as to believe that sandwich is some sort of divine retribution, I still had to wonder if it was wise to expose Adam's dick to millions of readers. Well, maybe it won't be quite that many. But at least a few. If I live that long.

2:32 P.M

But you know, I really would like to question the morality of killing somebody's pet, saying grace over it and EATING the damn thing.

3:47 P.M

Anyway, that sandwich stayed hid for at least forty-five minutes. I'm not sure about the exact timing on this, but I'm fairly sure my father pulled off to the side of the road about thirty minutes after I was told to eat it.

So of course I thought, "Uh oh."

But I could relax. He just wanted Julie to drive awhile. Mildred can't. She never learned how. (Whew!)

Although as he climbed into the back seat he did wonder how I was doing and how I liked the rabbit salad.

I said I was doing okay I guessed and the sandwich wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

"If you ask me, I think it was MIGHTY good," he said. "I just had a feeling you'd like it. Don't ask me why, but I did." Then he stretched out as much as was possible and tried to go to sleep.

After awhile he really did, but right at the start it looked doubtful. I believe the speed limit is 55 now, but since Julie hates being passed by almost every car on the road, she was trying to tell them it was still 65. That's about as close to rebellion as she ever gets.

"Julie, you're driving too fast," said Mildred.

"Well, the speed limit is 65, you know."

"I don't care if it is," said my father, "just keep it down to 55."

Not five minutes later Mildred was forced to start up again. "Julie, you're going 65 again!"

Then Julie went, "I'm just barely over 60."

Mildred went, "I guess I can see, little girl."

My father went, "Young lady, I told you to hold it down. We'll get there."

Julie went, "Not if we get run over by a truck!"

Mildred went, "Frank! She's not slowing down a bit!"

Julie went, "All right!" and she slowed down to about 63 I guess.

Mildred went, "Julie, you're still going too fast."

My father went, "Are you going to slow this thing down or am I going to have to drive? I'd like to get a little sleep, but if I have to drive all the way up there, I guess I will." Julie gets the guilt trip, I get the belt. AND the guilt trip.

She finally slowed down, though. I bet steam was coming out of her ears.

One time it was just me and her going somewhere and I talked her into seeing how fast this station wagon would go. According to the speedometer, 92. Although it was down a long hill. But what if she'd wrecked and killed me, huh? Christians are supposed to obey the law of the land. So I wish she would just kick the traces, I mean if you're going to Hell for speeding and disobeying your legal guardians, then why not just GO for it?

But anyway, she finally slowed it down to 58 and soon after that my father started sawing wood and not long after that, things started getting truly weird back in the luggage area.

It started when I decided to get down to my gym shorts again. I was wondering if I could pull my pants off without first unfastening them. And it soon became apparent that I could, but it would take a little while. You tug on your left side a bit. Then the right side. Then the seat. Then the left side. And so on. But my shorts were coming down with my pants! And then I thought to myself, "I dare you!"

So... by the time I got my pants off, my gym shorts were below my knees. That was a close call, because a truck was gaining on us fast. I quickly pulled them back up. Until the truck finally passed us. (U.S. 51 was two-lane until just south of Decatur. And I you can be sure I shared Julie's concern about being run over.)

But once that truck roared on by, I thought to myself, "I dare you to take them off completely! And you have to stay like that for at least a minute! No matter WHAT!"

Well, I lasted 42 seconds. Now a car was coming up on us. I mean, it was hauling ass and while I'm almost positive they can't see inside, I still can't help but feel a bit naked when all I'm wearing is my watch.

Every time I get these stupid urges, I inevitably end up feeling guilty. So sometimes I feel like punishing myself. And when it gets to that point, things can REALLY get weird. Sometimes you would not even believe what happens. Like for instance, just awhile ago, only a few miles south of Decatur, I decided I was going to shoot OFF into my sandwich and then I was going to make myself eat it. Now deep down I knew I was not going to eat it - I mean rabbit salad is still rabbit salad - but it was fun pretending. Masturbating wasn't much of a problem, I didn't even need to pull my shorts down, I could just pull it out of my leg opening. If a truck should appear, I'd just cross my legs with my pecker pinned out of sight until it passed. So anyway, I began to slowly rub myself. Before long I had a fairly good rhythm going. Then I moved the rabbit salad into position. My father was snoring away to beat the band. Of course. Had he stopped, it would have been ABORT! ABORT! Shaking a little, I stuck the head of my penis between the soggy slices of bread and into the almost sickeningly warm rabbit salad, just as a test. It felt interesting. So variety is the spice of life, and I sure hadn't ever stuck it into a rabbit salad sandwich before, so at that point I began wondering if I could actually fuck that sandwich. Well, not without making a mess, no. Beyond a doubt I would end up with rabbit salad all over my shorts. Not good.

But then I thought to myself, "I double-dare you to pull your shorts all the way down to your knees ... Well okay, chicken shit, you can wait until that truck passes..." (And it passed.) ... "Now. There's nothing in sight gaining fast so... Take them all the WAY off! If you're going to persist in writing shit like you're writing, then you have to be bare-ass naked and you have to wrap that sandwich around your dick and just do it! NOW!"

And I did! I swear I did! I just pictured Adam walking out of the bathroom naked that morning like he just didn't care any more and I tore that damn sandwich UP!

Then the deed was over and done with and oh my gosh, what had I DONE? I'd made a mess all over my midsection and between my legs, that's what I had done. It was awful! And that was before I happened to notice that we were entering Decatur. (Population 94,081.) Oh no! Somebody probably saw me! We'd be sitting at a red light, then some redneck driving one of those pickup trucks with two story high tires would pull up beside us, and he'd say to Mildred, "Ma'am, I don't know exactly how to tell you this, but do you know there's a little perv back there in your luggage without his clothes on? I cannot TELL you what he was doing ma'am, but I figured as how you might ought to know about it anyway. But y'all just do what you see fit and have a good day, you hear?"

You should always consider the mess you might make before just going ahead and making it. It was at least five minutes before I could even get my shorts on again, because first I had to wipe myself off and there was a lot to wipe. I felt almost like I did when I was five and decided to take my clothes off under the house and I just knew it was going to turn out every bit as bad. Worse even. A lot worse. Like I had the Journal-Constitution spread over my midsection while feverishly trying to clean myself with a napkin and then with part of the newspaper and the wind kept catching the paper which was supposed to cover me, and in wild-eyed desperation I'd think, "Julie, will you please slow this thing DOWN?"... I mean, it was awful. No damn wonder I couldn't write for a little while.

* * *

Well okay then. I didn't really beat off back here. I made that up. Because in the first place, I'm not about to jeopardize my summer before it even gets started. Shit, I'm nervous enough about my missing underwear as it is. Actually, I thought off. Cool! I was thinking first about Matthew, then Adam, reliving that last morning in Colorado Springs when all at once... OOPS, it happened. I couldn't believe it. (And as it turned out, I was on Adam when it happened. But I don't think there's any particular significance to it being him. It just happened that way.) But anyway, my penis was slightly out, so I don't have cum on my shorts now. I mean I had sort of pulled it out, but it was just barely out, just it's head is all, and every now and then I'd rub on it a little. But when I did lose it I wasn't even touching it.

* * *

Well, I just got to thinking what IF I decided to fuck that sandwich, that's all. So it's an interesting story, don't you think? Just a little?

As for what really happened to the sandwich, well, I finally got up enough nerve to throw the thing out, that's all.

Oh, and the only reason we entered Decatur in the first place was because Julie missed the bypass. But after a couple of blocks she got turned around. Then once on the bypass things got REALLY interesting as the posted speed limit was still 55, but NOBODY (except us) was paying any attention to that. The truckers sure weren't. Julie kept mentioning going with the flow of traffic, but noo. It was a harrowing experience, almost as bad as when we went through Nashville. But not nearly as bad as I-285 in Atlanta. My old man doesn't drive on 285 anymore. Which is a good thing, believe me. But I figured if I was going to make up that story I might as well make it interesting, so I put us IN Decatur. And I thought about making it even more interesting by having us pull into a gas station (I mean HO-LY SHIT!) but... no. Because after all, once at the pump it would have been all over, you know?

* * *

But guess what. The finish of my report on Matthew has now been postponed until chapter ten. But at least it's not because another one of my pets has gone missing. Which may be of some relief to whoever ends up reading this.

No, it's because originally I was going with a somewhat idealized version of this story. About me and Matthew. I mean, don't worry, I was going to tell you what happened all right, but...

Oh shit. Let's start over. Well look, I'm trying to get some damn work done here, okay? And on this particular subject I doubt seriously if anyone sharing Dr. Danko's mindset is going to be of much help. And I'm also going to make a brief detour here.

I've just got to tell you about this pamphlet I came across one time while I was in his waiting room, okay? It was "A Parent's Guide to Sexual Addictions". Only it wasn't illustrated. But wouldn't you know it, excessive masturbation was one of the major warning signs. And another was preoccupation with sex. Which sounds a lot like warning signs of puberty to me, but then I've been brainwashed by the Secular Humanists. But even so, I still have to wonder how a concerned parent is even supposed to be aware of excessive masturbation. I mean seriously, I don't think all that many adolescents whack off in front of their parents. Although I guess the concerned parent could peek or something, or Junior could tell his friendly caring Christian psychiatrist about it... So see, that was an important detour. At least in a way it was.

So okay. How's this? When you're a baby you don't worry about being naked, because you don't know any better. But your parents start in with the naughty naughty routine. So as you get a little older you still don't know what the big deal is, but you keep your clothes on most of the time because it just seems to work out better if you do. But in my mind, the ideal was some place where nobody worried about being naked. Sex I didn't know about yet. So really, me and Chris running around naked was fairly close to that ideal. Because we just didn't know. Although we did know nobody ELSE could know, which made it even more fun, and we were right on the verge of knowing, but we didn't. Know. And I really don't think you want to try diagramming that.

(But in case you're interested, we were right on the verge when we decided to paint each other's woo woos. It was war paint, all right? But it tickled funny and our woo woos sure did look awfully warlike when they started sticking up.)

Look, I have nothing against sex. But it really is confusing. And a little scary.

So let's review here. Me and Chris running around naked without a care in the world. Ideal. Very much so.

Me and Chris giving each other rubdowns. Seeing as how we really didn't do it for too long, still ideal. And if we had done it for too long... well, I don't know how Chris would have reacted and I'll get to how I reacted shortly. I mean I didn't find out about THAT until after moving to Atlanta, and my initial reaction... well, I'll get to it.

Painting on our woo woos. Well, they really did look warlike but we couldn't make them stay up like that for very long, because once we started chasing each other around, well, they just went back down, that's all. So... my idealistic bubble remained intact.

That last night in North Carolina when I spent the night with Chris and we decided we weren't going to wear our pjs and since nobody was going to come in on us anyway, we ended up naked. He had this big old bed. And the mattress sagged in the middle and for early October it was really sort of chilly and they didn't have central heat upstairs and we were watching some old horror movie on his little black and white that was so bad it was good in a way, but there were times when it was maybe just a little scary, so we ended up going to sleep right next to each other with our legs sort of tangled up. With his breath on my neck and his hair brushing my face and that might be as close to the ideal as I'll ever come.

Not ideal was when I noticed that tickling sensation when the handle of our lawnmower came in contact with my midsection. Felt kind of good actually, and so I let that handle make contact again and I held it there just feeling better and better. Only then I cut it out because I couldn't risk being caught in such a compromising position with our lawnmower, but you should also know that I'd already decided first chance I got, I was going to find out about all this. So eventually the opportunity presented itself and when the inevitable happened I thought I'd KILLED it.

But then finding out that I hadn't killed it and it was all very normal put things back to at least close to ideal.

(Considering my upbringing, you well might be asking yourself exactly how I found out it was normal. Well, you would be surprised at what you can find at Waldenbooks. And if the lady clerk comes up and says, "Can I help you?" and you go, "No, I was just looking" blush blush and she goes, "Well, that book is supposed to be sealed and if you want to look at it, then your parents can buy it for you and you can look at it at home," well, you would also be surprised at what you can find at the library. Especially at college libraries. I mean really! A virtual treasure trove. Un-be-LIEV-able!)

But let's get to the way things are now. Or at least last summer. It seems like a good idea because this stream-of-consciousness stuff might not be working as well as I hoped. (What I'd really like to do is create a whole new method of writing, if you want to know the truth about it, but then I guess having people know just what in the fuck you're talking about has it's merits as well.)

(And I'm almost to the end of this chapter. Happy?)

So okay then. Matthew being a damn exhibitionist around me was still pretty ideal. He didn't care and I was in heaven. Popping woodies. Well, it happens all the time, you know. And it doesn't even have to involve sex. And Matthew didn't care about that either. Which really WAS nice. Checking out other people like for instance Adam. Just normal curiosity, that's all. I looked it up, and really, it's normal.

But catching Ray Kohle looking up your shorts and after a bit of initial discomfiture deciding, "Well hell, I'll LET him look," now that at the very least is taking an awfully big chance on having your bubble popped. Fortunately, I'm very good at rationalizing (thank you for that information, Dr. Danko), but...

But I think I really should tell you about Ray Kohle before getting back to Matthew, that's all. Because for one thing, the deal with Ray Kohle happened shortly before the completion of what went on between me and Matthew. And I guess I might as well deal with the way things are.

But don't worry, I'm not going to go tragic on you. Because when it comes to tragedies, I really suck. And anyway, there's a good story that's going to pop up about half way through and I'm going to tell it. Because it sort of helps explain some things. And it should also act as a counterbalance to the rest of the story.

So in conclusion, I'm not sure exactly what today's voyage of self-discovery accomplished, but... well, I guess I'll leave it in anyway for some long-suffering Secular Humanist psychiatrist on down the road a bit. Maybe he can figure it out.