When I was 13 years old a buddy of mine tried to convince me to fool around. I wasn't into it, and he told me it's not gay if you're wearing socks. I didn't believe him, went home, and asked my dad.
That's 'gentleman's gay', hardly gay at all. Don't see it much these days.
The 50s were a different time. What were we to do? We were typical boarding school boys, rich with vigor, skin slick with drying sweat and gritty earth from a game of pigskin.
At night our young, virile bodies filled the dorm with sweet-musky vapors, like game-meat stewed with apple and peppercorn. You'd awake in darkness to the hushed, melodic rhythm of two pairs of white tube socks, barely visible in moonlight, bouncing on the hardwood floor.
The deep bond of male friendship played like a thousand different human instruments. The wet claps of skin on skin, the gentle thud of heads on backboards, frenzied cries in the throes of climax. Wilbur, so fat and soft like tapioca pudding. His breasts were so like the real thing, what we fantasized of our future wives. Unwilling, defenseless Wilbur, so slow and uncoordinated in the dark. 10 of us would glaze his bare, pink flesh like a giant raspberry danish. He once had the audacity to tell Headmaster Redford. But Redford was a Deerfield boy once, he understood. So he joined us on our midnight hog hunts.
Through college and years after we'd find time here and there, away from the wives at a family lake house. But it's been decades now - the times have certainly changed. If you wanted to do something private with another man, in your socks, it wasn’t ‘gay’. It was just two men, celebrating each other's strength.
𝓜𝔂 𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽 𝓫𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻, 𝓽𝓸𝓭𝓪𝔂 𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 8𝓽𝓱 𝔂𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝔀𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓱𝓪𝓭 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓽 𝓿𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓽𝔂. 𝓦𝓮 𝓶𝓪𝔂 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓫𝓮 𝓪𝓫𝓵𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓻𝓮. 𝓟𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓪𝔂 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝓪𝓵𝓿𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷. .