Myra-Breckinridge-Gore-Vidal

"You're not finished until I say you are. All right. Stand up.Over here. In front of me." He got to his feet andapproached to within a foot of me. There he stood,awkwardly, hands crossed in front of him, torso glitteringwith sweat, legs as well proportioned as the rest of him,though somewhat overdeveloped in the thighs, no doubt theresult of playing football. He was so close to me that I couldfeel the heat of his flesh and smell the healthy earthlikearoma the young male body exudes. "Rest your arms atyour sides and at least try to stand straight." He obeyed.The target was now directly in front of me, at my eye's level.As I stared straight at the hidden area, he clenched his fistsnervously, and shifted from foot to foot. The frayed jockeyshorts were unfortunately too loose to reveal more than alarge rounded area, without clear definition; they were,however, splotched with fresh urine. "Look! You wetyourself!" I pinched the damp cloth, careful to touch nothingbeneath. He gave a start. "I guess I did. I was in a hurry.""Boys are so careless about those things." We had gonefrom bowel-training to bed-wetting: such was progress! Ilooked at the examination card. "Oh yes! Have you everhad a venereal disease?" "Oh, no, ma'am. Never!" "I hopeyou're telling me the truth." I was ominous as I wrote "no" onthe chart. "We have ways of finding out, you know." "HonestI never have. I always been careful... always." "Always? Justexactly when did you begin with girls?" "When?" He lookedat me dumbly. "How old were you?" "Thirteen, I guess. Idon't remember." "Was she older than you?" He nodded."In high school. She was a Protestant," he added wildly.