So the five of us {being myself, B-dawg, Short, JK, and Blitz} sat around B-dawg’s room at the Cappas, smoking the shisha. I’d been with them for most of the afternoon, sipping back on cold lagers and taking a brief leave of absence every forty minutes or so. I’d just returned from one such constitutional as their discussion {i.e. the superior children’s cereal mascot in a ‘battle royale’ setting} was reaching its conclusion. Short was discoursing to Blitz on the inescapable versatility of Lucky the Leprechaun’s magical powers, to which the latter did retort “Naw, but Tony’s a fucking tiger!” Hear-hears were proffered round the room and B-dawg made a motion for an end to that particular conversation. The motion was carried by all and lagers liberally spread. The hookah was passed to me, I recall, as JK struck up the next topic. He posed to the group two questions, viz: is it homosexual practice for a man to handle his own genitals? Resounding nays flowed from the group, to which his second question was given: whether it was similarly manly, non-homosexual practice for a man to fellate himself. I love those moments when a body of intellectuals pause thoughtfully to ponder a thing; it is as though one can hear the thinking process through the common silence. “Depends on what you’re thinking about,” Short at length quipped. I believe I wondered aloud whether it would be possible to imagine a woman on the one hand, while not likewise visualizing the penis in one’s mouth. Various ideas were shared, and differing opinions voiced with no real conclusion to our little paradox being made. Finally it was B-dawg who took our discussion on a different tack. “Can anyone here do it?” Another thoughtful pause, myself wondering why I’d never tried the thing before, hoping I hadn’t unwittingly missed out on a whole new level of masturbatory exercise. I was mentally running through the possible mechanics {while likewise still mulling over our earlier paradox} when Blitz finished off his lager and stated “I can.” The claim seemed dubious enough to be disbelieved by all. Ever the inquisitive one, it was B-dawg who suggested he “Prove it.” And ever rising to the challenge, Blitz punctured a new can of lager and quaffed it down {called ‘shot-gunning’ in such circles} and proceeded to remove his pants. What followed was the proof in Blitz’s pudding, an academic triumph for the evening. However the performance raised an additional question as to whether, gay practice or no to perform such a thing, is it a particularly homosexual thing to watch. “No more so than if he were masturbating,” JK stoutly argued. We were all in hearty agreement, and in that spirit ventured out to go {as B-dawg so enthusiastically put it} “bash some real queers.” We grabbed our cudgels from the door pledge and sang our way into the darkness of the campus, little realizing that these halcyon days of college would someday come to an end.
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