What Is Sex Like?

prologue

In the swelter'n Summer of 2002, an intrepid tribe of seven farm kids - The Swamp Warriors - met round glow'n campfires, skinny dipped in Black Creek, and kept a close eye on whatcha might call current events... really gossip... that had any chance of threaten'n to prevent us from do'n what we wanted to do.

In high June, look'n for an ol' pair of panty-hose for a minnow trap, Henry Martin found a raggedy, dog-eared book tucked in the back of his mama's underwear drawer. It was authored by William Masters and Virginia Johnson, and it's title was Human Sexual Response.

Two hours later, Henry managed to crawl out of his big brother's closet with that book, and a couple of Frank's nudie mags, shoved down the front of his trousers.

He kept an eye out for snoopy eyes as he criss-crossed the back yard - just the way Frank had learned bout in boot camp - and managed to throw the stash into his bike's carry-all without notice.

As Henry walked his bike round the back corner of their barn, he thought bout his brother and felt his chest tighten.

The soldier skills Frank had shown him hadn't helped his brother survive the desert, but they came in handy when Henry had to hide. As the familiar wave of angry-bitter sadness clamped his lungs shut, Henry forced himself to shake it off, like a dog shakes off rain, and concentrated on 'xactly how he would show me what he'd discovered.

Just last year - at a church picnic of all places! - Henry told me he'd figured I'd upchuck when I saw "IT" and had wanted maximum effect in revenge for me exchange' n his trousers for a catalpa leaf last time he went skinny-dip'n.

(In my defense, he had pelted me, and my cousin, Beth, with hedge apples the week before... but that's another story.)

Henry peddled down into the Dismal as fast as he could, where he carefully hid his new-found treasure on a high shelf in Dry Cave.

After sweep'n away footprints with a willow branch, Henry turned his stone over... to show he'd been there and left somethin. Then, he paused to listen to the swamp.

Funny thing bout our swamp - it'll kill, comfort, feed, and starve - but it knows its own. That day, the Dismal had accepted the sunlight, and the long shadows of the ancient campfire ring, with it's nine boulders circle'n round it, told Henry that he'd best get home for even'n chores.

Henry put a bit of spittle on the tip of his index finger, lightly pressed the raw earth, and then touched the spot of dust to his tongue.  He felt the tiny bits of earth between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.  He would hold it there, till he got home safe.

.......................................

I've heard bout folks who send their kids out into the wilderness. They pack em up with maybe a knife and a prayer and say "tally-ho, ol' bean... hope you don't get eaten up out there."
Then they wait.
If the kid comes back, it's all dandy - they are grown up and strong enough to be a tribe member. But, if they don't make it back, no one remembers their name.

Look'n back, I can see that we sent ourselves out.  If our families had known what we were up to, they would have never let us out of the house! But, we armed ourselves with a few pieces of paper... a few words and pictures... and set out on a journey from which no one ever returns unscathed.

I like to think that everythin always works out for the best.