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myself as unselfconsciously as the others did.
    With the first sign of maturity upon me I felt as if I had been vouchsafed a promise of all the others still to come, the rest of my masculine birthright: greater height, a voice change, underarm hair, a beard. Yes, there were two or three boys in class who already shaved. How I envied them, with a yearning virtually indistinguishable from worship. I always felt a thrill of delight each time these boys, in the showers, raised an arm to scrub their backs, brazenly exposing a lovely underarm bush beaded with tiny, shivering, transparent drops of water.
    The musty smell these boys left on their clothes, that briny aroma which lingered in their T-shirts in PE class, was an exotic perfume for me. I often lowered my nose toward my own armpit trying to evoke it. Sometimes when I was clowning around with a friend I would sniff his underarm like an animal and pretend to be offended by the odor, fanning the air in front of my face and holding my nose. But the truth was—and I never dared admit it to anyone—I found that masculine smell very arousing.
     
    *
     
    It was Saturday afternoon and there was no one home. My parents had gone to see a movie with my sister so I knew I had the house all to myself for the next three hours. It was raining outside and I couldn’t play baseball with my friends. But I had no desire to leave the house.
    I made sure the front door was locked, then made my way to my parents’ room. The full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door was like a portal opening into a whole new world of pleasures….
    I stood before the mirror just looking at myself for a while. Then gradually I let my mind go blank in order to slip more easily into my fantasy. Narrowing my eyes to create a hazy effect with my lashes, I imagined that my reflection was another boy, a complete stranger, upon whom I was spying, and who was ignorant of my presence.
    Keeping an oblique image of him in view, I slowly began to undress, watching him go through the same motions. I saw him peel out of his shirt and unbuckle his belt, letting his pants slide down to his ankles. There he stood, clad in nothing but his cotton briefs, with an uncertain look upon his face, a loose pile of clothes scattered about his feet.
    We regarded each other with looks of mutual admiration mingled with an irresistible coyness…self-consciously running our fingers through our hair, trying to act nonchalant. At some point he’d begun caressing his own chest and shoulders, then gently kneading his buttocks over his briefs.
    Finally—after some time had passed…time enough to create an unbearable tension of expectancy and longing—we both stooped slightly and, in one motion, shyly stepped out of our briefs. As this last barrier was removed, I caught my breath at the sight offered so wantonly to my eyes. Though he tried clumsily to hide it, I could see the erection blossoming behind his concealing fingers.
    Without looking at his face for fear of breaking the mood, I continued to gaze in admiration at his body. And as if he were consciously gratifying this desire, he turned his body this way and that, proudly showing it off, allowing me to view it from every possible angle: the thrilling side view of the steep-angled erection; the front view which displayed the clean taper from chest to waist, the smooth belly, the wispy bush from which protruded the engorged shaft; and the back view (for which I had to use a small, hand-held mirror) which showed the tight roundness of both buttocks and the enticing cleft where they met.
    After this silent pantomime we gradually approached each other, shyly reaching out our hands…and touched fingertips. I ran my finger across the reflection, then brought my body closer until my erection was touching his, tip to tip, then pressed flat. The cool smooth barrier prevented me from moving my whole body into his—I wished I could merge completely with him.
    Looking up suddenly I saw