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an airplane over the Himalayas, searching for Shangri-La. Actually, I was Nelson Eddy searching for it! As I moved in the bed my penis rubbed against the sheet, and it felt so good that I kept rocking and dipping the plane. As I got more and more excited I imagined I saw it and started shouting “Shangri-La, Shangri-La, Shangri-Laaaaa!” until my penis exploded, as did my imaginary airplane against the mountains.
    At about age eight or nine, I pondered that ejaculation (for which I naturally longed) might possibly be more a matter of suction than of age. Being one day alone in the house and having no friend handy to provide the suction, I turned to the vacuum cleaner hose. I carefully determined that it contained no grinding, cutting, or biting mechanism, inserted my poor little penis, and switched the motor on—an altogether hair-raising, terrifying experience as my tiny organ was violently whipped back and forth in the suction. I admitted defeat and set myself to wait a few years.
    There was also that unforgettable time, when we were twelve, when my friend Timmy, as full of self-importance, I daresay, as he has ever been, took Rick and me out to his uncle’s farm to initiate us into the ecstasy of fucking a cow. We were an odd triumpuerate, the school’s two star jocks and I, but the relationship was one of three equals and not at all one that hindsight might have expected. But to that Saturday—we rose early and biked the ten or twelve miles out to the farm to rouse his cousin. He brought a box (“the” box, I guess) and we went to look for a suitable cow, Rick and I, the awestruck innocents, trailing behind the two masters. Having secured the beast to a fence and placed the box just right, Timmy mounted it, dropped his jeans to his ankles, and, with Rick close in on one side and me on the other to observe (the cousin was at the cow’s head), inserted his ready prick into the flabby and rather filthy slit and started ramming.
    It was as though his cock pushed a button in the wrong place. Immediately a huge flood of liquid shit poured out of the cow over Timmy’s belly, cock, and legs, filling his dropped jeans and overflowing to the ground. Timmy’s face, Timmy’s face! Rick and I collapsed in laughter, as did the cousin when he saw. Timmy reddened for every possible reason—except where he was brown—but mainly fury.
    The three of us stripped, picked Timmy up, and threw ourselves into the nearby creek. Our ardor was cooled, but soon revived, and we soothed it in the more usual way, which even the cousin, I believe, preferred to the cow.

 
    8
    I
    Wonder
    Sometimes
    I wonder sometimes whether everybody has his own quiet, peaceful 1930 s, even though they were the 1940 s or ’ 50 s. They must, though I can’t believe they were really as quiet and peaceful as mine were!
    Before the war I was taken to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, but the whole thing was a bust for me because my sole object was to catch as many trinkets that the people on the floats threw to the crowds as I could, and I ended up catching nothing. Nobody in our crowd did, in fact, and when my father found one on the ground later on and gave it to me as a consolation, I threw it away in great indignation, thinking—as I still do—that if you didn’t catch it yourself then it wasn’t any good.
    That was my first acquaintance with New Orleans, at about age nine or ten, and I saw absolutely nothing but all those baubles flying off the floats in every direction but mine. It was my only acquaintance with that city until after the war, and since most of the “important” things of that period of my life happened during the war—not because of the war, but because it was during the war that I climbed into the great clamshell of puberty—New Orleans was not very interesting to me.

 
    9
    In
    the
    Period
    of
    Best
    Friends
    In the period of “best friends” there