crotch

Ah, my first crotch watch. I was 12. My grandma, Helen took me to the ballet, with binoculars! When the crotchley bachelorinas did the jump squeeze, Helen would gasp like a freshly rouged Iowan at an all you can eat meat and cheese buffet.

For the next two years, I was Helen’s ballet date. It was great. We’d take the subway from Brooklyn to the city, watch the ballet, and then over a slice of pie and coffee at Sarge’s Deli, we’d have crotchversations.

By 14, I was skilled in the art of crotch watching. Gay tops wore faded blue jeans with left hangers. Gay bottoms created the ass lip effect with a high seam. Gentlemen of a certain age had anklets. And fat men didn’t have penises, or so I thought. When standing or walking they were crotchless. When seated, anatomically correct. What’s a girl to think?! So, I asked my father. His response: “What are you a schmuck? What kind ah-fuckin question is that? Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Ahhh, you!”

He never did answer the question, so I asked my middle school teacher.

“Mr. Deprado, do fat men have penises?”

He was a portly gent. I figured if anyone would know, he would. This was not a wise decision. I was suspended for inappropriate behavior. My father laughed and Helen clapped, consumed with pride.