[LordCaspen]

Why, yes, actually.

When I was in junior high, I don't remember which grade, I stayed up late some night and saw a movie called /Bullet/, with Mickey Rourke. There's a scene at the beginning where he robs a couple of preppy teens looking to score in the projects on the rooftop of a tenement. He makes them strip off and then throws their clothes over the side of the building and leaves them bollocks naked. The whole thing got me pretty hot and worked up so I decided I had to try it.

I walked outside, it was two a.m. or something in a fairly dense suburb. I walked down our street to the cross street, to a sort of recessed area at the front of someone's yard, where there were shrubs.

I pretended like the movie ... The sudden betrayal -- my dealer suddenly hurling me (and a friend) into a secluded spot. The drawn gun. Racing pulse, senses heightened. "Take off your clothes," he says. Disbelief, dismay, rage all take turns. I feel like I'm imitating what I saw pretty completely, and now for it. Resignation.

I pulled off my sneakers and white socks. Slid out of my jacket and piled it on top. T-shirt followed. I was bare-chested, and of course that's when I really noticed the cold. It was summer, I think, but a Washington summer, and any case it was two in the morning. I mimicked the sort of disgusted griping/whimpering of the boys in the movie, imagining Bullet there, subtly touching himself, as my jeans came off and went into the pile with everything else. And, as in the movie, I stopped.

"Shorts, too," says the Bullet of my imagination. My friend and I refuse. We've been had, but he won't really go through with this. But then he has his gun and he's pointing and shouting, and then his voice drops real low. "I'm not leaving until you girls drop your little panties."

I'm a really thin, really white kid standing alone in just his tighty-whities looking up the street. Nobody. Nearly naked and alone. I hitch my thumbs in the waistband, and pull them down, trying to go a little slow so not to lose the moment too quickly. I stepped out of my shorts a foot at a time and then put them on the pile with the rest.

I started a walk. Not far, but I figured what's the point of getting naked in public at night if you don't at least step out into the street? So I'm there, and the air has the texture of velvet and a coolness like ices across all my skin and around all my parts. I feel myself over, and by that time I hadn't learned to masturbate with my hand so my touching myself was not particularly a turn-on, just a weird deep-seated thing that was part gratification, part humiliation, and mostly just mysterious in effect.

I didn't get far when a car peeled around the corner at the top of my cross street and stopped virtually on top of me. Headlights showed up everything, and I could see shit but someone was getting out of the car. I dashed back to my clothes, snatched up everything, going down a mental list, undies, pants, shirt, jacket, shoes, socks, dammit dropped a sock, run back, grab it, and pelt home lickety-split ... don't stop, don't acknowledge, hope like hell the next-door neighbors aren't out on their porch for one of their late-night fags ... and straight to the door.

I get on our porch a little out of breath, my pretty bare feet are sore from asphalt, I'm only mostly sure I've got all my shit still in my arms and I barely manage to work the door without dropping anything else and get inside.

And it's over.

Except the furious dry humping later in bed, but that's something else again.

I never heard anything about that incident in the neighborhood. I wondered, later, what the people in the car thought. Did they think it was a prank? Did they initially think something bad had happened to me? Sometimes I think about what might have happened if I'd just stuck around ... naked and all.