In the middle of a Books-A-Million, I crouched down and started snapping photos of an allegedly straight man’s magazine I found. Forgive me, I don’t remember what the man-azine was called, but you wouldn’t either if you saw this:
Here we have a nice young man who appears to be modeling underwear while working out and simultaneously stuffing Pizza Hut condiment packets into his Hugo Boss briefs. Seems sensible enough.
I feel like there’s some sort of innuendo here, but I just can’t quite put my chopstick on it…
This is a short story I wrote for my creative writing class a couple semesters ago, but I never handed it in because I’m pretty sure my professor was gay.
“Good morning, Mr. Carole. Tell me your most disturbing experience,” Dr. Holland said while crossing his legs. He pulled out a notepad and pen from a nearby drawer and began recording the session.
Mr. Carole was slightly unnerved by his new doctor’s unorthodox greeting. “What?”
“Mr. Carole,” the psychotherapist stated matter-of-factly, “in order for me to understand the cause of your insomnia, I need you to recall a significantly disturbing memory.”
“Um, okay…” mumbled Mr. Carole as he slumped onto the chaise longue. He was uncertain about his most disturbing memory, for he led a normal, trauma-free life. “I guess my most disturbing experience was… the day my father died.”
“No, no, we’re not going to discuss that,” Dr. Holland said. “I never like to speak of death. It’s a bad omen.” He retrieved a small gong from the drawer and hit it with his pen. “Ohmmm.”
Mr. Carole was bemused, but open to discussing something else. “Alright…”
“Mr. Carole, visualize a disturbing memory and describe it to me with as much detail as you can,” Dr. Holland instructed.
“In high school, I asked four girls to the senior prom, and all four said ‘no’.”
“No, something else.”
“Ok, the only thing more disturbing than that was about 20 years ago, the day I found out my father used to be an underwear model for Calvin Klein. My sister and I were cleaning out the attic as part of our punishment for forgetting to clean out the attic, and we found an old cardboard box filled with photos and magazine clippings of some guy’s butt. We assumed it was our mom’s because underneath all the photos, we found several historical romance novels. My sister made gagging noises because they all had Fabio on the cover and she didn’t like men with long hair. I followed my sister down to the kitchen where my parents were making dinner, spaghetti and meatballs. My sister angrily confronted my mom as to why she was hoarding a box of butts when she was a happily married woman. Mom started giggling and smacked my father’s butt, which caused him to drop his stirring spoon into the spaghetti sauce. Christmas and I were both confused.”