Every kindergarten boy stares with awe and wonder up his teacher's dress. We all felt those little spiders inside of us when, at the public swimming pool, we caught a glimpse of some wild, rag-tag pubic hairs sneaking out to say "hello" from mother's crotch. But what is it that turns a man, a grown, and, by some appearances "normal" man into the kind of guy who, when seeing a ninetysomething Hadassah queen buying canned macaroni at Ralph's, stares, trance-like, at her heavy, water-logged, pendulous breasts and thinks, "That must've been one amazing handful back when Jolson was king."? This journey will not pretend to answer such weighty and important questions. Let Al Sharpton and a lice infested baboon wrestle with those! This is merely an excursion into pathetic and degrading self-examination; a humiliating parade of fetid rants and fixations. Hop on.

I had been a practicing lech in my early teen years -- well before I fully realized my lecherous destiny. Springtime arrived and puberty reared it's horrible, ugly head upon my malnourished being. Walking easr, I passed the then-chic, now defunct Fiorucci clothing store. With a quarter-hour or so to kill before the start of my movie, I felt myself lured into the store. Maybe it was the poster of that hot bitch sipping a malt at a coffee shop counter. Maybe it was the seductive bass beat of the Village People music that drifted out from the shop. "Y-M,C A, it's fun to stay at the Y-M,C A-a," the music conjured up images of writhing bodies at Studio 54, hot mamas so coked up they don't know if that's a dick up their ass or if they have to take a wicked shit. I went inside the store to look around,

Seventy-five dollars for a pair of jeans?! (Remember, this was 1978 or so.) Fuck that. I turned my attention to the swim shorts, as I was actually in need of a pair. They had this swell piece of work that zippered up the groin and had a thick, elastic, jockstrap-like waist band. Sewn into the suit was genuine athletic support cup. (Only years later did I realize that I paid fifty-nine dollars for an actual jockstrap with some extra material sewn on to the front.) If this ditty didn't get the girls to look at me "downward", I might as well just cut off my shlong and wear it around my neck.

I approached the fitting rooms to try on this gizmo, and there it began. Coming out of a booth was this amazing fourteen, maybe fifteen year old Dalton type -- but stacked. And she was wearing the skimpiest piece of material on the periodic table. She stood in front of the mirror and checked herself out. She liked what she saw, and why shouldn't she? I ducked behind the spandex tank tops and continued my gaze. Good lord, she was joined by -- her mother! A mid forties borderline menopause, and mad about it, too. She looked at her daughter. What could this woman have been thinking? How did I wind up with such a little slut for a daughter? Or, why didn't God grant me tits like that? Mother watching daughter watching herself. I was in heaven. I missed my movie and the dressing rooms at Fiorucci became my second home.

I loitered away my youth watching dumb-girl wannabees squeeze themselves into S&M bikinis and leather zip-lock mini skirts. I felt lower than a slug in rat shit. I had no friends. Any actual contact with a woman gave me violent, sudden diarrhea and this continues to this day. I hated what I had become. But, in time, I managed to accept it.

I got to know all the trash ladies shops like the back of my hand. Trash and Vaudeville for the rocker chics, Betsy Johnson for the weekend tramps, and Victoria's Secret for a classier type of slut. The more and more my obsessions grew, the less I could stomach actual sexuality. I remember going to see the movie "Trading Places," looking for a simple and refreshing comedy. But Jamie Lee Curtis removed her shirt and a stomach-full blend of Whoppers and french fries sprayed across the screen in a Pollock-like pattern. No hope. No damn hope. Back to the frozen yogurt store to watch portly girls on diets lick the jimmies off of melting cones.

Next: The College Years: Hanging Around The Campus Health Service, watching women emerge from the bathroom holding cups of their own urine.