You're supposed to discover girls when you're around 12 or 13, at least if it is girls that you're going to discover (I don't know the timetable for sodomites. I imagine that it's similar.) I guess I did, in my own way. I started to get erections and notice that the girls were starting to grow breasts and the like and that I did not object to this. I rented movies that had naked women in them and rewound back to those points several times, sometimes even jotting down where on the VCR counter the naked breasts occurred so that I could finish the film and rewind to the earlier part with the boobs, or even better bush. I loved female pubic hair, and to this day a photograph in playboy with a girl whose pubes had been shaved into a downward pointing arrow remains seared into my brain as surely as if it had been put there by a red hot branding iron.
So I discovered girls and then I sort of retreated from that other thing and focused on other pursuits like eating too much and being a pain in the ass. The thing is, as much as I loved pictures of women and films and eventually pornography, I never really looked at girls, at least not in a sexual way. Oh sure, I knew what girls I was attracted to but I would avoid not only eye-contact but any sort of looking (Unless there was a "can't look away" situation like a sliver of panty showing.) There are a bunch of reasons for this, ranging from belief that it was disrespectful to ogle someone who hadn't been paid for the gift to self-esteem problems that ran very deep and wide.
But now the blinders are off, and my eyes are being drawn hither and thither like someone had replaced them with superballs in my sockets. Have you ever tried to check out a girl's backside and two girls racks at the same time without staring at any of them in an obvious manner and avoiding walking into old people and/or cars all at the same time? It ain't easy. When I'm in the park there are the jogging-shorts clad bottoms of young women trying to stay trim, the thin material draped loosely over their posteriors, revealing a story of size and shape as it adjusts ever so slightly with each step. Then there are the girls who don't wear sports-bras, a class of women who bounce and chug as they jog or run and who I like to think of as America's greatest heroes.
It's not just the exercisers, of course. If it was them I could deal with it. Travel through the subway where nobody would dare exercise for fear of breathing in even more of that fetid air than is absolutely necessary. Take to the streets only by night, when the joggers tend to cluster in the parks for fear of being hit by a driver who might not see their day-glo shorts. There are ways of avoiding certain classes of people, and surely if I employed a few of these methods I could evade flouncing shorts and bouncing bosoms. It's all girls, though, like I said. It's the ones in high heeled sandals and tight jeans, their asses high and molded carefully by the clothing combination. The ones in loose blouses, the breeze occasionally peeling back flaps of cloth to offer a tantalizing glimpse at secondary sex characteristics. The girls sitting at restaurant tables and chatting or walking together in pairs possibly being lesbians. It's over stimulation and it's difficult to deal with. The students are returning to the neighborhood and every day and night there's a symphony of female flesh out there on the streets. I step out of the house and in to the middle of a maelstrom.
My mind starts to wander at these times. Yesterday I was out for a nice walk and started to have a sexual fantasy involving multiple partners of various shapes and sizes. Unfortunately the whole thing collapsed due to legal problems stemming from novel child custody arrangements. I ended up as a single father of a few children by different women, all of whom I loved but over whom I felt profound guilt because I couldn't be there full time. I've stated before that I wish that my sexual fantasies were "normal" just a bunch of flesh writhing in a mound of carnal pleasure.
I don't have the mental space for this crap right now. I'm 22, I should be past this already. I have school to apply to and a job now and my own writing and work to do. Who wants hormones racing and constant awareness of all the women who swirl around, spreading pheromones and distracting me from the task at hand with alarming effectiveness. Then there's the fact that I keep getting erections, erections that rub against the looser crotch of my once-tight pants and give that peculiar sort of discomfort that can only be produced by the non-erotic stimulation of a blood-engorged penis. The little guy doesn't understand that just because he sees flouncing buttocks and my mind can produce a reasonable facsimile of what they would look like were they not covered in skirt, it doesn't mean he's going to get at them. I try and tell him "Ask not for whom the breast flesh bounces, it's not for thee" but he's not a good listener. He may have a head, but apparently, no ears. It's a very troubling situation.