Pygmalion '68



By M.U.

7:45 in the morning, September 9, 1968.

I walk in the front door of my high school on the first day of the new semester. I always like the first day. Clean notebook, blank paper, new pens and pencils. I'm wearing the new clothes Dad and I got me for school; the old ones were looking too tight on me. My shirt is a loose polo-style shirt, the kind with the elastic short sleeves that gather at the bicep. It makes my arms look good without being an obvious showoff, and tucked into my flared pants it suggests my V-shaped torso without outlining it. I'm walking with my shoulders back and my arms slightly out from my body, my lats spread just a bit -- the walk of an athlete. I look for my friends.

The first person I see that I know is Mike Cantor. He used to be in several of the 'better' classes with me in junior high, but I haven't seen as much of him in the last couple of years; he hangs out more with the 'leadership' types nowadays. He was student body president in junior high. I've always thought him good-looking, muscular, and athletic. He waves and comes up to me. "Hey, Wesson!" he says, "looks like you got a lot of sun this summer." He looks me up and down. "Working out too?"

I nod. "Yeah, I did some weightlifting with friends this summer. Does it show?"

"Oh yeah, you're looking great. Make a muscle!" I flex my arm, and he puts his hand over the solid peak -- certainly not as big as the football jocks Mike knows, but hard and rounded. "Wow, you really changed over the summer. You look great!" I guess he realizes that didn't quite come out as a compliment, because he blushes. "I mean, not that you looked bad before or anything, but..."

"I know what you mean. Thanks." I glance at his crotch. I'll be damned. Live and learn. Down the hall, I see Barry. He is wearing a tight white cotton T-shirt, bluejeans and his headband. I see him flex one arm for a girl with breasts large enough that even I notice. She seems appreciative of Barry's new look. Barry and I exchange a thumbs-up gesture down the hall.

"Y'know," I tell Cantor, "maybe you'd like to lift with me and my friends some weekend. I'm sure you'd be welcome."

"That sounds groovy," Mike says. Wow. I'd forgotten that he really talks like that.

"Groovy," I agree. "Guess maybe we'll be seeing more of each other this year."

It's going to be a good '69. •

This collection was originally created as a compressed archive for personal offline viewing
and is not intended to be hosted online or presented in any commercial context.

Any webmaster choosing to host or mirror this archive online
does so at their sole discretion.

Archive Version 070326