Page 30 - Finding Tulsa - Preview

22 Jim Provenzano

hard-on just by watching the weekly joke commercial about kielbasa, the
Polish sausage my mother only cooked, thankfully, on holidays.
The commercial featured a tight pan shot of Big Chuck’s waist. He
sported denim jeans and a holster, but instead of a gun, he had a long,
pendulous link of kielbasa in it. As he walked, the thick sausage flopped
against his hip. Usually I’d settle for jacking off to that image, imagining
the meat to be Big Chuck’s. I’d then force myself to watch the rest of the
show, drowsing on the sofa huddled under a blanket, usually falling asleep
for the night.
The show always ended with Big Chuck and Hoolihan standing
around, sound off, while the audio guy played Peggy Lee’s “Is That All
There Is?” It was years before I even heard the song in its entirety, since
the version they played always slowed to a halt, recorded to the sound of
the turntable winding down, Peggy Lee’s voice thickening to molasses.
It became a theme—no exposures, no flesh flash, another dumb movie,
another Saturday night with me alone in a clammy basement, perpetually
waiting for a moving image of manhood.
One night, though, I felt a sense of anticipation and held off, even
through the swinging sausage bit. The movie that night was Creature from
the Black Lagoon, and I’d successfully delayed my teen orgasm through
every one of the men’s underwater and shirtless scenes.
I had initiated that basement so many times while watching Wild
Wild West episodes, Space 1999, even an occasional Beverly Hillbillies
scene with Jethro, I lost track of the stains, the times I knelt down and
fingered my seed into evaporating patterns on the dusty cement floor. I
had a private cum-shooting contest alongside the full length Mark Spitz
poster with him wearing only Speedos and seven medals, hung on the
wall. Twice I struck gold.
One afternoon, my brother Dan came down the stairs and caught me
with a carrot.
“What are you doing?” he cried.
Well, if he didn’t know, I wasn’t about to explain it to him. Instead, I
threw it at him. A bit of shit splatted against the paneling. He ran up the
stairs, screaming. I quickly pulled my clothes on, grabbed the carrot, hid
it deep in a garbage can, and raced up the stairs and out the garage door,
where I continued running into the woods, a vast expanse of sub-subur-
ban, not quite rural acreage, still undeveloped by rows of tract homes.
I didn’t come home until well after nightfall. Dinner was dry but
warm, a single plateful in the oven. There must have been a brief talk,
“a little chat,” as Mom called them, but I don’t remember what was said,