High school gym class in Texas is no place for the gangly homosexual. Oops. Spoiler Alert! We took one semester our freshman year, which… did not go well. Luckily it was the fall semester, which is hurricane season, and we had a lot of bad storms that left us doing homework in the cafeteria. Now that’s our kind of gym.
Among other indignities, we were forced to play touch football, our coach once told us that we should starting working out and build up our muscles while building up our self esteem (ectomorphs have no place in Texas), our gym locker was broken into and our shoes were so cheap they weren’t even stolen, and then there was the car magazine. You know those sleazy mags where women in tiny bikinis lounge on hard steel as if it’s a feather bed? We would be sitting quietly, keeping to ourselves with a copy of Sinclair Lewis’ Main Street, and our classmates would circle round.
“Would you fuck her?” they’d ask.
“Sure!” we’d reply, our mind on why Carrie was sticking around that awful town.
“What if she had herpes?”
“Then probably not, no.”
“That’s good. Would you titty fuck her instead?”
“Hm. I think so.”
“That’s my man!”
Can you blame us for earning our remaining gym credits via correspondence? (Yes, that is an actual thing one can do.)