Ever since we were in junior high, boys and girls went to separate gym classes. Our rough and tumble gym class took on the character of a boy’s club, complete with more open profanity than before. In high school, we now had gym uniforms, shorts and a tee shirt, emblazoned with a Bison, the school mascot. We also had lockers and took showers before changing back into our street clothes for the next class.

I was in Mr. Richard Camp’s Gym class. For a few weeks he taught us Health, which was a euphemism for Sex Ed. It was in a classroom; we didn’t have to change into gym shorts or shower afterwards.

Coach Camp was muscular and trim, a man’s man. He relished telling us tales of his glory days, serving in the Marines in Korea and Japan.

“We hung chains under our chopper and flew low over the tall grass, flushing out whole flocks of pheasants. As they flew up we machine-gunned them. It was excellent gunnery practice for the guys. You can bet we had a great time over there.”

How, I wondered, could he brag about massacring birds. It sounded so selfish; they didn’t gather them to eat. He rambled on.

“Older Korean men wore these hats; resembling Abe Lincoln’s only smaller. As we flew up on an unsuspecting fellow, the guys took bets on who could make the shot.” Camp’s audience of fourteen year old boys was rapt, eager to hear what came next. “A single, lucky shot took off the old man’s hat. The fellow looked around a moment, wondering where the hell his hat went, before scampering away. We had a good laugh over that. God, I miss the fun we had in Korea.”

Mr. Camp was just warming us up. I couldn’t imagine any of my other teachers in escapades like these. He finally got to the sex part of class. Briefly, he went over the bare bones, mapping the body parts and changes in the male and female bodies that we were all experiencing to one degree or another. It was academic and I’d heard it all before from my mother. When he got to the meat of the matter my ears picked up.

“Now you boys have to be careful not to get a girl pregnant. There are plenty of things you can do to get your fun, without shooting off in her pussy. We’ll call it a vagina here!”

Embarrassed laughter rippled through the room.

“Wear a rubber, a condom, for god sakes. You may think you’re in love, but you boys don’t want to be saddled with a squalling kid just yet.”

The class answered with a resounding “No!” it was expected of us.

“If your girlfriend keeps putting you off, won’t let you make it to third base, then, all of a sudden one day, she’s hot to trot, begging you for it. Stop right there and run!”

He paused for dramatic effect, looking around the room, especially at his favorite students, his star athletes on the football team. We were all hanging on his every word.

“Why stop, you may ask. Because that’s the worst time!  Your girl is ovulating. She’s in heat, her body is telling her she needs to get pregnant-now. So you stick it anywhere but in her vagina. Got me?”

Coach Camp was no prude.  He knew guys needed to get laid; they only had to be careful about it. His stories kept coming, personalizing and illustrating the subject. He knew he was making our mouths water.

“It’s a damn shame that prostitution is illegal in this country, because that could save you boys a lot of trouble and grief. It’s legal in some countries, like Japan, where I had the best sex of my life. We spent our leaves in the Red Light district when I was stationed there. The Mama-san was my best friend; we’d bring her booze and chocolates and party away our whole time off base.”

Camp told one wild story with particular relish.

“We had a buddy in my unit with the biggest dick I ever saw on a white man. He was a simple minded hillbilly and didn’t go in for foreplay. He just rammed it into the poor girl like there was no tomorrow. The girls were not happy with him, so Mama-san and I decided we’d teach him a valuable lesson. I asked her to find the tightest girl in the district. She found one as tight as a virgin and we all chipped in, paid her extra, so we’d pull a surprise birthday party on ‘ol Big Dick.

“The walls in Japan are made of paper. We had his lovely present waiting for him, spread-eagled out on the futon, while the Mama-san waited with the rest of her girls and us on the other side of the paper wall. We had all we could do to keep from laughing out loud as Big Dick came in, yanked off his pants with the biggest hard-on you ever saw. From the far end of the room he charged at the girl, like a raging bull, but when he plowed into her he let out the biggest scream I ever heard.

“We punched through the paper wall—surprise! He was doubled over, screaming in pain. There was blood everywhere, but it wasn’t from the girl. She wasn’t exactly laughing, no, but she was in on it. He’d split his cock wide open trying to ram it into her. We all had a good laugh at that dumb hillbilly, but took him a week to laugh with us. We’d brought along our medic and drunk as he was, he got into the spirit of our prank. It took all the bandages he had with him to wrap Big Dick’s cock until it was as big as a cantaloupe. We couldn’t zipper his pants, had to leave that monster sticking out, for the entire world to see.

“You can imagine what he looked like next morning at roll call, standing there with this huge white turban sticking out of his pants.” Coach Camp slapped his thigh and the whole room cracked up.

Coach Camp was like a character from one of my books. I both loved and hated him; he was never boring. His bragging about massacring birds, or shooting the hats off Korean men, disgusted me, but I was thrilled by his whorehouse tales. I’d decided that’s where I belonged, in a joyful, rollicking whorehouse, exactly like he described.

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