Eighth grade: My public middle school had a pool, and that pool doubled as a nuclear fall-out shelter. Maybe that sign was just a relic from a more troubled era? In any case, the sign remained. On days when you had mandatory swim class, you had to strip down in front of your peers, which was its own special trauma. Then you would shiver in a long line, and eventually, your turn would come, and you would race against classmates. Lengths, lengths of the pool. When you were inevitably last, by a wide a margin, your failure would be on display; it would be something visible to all. “My brother met this girl,” said my classmate, K, as we waited for our relay turn, “and she said she gives blow jobs.” She gives blow jobs-- like cool drinks at a lemonade stand! K’s brother had arranged to meet the girl after school-- this week! --to obtain his blow job. I didn’t really know what a blow job was, but the story seemed unbearably exciting, and then of course there wasn’t anything like follow-u...