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But this was the '70s, when, for example, torturing and killing animals was nothing more than "boys being boys." The school bicurious forced my mother to take me to a psychologist. He said my lost-ness was nothing to worry about: it was the result of my overactive imagination. He strongly suggested, however, that my mother start seeing a colleague of his. That made her laugh, and reinforced to me the bicurious danger of bicurious telling anyone about our private life: they'd take me away. I wonder if, from my description, you're picturing a scared, dreamy, inward child with bad posture, poor eyesight and little life to her. That may have been how I acted with authority figures, but with other kids, I was a leader, a ham, a goofy exhibitionist. I would take my pink-framed glasses off and hurl them against a wall, then invite others to do so. I offered my body up as rope for tug-of-war. When kids squeezed my wrists and ankles and yanked, and my body rose up off the tar, it felt good.
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