The footsteps grew louder. Far too loud for our comfort level. Things had begun to get pretty hot and heavy but, suddenly, we were scrambling. Faster than Larry Craig to get his weenie back into his pants, we were too. All of our little, pale, shrunken-up junior high age weenies. We had started out the Friday night by spending the night at our friend Scott's house. His father was a retired Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force. On the golf course. In the very nice section of town where I did not live. Plus, a leader in our church that we all attended -- and good friends of my parents. This wasn't going to be pretty if we were caught. Our other friend, Bill, and I were there. We were going to watch movies and have pizza inside and then all of us were going to sleep out in their camper trailer parked in the driveway in front of their house. They took it camping every summer at Redfish Lake near Stanley, Idaho (which is where I'd had my first same-sex experience with this same friend, Scott). So, we ended up in the trailer late at night, in the dark, each of us in our own sleeping bags in different locations in the trailer. And you know how the conversation went...in the dark, pretending to try and be asleep but oh so excited to be having a sleepover. And even more excited to know that there was more than just our own little privates to play with! I remember laying there awake, staring into the blackness, and wondering what the other two were doing. Now, remember, Scott and I had already fooled around. And I'd slept in the same bed as Bill once at his house -- my god, I didn't sleep a wink that entire night. So, this night, in the 21-foot trailer, the tape measure made its way out of the tool box. Along with an old plastic EverReady flashlight. And that led to us measuring our dicks. Just to see who, exactly, was the longest. Funny thing is that I don't remember the measurements at all (but I'm just positive sure that I was the largest). And that's when the footsteps came in. Louder and louder. The flashlight off, the tape measure hidden in the bottom of a sleeping bag, and each of our hearts racing violently as we bolted back to our allotted positions. A knock at the door: "Boys?" We were silent. "Is everything alright in there?" The door opened and Scott's father came in. "What's going on in here, anyway? Why don't you all come into the house for a minute," he suggested (well, it was more of an order coming from the military mouth of the lieutenant colonel). So, we padded along the sidewalk in our jammies and into the kitchen. His mom and dad were both there. And we had the "I know you're teenagers and that trying new things is what you were doing and you shouldn't be because Jesus said not to and don't ever do it again" speech. The rest of the night was quiet. We never spoke to each other of it again. Scott continued being my church-going-bed-partner-on-the-weekends-and-in-the-backseat friend up until our senior year in high school. When he returned my high school graduation gift back to me in the mail. "No thanks," was the message. And we haven't spoken since....even though I used to see him in the Fruitloop in Julia Davis Park in Boise cruising, like I was, for men. As for very handsome Bill....I'm not sure. So, to all of your tape measuring mongers out there, I caution you....be sure the door is locked and bolted. Tight.