Strip Poker

Nine-year-old boys have their secrets. One of ours was created in a large dog-house behind the big house on the corner. The house had elderly tenants as boarders, but in the summertime Bobby would come and spend a few weeks with his grandparents. Bobby was a few years older, and from south Minneapolis (far more urban than our rustic neighborhood on the outskirts of town.) Along with the Jensen brothers, who lived next door, we would use this large (6'x8') box-like structure for our card-playing. I'm not certain who suggested strip poker (probably the worldly Bobby}, but it was agreed that this would be a lively diversion from Hearts or Old Maid. For some unknown reason, I was lucky that day. (Not "got lucky", mind you- after all we were only preteens!) I ended up with my shirt off, while the others were stark naked. I didn't dwell on their condition (PREPUBESCENT SCROTA!) and I soon realized that we had gone too far. I left in a hurry.

When I got home, my mother noticed that my t-shirt was inside-out. When queried about this abnormal condition, I blithely replied: "I was hot." She didn't say anything, but she knew that I had been up to no good. I never played strip poker again.

With boys.