The Day I Said Goodbye to the Button Fly
I’m going green. This ribald tale was originally published in May 2010.
Prior to the arrival of the zipper in 1917, the button was the primary method of fastening. Once on the scene, clothes makers quickly adopted this new-fangled technology and pants as we know them came into existence despite concerns about the proximity of clasping metal teeth to the wedding tackle. Marketing departments, however, are always looking for new angles, which often involves looking to old angles. It was in this spirit that Levi’s 501s originated and proliferated.
Personally, my dislike of going commando and my ability to pay attention as I zip up has kept me devoted to the zipper. It’s quicker and tends to lay flat when closed whereas button flys do not. But I place fit above fastening. This preference has landed me in button flys on more than one occasion. Most such occassions were unremarkable. One high school occassion was not.
Baggy pants were on the rise when I was in high school. I was not a fan of baggy pants. Living in a shithole, though, meant that local merchants specialized in baggy pants. Apparently, shoplifting counts as units moved. Otherwise I don’t think the shelves would have featured as many sagging britches as they featured. Determined to not bust a sag or have pant legs so large I could smuggle smaller farm animals, I found a pair of pants in my price range that fit well and were neither baggy nor saggy. Alas, the particular style was fitted with a button fly. Though nonplussed, I nevertheless became a button fly guy.
For the most part, this was not a major concern. Button flys didn’t change my life in any discernible way; they just added a minor annoyance factor to dressing in the morning. That all changed when I got an SUV and a girl started touching my penis.
Fathers, if you’re going to buy your sons vehicles, buy them SUVs. Back seats that can fold down, when coupled with an out of the way undeveloped cul de sac or ignored dead end road, provide a delightful romper room for high schoolers. I lost my virginity in my SUV. I spent countless hours doing the deed in the same SUV. I traveled with a kit – blanket, towel, and protection – in a backpack in that SUV. It was my mobile Lovenasium and it saw lots of floor routines.
Girls, though, are not as charmed by the mobile Lovenasium. As such, they will always clamor for the simple pleasures of a proper bed, what with its pillows, comforter, mattress, and the like. Additionally, the SUV is somewhat limiting in that the utility aspect, at least as it pertains to lovin’, is only useful after dark. When in high school, after dark is often itself limited to weekends. For me, that meant the school week was an obstacle.
Hormones are powerful buggers, though. Creativity was king and parents couldn’t be everywhere all the time, particularly when one only needed 5 minutes, including foreplay. Audacity reigned supreme and the bedroom became a viable substitute.
Mostly we explored her bedroom. She was from a strong Catholic family. That meant lots of kids and the ensuing parental distraction. There was only so much attention that could be paid to her, especially since there were siblings who couldn’t feed themselves.
Side note – if you are young and have the opportunity, as Ferris Bueller did with the Ferrari, spend time with a rebellious girl from a very religious family. She will be fast and the handling will be tight. Her pent up energy will augment the normal teenage hormonal drive and you will become the most experienced dude, variety-wise, in high school. Nothing will be off limits because she will suggest everything, which brings me back to the art of pants fastening.
Once, while the sun was out, I was enjoying the bedroom and a handjob. My door was locked. My mom was home. Mid-stroke, Mom knocked on the door. Distracted and turgid, I raced to get my member back inside and my pants fastened. I could not get my fly buttoned to save my life. I bumbled for a seeming eternity before I stumbled to the door and unlocked it. “What are you doing in here?”
In the following minutes, despite what I remember as unflappable calm in dealing with the situation, I was quickly forbade from closing my door while accompanied by a lady.
Mom continued saying some things. She gave me a stern scowl.
In the moments that followed, I decided to forever forsake the evil which had cost me precious seconds and ultimately caused the imposition of an open-door policy – the button fly. Surely you didn’t expect a high school boy to forsake handjobs, did you?
Honestly, I haven’t always adhered to that ban. Once I moved out and the time between the knock on the door and the answering of the door became a non-factor, I lost interest in the time required to fasten my fly. At the time, as I was a randy and reckless teenager, I did not abide by the closed door ban any more than I’ve since abided by the button fly ban. I did adhere to one self-imposed ban, though. I never again fooled around with my girl when mom was home. I would never again fumble with my pants as Mom furiously tried to get the door opened.
She wasn’t home all the time, though. Once, when girl and I found my house unoccupied, we again retired to my bedroom. Being in high school and not having had an orgasm in at least 24 hours, I was not to be deterred. Being a repressed Catholic girl, her hands were to be tied to my head board. 30 minutes later, it was a mature day, I was satiated and I emerged from my room.
When I came bouncing out I was singing or humming or otherwise vocalizing my extreme pleasure with myself. Then I saw him. He was sitting at the kitchen table and, judging by the snacks and newspaper spread before him, had not just arrived. “Dad, how long have you been home?” “A while.”
He didn’t say anything else. He just gave me a sly smile.