For some reason, this takes us back in memory to Gulf Shores Choral Camp in 1980, a one-week post-school affair in which a crowd of junior-high-school music lovers with breaking voices and breaking-out faces gathered at a community college in Gulfport, Mississippi, for a six-day session of warbling and juvenile flirtation. We were roommates with (among several others) a budding ladies-man named Jason whose constant topic was his always-imminent acquistion of carnal knowledge beyond the ken of us lesser seventh-graders. His gelled hair, his carefully upturned Izod shirt collar, and most of all his constant application of Chaps by Ralph Lauren (which the rest of us concurred smelled like "pig sweat") testified to the seriousness with which he took the task of sexual conquest.

On the last night of camp, after the performance for parents and a predictably horrible dance, two of the most beautiful girls in the camp arrived at our door. Jason was out on the prowl; they requested leave to ruin his bedding with shampoo and shaving cream, which they had amassed in quantity. Jason returned to the ambiguous message of a soaking mattress; something between a rejection and an acknowledgement that he was worthy of attention. His pride was hurt, and he spent an uncomfortable night on the floor, but such are the sacrifices attendant upon the claim of manhood.