Sunday April 17, 1949, 7p
I remember the first thing that came to my mind after my first orgasm. E. and I were up in the top, that is, the attic of the garage. He had long since begun to have them. I had no idea that it would come, but all of a sudden it did. I recognized it. I had felt the same before, long before when I was about six years old. I was at the top of the steps on the landing of the second floor of out house; I was squatting, thinking. I was puzzled, couldn’t make it out, got up and walked away. Mother was there; she asked me what it was and to help me answer, pointed to my crotch, asking if it was there.
A perfect example of the kind of mind in E., that is adored at by women in men, and is so typical of such men as they are growing. In one of our little episodes in the beginning of them, when they were not sexual but occupational, to be exact, we were playing strip poker (not really poker) with cards, in bed beneath the covers with a flashlight, the winner not only got the other’s clothes but was also the ‘master,’ the loser the slave. Whenever he was the slave he used in accompaniment to his fondlings the word “Bwana” instead of the word “master.” It impressed me; I didn’t ask what it meant so as not to show my ignorance. I was privately envious of his mysterious knowledge. And thrilled at him all the more. Such things in him always [made] me wonder why I never came across things like that, that other people didn’t know of, that only I did, at least, that is, of my friends. Not many days later I was reading an issue of the Walt Disney’s Comics over in his house and in one of the stories a devoted inferior called the hero of the story “Bwana.” My discovery lowered the honorability of E.’s knowledge, but my hero-worship admiration never dissipated for he was full of other such bits that gave him a manner of superiority to him, if only in the eyes of the other person who felt unequal next to him.