He was just too much. Over the top, preposterous, a hulking cliché.
His chest was from a mutant, his arms bursting at the seams (almost)—same with his legs—it was obscene. His face was mister Neanderthal, and then that hair! Oh man, that blonde shoulder length helmet bob did not date well!
He was derivative, cardboard, pointless, and boring—everything I learned to roll my eyes at, but there he was, He-Man, my first crush, in all his irrelevance.
It was my naivety maybe—how would I know at the age of eight about the finer points of good fucking? I wasn’t adept at cruising the field and had no knowledge of handsome men. I certainly had no sentimental education, no concept of fatal attraction and its broken promises. But otherwise, my crush wasn’t so bad after all.
He-Man: his peers liked him, and he looked out for the little guy even though his fashion was appalling—that absurd bulging loin cloth—what was he thinking? He had an impressive sword though, rode a battle cat, and sported a hearty, infectious laugh. He was hard and strong and gentle and generous in all the right places, and he was always there when somebody needed him. Summing up over the trash I’d been with since—he really stands out as an erotic beacon.
Thinking about my childhood sexuality—cravings I had no way of coming to grips with—I shouldn’t think that my attachment to a plastic figurine was wrong. I had to start somewhere, so why not with a childhood hero? Besides, no one else was around to guide me through the formative years of puberty; I had to fend for myself.
I remember sitting on the floor of my room, engrossed in some elaborate battle of the ages as Skeletor once again tried to use his evil ways to overthrow the might of good and justice, when in the midst of an epic sword fight Skeletor used a devious underhanded trick (like he always did), and managed to ensnare He-Man for good—leaving him paralyzed and helpless and miserable.
Skeletor then snatched He-Man away and whisked him to his lair at Snake Mountain to torture him in the most evil ways (like he always did). But this time, with He-Man locked up in the dungeon, Skeletor did something unexpected: he removed He-Man’s battle armor—thus leaving his big bulging bare chest naked and heaving—and then He-Man reciprocated by removing Skeletor’s battle armor, and with the latter’s bare muscled blue chest inching closer to He-Man’s—this probably would have gone further only that we were thwarted by the effects of general relativity and parental guidance in that He-Man toys did not come with the option to take off their bulging loin cloths to expose the large cocks that the plastic molded crotches teased me with—yet I was unperturbed, they could still fuck even if I couldn’t take off their undies.
So I made He-Man grinding into Skeletor’s pelvis, not really knowing why they would want to do this, and then Skeletor moved to take He-Man from behind which was very pleasing for both parties. How I knew that He-Man wanted it from behind had probably more to do with the slander that everybody heard at school, that filthy bum boys like it from behind.
While I was making them fuck, a curious thing happened inside my shorts: I got an erection. More specifically, my penis had grown to such a hardened state that it lay pressed against my thigh. I didn’t understand why my penis did that, but I sensed that there was fun involved and desire and pleasure and lust and more of these things.
Never mind the silly ignorance of my He-Man-doll-fuck-play, there was something worthwhile there—innocence. I wasn’t yet aware of the general disdain/disgust re copulation, or of the fact that I was doing something “dirty”. I still had to learn about the so-so reality of adult sex—something that turned out to be quite different from my childish fantasies.
He-Man wasn’t much of a lover; he was fairly pathetic, in fact, but the wonders of my first love still hold a special kind of intimacy for me, an ease of attraction unmarred by complications—me as a boy with a crush on a plastic hero. Through He-Man, I discovered my love of real, sweating, pungent, disgusting men.
S.G.Haynes resides in Melbourne, Australia. He spends far too much time reading and isn’t at all embarrassed about his childhood He-Man sexual fantasies (well only slightly…)