Late Bloomer

When I was 13, I stood on the puberty platform with all of the other boys in my grade, but somehow the train left without me on it. I remember the excitement when, at the end of eighth grade; I discovered my first two armpit hairs in my right pit. I named one Larry, and the other Mo, little did I know, Curly would be late to arrive and reluctant to live up to his name. My mom acted impressed when I showed my harbinger of masculinity and agreed to mark my height on the wall so we could track my journey into manhood. That year, puberty stormed every boys’ radar and having a cracking voice, or a better still, a deep voice made one the envy of all. Testosterone could only explain some of the behavior I observed in the boys of my grade. Although I was unaffected, my friends started complaining of swollen and tender nipples, aptly named “rock-tit.” I was perplexed that the emergence of rock-tit coincided with the growing popularity of the purple-nurple.
Of all the places in the school, the locker room was the worst. The prison-style showers were cruel because, let’s face it, I was packing a water pistol to their Super Soakers. Not only was it a place where hiding developmental shortcomings was difficult, but an unsupervised asshole is the worst sort of asshole. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone more than the unsupervised Tommy Colebrook. Whenever I had to go full-nude to change for swimming, I waited until everyone around me seemed distracted, I faced the wall and did my best to minimize my exposure time. When I was at my most vulnerable, not only did the prick shout at the top of his lungs “MICKEY SHIT HIS! MICKEY SHIT HIS PANTS!,” but he also grabbed my shoulder and spun me around to face the eyes of my peers. But their eyes were looking for shit, which is rarely found above the waist.
The summer between 8th and 9th grade passed and still my height remained unchanged. I didn’t quite weigh 103 pounds, but my dad suggested I go out for the wrestling team because it might help me socially. I had always believed that a unitard was both the stupidest sounding and stupidest looking sport’s outfit in existence. This all changed when my coach had me put on the school's only extra-small singlet. They expected me to do something manly while wearing that? It only took one wrestling match for me to learn that this sport wasn’t for me. I recall facing this dwarf-looking guy who was shorter than me, but had arms like a lumberjack while the ref briefed us on the rules. In less than a minute he achondro-plastered me. At one point, my neck was twisted like the Exorcist girl in such a way that my face was jammed directly in his crotch. I count myself fortunate that he didn’t get too excited about beating up a little guy like me, because if he had, I was liable to lose an eye. I quit that afternoon.
My stint in the drama club was equally short-lived following our production of Grease. I know that I’m no Danny Zucko, but I hit my breaking point when I was asked to not only sing the girls’ part during the “tell me more” song, but I was criticized for moving my mouth too much while I did it.
I’m sixteen now and things are starting to improve. When my personal hygiene is especially bad, I get acne, which I think is a good sign. I’m still tiny but I’m starting to accept my lot in life. I went to my first party recently and tried to smooth talk my first girl. I think that she could’ve used a nicer tone of voice when she asked me where the Dateline camera crew was. I told her that if her brain were half the size of her tits, she’d know that “To Catch A Predator” used hidden cameras. She laughed and tussled my hair. It was less than ideal, but I also think that was a good sign. I still find myself wishing that puberty would pay me a visit, but most of the time I’m in no hurry. What can I say? I guess that I’m just a late-bloomer.