I was, I think, about twelve years old. There was a theatre near me that was playing classic movies, and my folks decided I was old enough to go. So I trundled on down to the Lowe's on 84th street and basked in the glory of the place.

It's changed since, but not much. The rugs were amazing whorls of color and life to me then. The sparkling lights and well polished handrails made me feel like I was in some old Hollywood art house. Looking back with a more critical eye, I see the shabby place for what it was: a semi-run down theatre that tried anything it could to make a buck. And god bless it.

I grabbed some popcorn and strolled in what I thought was a very mature way up to the designated theatre. Frankenstein was playing, the 1931 version with Boris Karloff as "the Monster" and Colin Clive as Doctor Frankenstein. I had seen it before, of course. I think on some level all Americans are infused with Boris Karloff's career from birth, but never had I witnessed the spectacle of the piece on a big screen.

I settled down in the middle of the theatre and glanced around. The place was mostly empty, and the other people who were there were aging citizens who remembered seeing the film the first time and old movie buffs who ranged in age all along the scale.

I was, unsurprisingly, the youngest person there.

The movie started, and I was engrossed from the word go. Nothing existed for me except the screen, the actors, the images, and the moment. I was so deeply involved in the film that I think if someone had set my leg on fire I wouldn't have noticed until my popcorn was burnt.

But then I did notice something. My lap felt funny. I shifted my popcorn and settled into my seat, sliding down some. Nope, something was definitely wrong. I just didn't know what. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't. I tore my eyes away from the movie and looked at my lap. Something was in my pants!

I wish I could claim that it happened as the good Doctor screamed "It's alive!" but life doesn't always have great timing. No, my brain flipped over, and I realized I had an erection. I had pitched a tent. I was standing at attention. A stiffy, boner, hard-on, chubby, woody.

In the middle of the movie! It wasn't going anywhere, and eventually the movie was going to end! I tried to not panic. I worked on calming myself and resuming my careful study of the film, but it was no use. My cock had demanded attention, and it wasn't about to let me forget who was boss.

Being twelve sucks.

But yeah, I always wondered why it happened when it did. What set me off? Nothing I can recall. I don't have a Karloff fetish, nor do I have a popcorn one. I didn't Pee-Wee Herman out right there in the theatre, either.

Maybe it was the bolts on the Monster's neck. They were long, hard, shiny bolts and then... no, that isn't it either. Maybe, and the more I think about this the more I think I may be right, it was my sense of sexuality and my sense of justice fighting each other for the excitement of...

Fuck, and you people wonder why I drink so much? I got my first erection watching Frankenstein! That's like... it's like getting turned on while an episode of Mork and Mindy plays. Na-noo, Na-noo *sproing*!

Wrong. Just wrong.

I never went back and saw Lon Chaney, Jr.'s The Wolf-Man the following weekend. I couldn't bear the thought of what might happen.