The NRA is a Fetish Club That Eats Kids

I held a gun with live ammo exactly one time in my life.

Luckily it did not give me a hard-on.

In fact it scared the shit out of me.

A college buddy who grew up in the outer boroughs of New York City and had a mild fascination with guns invited me to a shooting range, on a beautiful sunny day in early September of 2007.

It was the weekend, and the range he had in mind was holding a friends-and-family open recruitment event.

We drove roughly 40 miles due west of the city to a place called Highland Lakes in New Jersey. The country gradually turned to rolling hills. Pickup trucks started to outnumber SUVs. Country stations crowded out R&B on the FM dial.

By the time we arrived, a decent crowd had gathered, folks young and old, including families with children. Coffee and pastries were served, compliments of the house. After brief introductions, the group guide gave us a safety refresher. He started by asking how many of us had fired a weapon before. I looked around — a good two-thirds of those present raised their hands. Next question: who knows the three basic rules of gun safety? The crowd grew shy and quiet.

A ten-year-old boy finally ventured a guess: “Always point your gun down?” “Almost, but not exactly,” replied our guide. “After all, what if you are in your upstairs bedroom, and your mom and dad are in the living room below,” he said, injecting some much-needed levity into the discussion.

I felt my stomach turn, and I suspected that it wasn’t the danish.

He went on to clarify the three rules (I paraphrase from memory):

It was now time to head out to the range. As I walked around the grounds from station to station, mingling with the folks who appeared more at home in this setting than me, many wearing 2nd Amendment t-shirts, many…

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