Message-ID: <053304Z01041995@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.masturbation,alt.sex.stories
From: an49600@anon.penet.fi
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Organization: Anonymous contact service
Reply-To: an49600@anon.penet.fi
Date: Sat,  1 Apr 1995 05:32:41 UTC
Subject: Improved ed. of True Story: Confessions of a Peter Beater
Lines: 810

This is a second edition.  I have cleaned up some style problems and
added several more recollections.  Sorry to have posted the first
before a careful proofread.

Warning: This narrative contains frank discussion of autoeroticism.
If you are disturbed by this topic, then I humbly request that for
your own wellbeing and peace of mind you read no further.


               Confessions of a Peter Beater

It seems that childhood recollections are popular in this forum, so I
will endeavor to please.  Everything here is true to within the
vagueries of my memory.  Perhaps you too suffered as a youth through
some of the same guilt and embarrassment that comes with compulsive
masturbation, just as I did.  Perhaps you felt as though nobody could
possibly be as weak and so easily controlled by desires as you.  If
so, I offer you here the consolation that you are not alone.

I cannot remember my first erection.  It probably happened in the
womb.  Having a hard dick at sporadic and unexpected times was simply
part of my childhood.  I remember, at age 5, asking my dad why my
penis got hard sometimes.  He proceded to relate the anatomy of it:
"Well, er, sometimes lots of blood flows into it, and that makes it
get hard."  Not a word on what purpose it serves.

I can also remember at that age and above that seeing my sister's
pussy was likely to bring on an erection.  All through our
childhoods, my sister and I were quite frank with each other about
our sexualities and our anatomies.  Beginning at age 6, I remember
that from time to time we would engage in a titillating game, usually
at her request.  It was most likely to happen on weekend mornings,
when we would play together in bed while our parents slept in.  My
sister was in the habit of sleeping in a nightgown with no panties on
underneath.  This made the game even easier.  It was simply that I
should touch her labia or her clit with the head of my penis, which
was invariably in an advanced state of stiffness by the time we were
ready to proceed.  The touch never lasted for more than a second,
because as soon as it had begun we would roll back in peals of
uncontollable laughter.  She also told me, on one of these mornings,
how she liked to rub a crayon up and down her crack -- how "it feels
sooo good."  I recall that she fancied the green crayon the best,
though I don't know why.  She said that sometimes she did it in
school, under her dress and through her panties.

Well, I know that many of you would rather learn more about my
sister's habits than about my own.  Unfortunately, I cannot oblige
you.  Although we were immodest with each other, we each still
enjoyed our privacy.

I recall at age 5 or 6 asking my dad the proverbial, "Where do
babies come from," question.  He explained about the sperm and
the egg and took me to a museum where they had models of fetuses
in various stages of development.  And when I asked how the sperm
and egg got together, well he hemmed and hawed and said something
about it happening from the mommy and daddy being close and something
about hugging and kissing and being together for a long time.
I believed it.  Dad was dad.  He would never lie.

So when I was 8 and one of my friends said the word "fuck," (which
I thought was just another synonym for shit) and another kid said,
"Do you know what that means?" I found out what it meant.

"You mean the daddy has to put his penie in the mommy's vulva to
make a baby?  I don't believe it."  And I went on to repeat the
line my dad had given me.  When my friends insisted, I argued
that it couldn't be.  After all, how would animals know how to
do that?  And I went on believing my fantasy about human reproduction
for few more years.  (and by the way, yes, vulva _was_ the only word
I knew back then for that appendage)

But it was also at age 8 that I found out that I was not the only boy
in town that suffered from frequent erections.  On Saturday mornings
when I was ages 8 through 12, my dad put me in these boy's swimming
lessons, which were in an indoor pool.  I have to explain that times
were different back then.  People were a lot less squeamish when it
came to anything that could be even remotely interpretted as child
sexuality.  They didn't believe kids had any.  So at these swimming
lessons, we swam nude.  As far as I know the instructors never
touched any of the boys in an indecent way.  The advantage for me was
that there was no wet swimsuit to tote home in the middle of winter. 
The advantage for the instructors was that the boys, I think, tend to
be more docile when they are naked, and more likely to do what they are
told.

Those instructors were tough too.  They made us swim laps until we
nearly puked.  But every now and then, some kid would pop a rod in
there, which was especially embarrassing for him if we were to swim
backstroke laps.

Another cute side-tale is how we spent our summers in those years.
We vacationed at a beach house.  The beach was clothing-optional. 
Mostly the kids went naked and the adult women went topless.  We had
been going there since I was 3.  So it wasn't till I was 9 that I
learned that there was anything unusual about a woman baring her
breasts.  And to this day, going to topless bars is not all that
great a turn-on for me.  A woman's breasts are pretty to me, but
not the subject of any sex fantasies.  Anyway, at this beach, my
sister and I had plenty of opportunity to explore each other's
bodies, which amounted to a lot of looking, a little bit of touching,
and some watching each other pee.

But I gave up going nude at that beach after one day when I and my
sister and her friend all went nude.  My dick pointed skyward that
whole afternoon -- and my mom was watching the entire time.  It wasn't
until my late teens that I was comfortable going nude there again.

In my sixth grade year, I had my first girlfriend.  I remember being
quite smitten with her and willing to tolerate a lot of abuse from
her.  She could dish it out too.  She had some kind of need to make
me feel uncomfortable when my friends were around.  But she had her
naughty thoughts as well.  I remember one day when she suggested that
we show each other our equipment -- that boyfriends and girlfriends
did that sort of thing.  But when I got excited over the idea, she
backed out.

I used to have frequent erections thinking about her at night,
imagining her naked.  But I still didn't understand what the purpose
of this whole erection thing was.  It was just a nuisance that I had
to put up with when I thought secret and delicious thoughts about
her.  I hadn't figured out that touching my penis when it was hard
could be satisfying.  And having intercourse with her never even
occurred to me in any of my fantasies.

But now, I'd like to get to the meat of my tale -- how I came to be a
peter beater.  The following summer when I was 12, my folks sent me
off to YMCA camp.  As far as sex goes, I learned the rest of the
story there.  One of the boys explained to me what semen was, only he
called it jiz.  He didn't offer a clue at what caused it to issue
forth -- he only explained that it came out of your dick.  I also
found out what blowjobs were.  There was this one kid named Brady who
got teased a lot because he still sucked his thumb.  On a camp out
one night, I and six others were in the same cabin as he.  Somehow
one of the kids cajoled Brady into sucking all of our dicks.  None of
us came.  This was more an exersize in humiliation than a sexual
thing.  And I have to say that I am, to this day, a little ashamed of
having participated.

At that same camp I met this one guy, whose name I've forgotten, who
talked me into sneaking off several times into the woods, getting
undressed, and rubbing our hard little dicks together.  We even gave
each other blowjobs, though neither of us came, nor had we ever.  I
remember the whole thing being very exciting and very naughty.  At
that time, I had never heard of homosexuality, so I didn't know that
there was any taboo against what we were doing.  I did realize,
though, that my mom would probably not approve.

One more story about this camp.  They would send us to the showers a
few dozen at a time.  There was this black guy named Remmie who was
more advanced into puberty than the rest of us.  In the shower, he
boasted that he had fucked two girls.  "That's bullshit," said this
one guy.  The rest of us were just as incredulous.  "Betcha you ain't
even jizzed in your life," the one guy said.  By this time we were
done washing an busy drying.  So Remmie set out to show us that he
was at least man enough to prove his challenger wrong.  He began
pounding his meat.  The rest of us were mightily impressed at the
size it attained.  We all stopped drying and dressing to gaulk at the
spectacle.  What he was doing was completely new to me.  He stroked
and stroked, but I guess he couldn't concentrate with all those eyes
watching.  At last he said, "The jiz ain't gonna come today."

On the way back to our quarters, I button-holed Remmie and
bombarded him with questions.  I wanted to know just how you made
the jiz come out, and what it would have looked like if it had.
He explained that it would have gone on the floor (something I
had already figured out) and wouldn't describe it any more than
that.  I guess he was a little embarrassed at how the events had
unfolded in the shower.  He did tell me that the boner (that was
the word we used for erections then) went down right away after
the jiz.

Well, I came back from that camp a changed boy.  Suddenly I became
aware that touching my dick when it was hard was enjoyable.  I found
a book on the human body and read and reread the part about sex.
It made me hard every time, though I certainly didn't need the
book to get hard.  I was reaching the point that happens in every
boy's life when erections were practically perpetual.  When I was
alone in the house, I'd get out the book and read it lying on my
stomach on the sofa.  I'd slide my dick between two of the sofa
cushions and hump away while I looked at the detailed drawing they
had in there of the female genitalia, complete with labels for
all the parts.  In the section about the male anatomy, there was
a big word that I didn't understand -- ejaculation.  The text said
it was closely associated with another word I didn't understand --
orgasm.  But I humped away, and it felt good, although neither of
those two things happened to me that way.

Then one day I was home from school, sick.  My mom had this policy of
keeping me out of school one extra day after I felt better just to
make sure -- but I had to stay in bed.  Well I felt great, and much
too frisky to stay in bed.  I got out my human body book and began
reading until my dick was just aching with wood.  I pulled off my
pajama bottoms and began humping the sheet.  Finally I put the book
down, closed my eyes, and humped the sheet in earnest.  It felt
wonderful.  I could have kept it up all day.  But then suddenly each
stroke began to feel even better than the last -- like tiny little
fairies were kissing my penis all over, splashing it with a thousand
little magic spells wherever their lips touched it.  Then there were
two or three strokes that, if my dick were covered in taste buds
inside and out, it would have been like dipping it into chocolate
syrup and sucking it deep into my body as through a straw.  And I was
determined that I would keep up forever these wonderful strokes that
tickled my insides with fluttering appleblossom petals and bursting
balloons.  But suddenly there was another sensation -- like having to
pee real bad only without the pressure.  I felt my dick fill with
fluid.  And the thought struck me that I ought to squeeze it out.  So
I did.  Took several squeezes to get it all.  Then I tried to stroke
some more to bring back the wonderful sensation.  But now further
stroking just brought on discomfort.  So I stopped and rolled over
and did nothing.

I had a pretty good idea what had happened.  When I caught my breath,
I examimed the wet spot I had left on the sheet.  My semen was pretty
much water at that age, so it had sunk right in.  I touched it, and
then sniffed it to make sure it wasn't pee.  I remember doing something
else for a while, then humping the sheet again, with the same results.  I
did it a third time that day too.  Each time, when my penis filled
with fluid, I figured it would feel good to squeeze it right out,
since that is what I had done the time before.  The last time that day,
though, there was only a drop or two to be squeezed.  Each time
I tried to continue after the squirting, and each time it was no
fun, so I stopped and rested.

From that night on, I humped the sheet every night.  Sometimes I'd
slide my dick under the pillow and hump, but the end result was the
same.  About a week or two after my first ejaculation I decided to
see what would happen if I didn't squeeze the stuff out.  Well, it
surprised the hell out of me to find out that that was simply not an
option.  I tried it on many nights, thinking each time that the last
time I had just not concentrated enough.  After all, the squeeze came
from the same muscle that cleared the penis after taking a leak. That
was completely a voluntary though very instinctive action.  I even
demonstrated to myself that I could hold off the squeeze at the end
of a pee as long as I liked with enough concentration.  But no matter
how much I tried to relax that little squeezer though, it had a mind
of its own once the balloons began to burst.  Once that began and the
gotta-pee sensation was upon me, it was going to squeeze and squeeze
violently with or without permission from command-central. And, I had
to admit to myself how, although the sensation of my penis filled
with semen felt similar my penis filled with pee, this squirt had an
extra deliciousness to it that went beyond the chocolate syrup
feeling. This squirting was like finding a cherry in amongst the
chocolate.

I also became aware at this time of the wonderful pulses that followed,
one after another, after the squirt was done -- each like a sweet
chocolate aftertaste.  I got to know my body better, figuring out
how to push my dick gently against the sheet to bring on the next
pulse.  How, when it seemed like there were no more twitches to be
had, I could relax for a few seconds and suddenly I could tell that
there could be one more by pushing again right now -- and maybe
even another if I relaxed again.

I began thinking about sliding my dick in and out of girls' vaginas as
I humped the sheet.  Sometimes I even imagined my dick was inside
Mrs.  Bayer, who was a middle-aged teacher I contended with every
day.  But mostly I fantasized about being with the girls in my
class.  I imagined the intimate sensation of feeling some of me
flowing deep into her insides.  And what would the girl feel?  Would
it feel to her like I was peeing inside her?  Then after I shot off
I'd think how lucky I was to be male, since a girl would never know
the exquisiteness of that chocolate syrup feeling or the joy of that
uncontrollable squirt through her peepee.  I figured that since the
ejaculation performed the biological function of delivering the
sperm -- a function that girls certainly didn't have -- that sex was
probably a drag for them, what with having to watch the male in such
joy and lacking the ability to feel it herself.

Another thing was that despite what I had witnessed Remmie do, I
still thought I had discovered something new.  I now knew this secret
way to enjoy the wonders of intercourse without having to go through
the trouble of finding a partner.  I figured that none of my friends
had an inkling about this.  I remember a friend of mine, Cliff, and I
were talking about girls and sex one day, both of us sporting hardons
as we spoke.  I asked him if he knew how the sperms got out of your
dick.  He said, "Sure.  Every time you piss there's millions of
them."  And I knew that he didn't have a clue yet.

I did own a pretty decent microscope back then -- something less than
a professional model but more than a toy.  My folks had given it to
me for Christmas.  Usually I used it to look at bugs or pondwater.
One day I decided that I was going to look at my own sperm.  But
squirting it onto the sheet would never do.  My semen was still pretty
watery, though beginning to get a little body to it.  I found a
film can and lay on my back and stroked my dick with my hand while
I held the can over the squirt-hole with the other hand.  It
wasn't easy to get myself over the edge, since this was an entirely
new way to jerk off for me.  And I must say the orgasm was disappointing.
But I did get a sample that I could transfer onto a slide.  I put
it under the microscope.  It was clear.  I increased the power step
by step.  The only things that came into focus were dust and bubbles.
Oh well.  I must have done something wrong, or the microscope wasn't
good enough.

After my 7th grade year, we moved from New England to California.  By
this time, jerking off each night was an obsession with me.  I had
tried on a number of nights to go to sleep without doing it, but my
hardons kept me awake until I did.  Humping the sheet was still my
nearly exclusive method.  So anyway, we journeyed across the country
by car, stopping to camp for several nights at a bunch of national
parks.  We had two tents.  My mom and dad and my two little sisters
slept in the big one.  I and the biggest of my sisters (She is the
one with the crayon, and she is also younger than I) slept in the
small one.  And it was cramped in there.  My obsession for jerking
off did not diminish one bit just because we were on the road or
because I was sleeping with my sister.  And the hard ground was not
exactly humpable.  So I waited until I figured she was asleep and
stroked it lying on my back.  Well she caught me the first time I
tried it.

"What are you doing there?" she asked, kind of annoyed at all
the motion I was causing in the cramped quarters.

"Well, er,"  I was stuck.  Not only was this embarrassing, but I didn't
even know there were words for what I was doing.  But, as I said
before, she and I had always had an easy rapport with matters sexual.
So I said, "You see, I'm massaging my penis.  When I do it enough,
this stuff comes out of it."

"Really?  That's kind of neat."

She never asked to watch it come out.  We were in separate sleeping
bags.  So I lay on my back with my hand inside my pants and stroked
until I filled my briefs with cum.  She lost interest before I was
done and fell asleep.  But on a number of other nights in that tent,
she would ask me, "Are you making that stuff come out?" -- sometimes
even when I wasn't.

A few weeks after we arrived in California, my dad took me and one of
his students on a backpacking trip in the High Sierras.  It was a
wonderful time -- something I'll always be grateful he did for me.
We brought no tent since it hardly ever rains up their in the summer.
We slept out under the stars.  When I could hear both my companions
snoring, I'd lie on my back, look up at those sparkling snowflake
stars set in a sky as black as coaldust, drink in the cold night air,
and stroke myself until I exploded into my undies and heaved a sigh
into the chill Sierra night.  Since then, whenever I'm in a natural
setting, I always have an urge to go off somewhere private and pretty
with either the sun or the moon filtering through the trees, and
massage my magic wand to the burbling of a brook and the chirping of
the birds or insects.  And quite often I do.

That year we spent in California was when my semen really began to
mature.  It grew milkier, slimier, and came out in greater volume.
Also, I began to have the experience sometimes, while humping the
sheet, of cumming and suddenly feeling a gob of it on my throat.  And
it began to stain the sheet orange.  I knew what I was doing was
gross.  But I couldn't help it.  One week I actually managed to go
two nights in a row without doing it.  I figured I had broken this
nasty habit now.  But on the third night I was overcome with
horniness.  I felt as if I were drowning in it.  I lay on my back and
gritted my teeth, determined to fight off the urge.  But my dick was
throbbing.  It kept beckoning me to it.  My mind was captive to the
anticipation of that unruly penis filling with up semen.   I could
almost feel it welling up from deep inside, cascading through my
plumbing, and spurting out through my little peehole.  The thought
wouldn't let me alone.  Finally I said to myself, "Just this once,
then I'm quitting forever."  I turned over, pulled down my pajama
bottoms, and with barely a light touch on the sheet I began to shake,
my toes curled up, my eyes squeezed shut, my face got hot, I clutched
the pillow, and I gushed out an mammoth puddle onto the sheet and a
gooey spot all over my stomach. I realized then and there that there
was no controlling this thing.  I was a slave to it.

That was also when I began the habit of using the top sheet to wipe
off when I was done, but only after I'd spend as much as an hour
feeling the delightful squishy sensation of wallowing in it.  So the
top sheet began to acquire orange stains too.  And as my testosterone
continued to increase my viscosity and volume, the cum began daily to
soak through to the mattress pad, making it hard and crusty in the
spot I liked to jerk off.  I knew my mom had to be seeing this
develop.  I didn't think then, though, that she understood what it was.

Then one day my dad and I were in the car, on our way to a father-son
afternoon in the park.  Suddenly, out of the blue, he says, "You know,
a long time ago, people thought that masturbation would make you insane.
But it isn't true."

I looked at him.  "Masturbation?  What's that."

"Well, it's, uh, when when a person does -- like -- I mean if a man or
a boy rubs his penis and, you know, makes it feel good."

He was on to me.  But thankfully he was being nice about it.  And if
this thing had a name, then at least I wasn't the only one doing it. 
Does that mean that he did it once too?

"So why did people think it made a person insane?" I asked.  I was
most uncomfortable with the subject, but I was curious as well.

"It's because in insane asylums they saw the patients doing it.
And they thought that's what made them insane.  But it's not.
Sane people do it too, and they never end up in the asylum at
all.  And it won't make you blind either."

I still wasn't up to asking him how many people did it.  And I
understand now that he knew good and well that I was doing it and he
didn't want me to feel bad about it.  But it didn't diminish one bit
my discomfort over having this messy habit control me.

We moved back to New England a year later -- another
tent-sleeping-with-my-sister hop across the country by car.  She
didn't seem to be as fascinated by my habit as the first time.
And I was getting bolder with her, asking her if she wanted to
do the stroking for me.  And to my horror, I found what I was really
wishing I could do was to fuck her.

We stayed at motels when we weren't near a National Park.  Most of
them had swimming pools.  I remember this one in Iowa where the pool
had a gentle jet of water coming out of the wall just at dick level. 
Hugging the wall and I let it beat against me until I came in my
trunks right there in front of a dozen or so total strangers.

We moved into a new house in New England.  Each of us kids had his
or her own room, which was no big deal to me since, being the only
boy, I hadn't had to share a room with a sister since I was seven.
I had a brand new bed with brand new bedding, which I baptized on
the first night.  The urge kept on growing.  Pretty soon once a night
wasn't enough.  Sometimes I'd wake up early and do it once before
school, even though I knew my mom would find the wet spot when I
was in school.  On weekend mornings there was no two ways about
it.  The sheet was going to get squirted -- maybe even twice.

I did try the microscope thing again about this time, and by golly, I
saw the little devils, vast multitudes without number, swimming around
in my semen.  What a thrill.  I was a man.

I began coming home from school with enormous hardons.  I discovered
that I could lie on the bed with all my clothes on and hump the
mattress, rubbing my penis against my jockey briefs until I came
into them.  I started doing this every day as soon as I got home
from school, then sometimes after dinner again, as well as the
usual squirt into the sheets at night.  If I had a term paper
or something that was due the next day, I couldn't work on it
for more than twenty minutes at a time without taking a break
to jerk off into my skivvies.  Some such assignments resulted
in eight or ten ejaculations in one night.

My undershorts began to develop orange stains in front, just below
the elastic.  The laundry was unable to bleach it out.  This was
now getting to be an embarrassment every time I had to change clothes
in gym class, or anywhere else that there were others around.  I got
good at getting them off and my jock strap on quickly with my pelvis
facing into my locker so that nobody could see.  

And speaking of jock straps, there were several times when I went to the
beach with a jock on under my trunks.  Often the whole family would
simply ride home in our wet swimsuits since the beach had nowhere to
change.  Once home, I'd go to my room and jerk off with the jock still
on.  I loved the way the semen oozed through its pores.

Then there was that time I had to get a physical examination.  The
doctor was training some female doctor, so she was standing there
watching everything.  He undid my pants to feel my abdomen, and there
was that awful orange stain staring both of them in the face.  I
guess I was unable to hide my embarrassment because he turned to her
and said, "You know, sometimes the boys are worse about this than the
girls."

Once my folks went away for an entire week.  They hired some
middle-aged matron to come and look after us.  Now understand that I
was not in the habit of locking my door when I jerked off.  In our
family, respect for privacy was a big deal, and I knew nobody would
barge in without knocking.  But this babysitter must have been
listening outside the door when I came home after school, hearing all
the sounds I made and learning the pattern.  One afternoon, just as I
was shooting into my pants, she flung open the door and came blowing
in without warning and with some lame excuse for doing so.  Well, I
was shocked to say the least, but I believed her excuse, and since I
was fully clothed, I figured, innocently, that she had not an inkling
of what had just happened.  She probably didn't even know that boys
could do this, right?  But then, she did the same thing the next
day.  I had to actually try to communicate with her at the same time
goo was erupting into my drawers.  And after that, I still didn't
learn.  She did it a third time as well.

Looking back, I guess she was hoping to catch me, dick in hand, with
semen dribbling over my fingers.  My only satisfaction is that she
never did, the nosy bitch.

At school, I was forever in love with this girl or that girl and
always too shy to be anything but friends with any of them.  To me,
each of these objects of my affection was a pure and wholesome
angel.  It shocked me how often I thought about fucking them, and
worse, licking their pussies.  Every night I would lie in bed,
hugging and kissing the pillow, pretending that some girl from school
I imagined I had in my arms was the paragon of purest womanhood.  And
then I'd squirt her full of my semen, pretending impossibly that I
could lick her vagina at the same time I fucked it.  By now I had
learned that women could have orgasms too, so I could hear in my head
her cries of rapture as my insides came spewing out of my peehole
into her insides.  Then, at once she became pure again, innocent and
untouched -- just the kind of girl my mom would want me to have.  And
I felt like an animal for having thought of her as anything but
virtuous.  I had to be some undeserving filthy-minded slob, drifting
off to sleep as I lay in my own love-snot.

At last, I began dating one of them.  Deadre was absolutely the most
gorgeous creature I had ever known.  I couldn't believe my luck that
she would really go steady with me.  But she wasn't letting me do
anything beyond necking and Frenching.  She did eventually let me
touch her breast from outside her clothes, but that was it.  If I put
my hand between her leg, she'd push it away straight off.  But I
didn't mind.  In my sixteen year old dreamworld, Deadre was the girl
I would marry.  But was she aware of the enormous hardon I had
whenever I had my arms around her?  How could she still be so warm
toward me when I was such a low-down slave to my dick.  After our
dates, I'd jump into bed alone and shoot monster loads that seemed
like they'd never stop gushing.  Thoughts of fucking her, or making
love to her, which was the way I thought of it so I could at least
live with myself, dogged me day and night.  If I could only make her
understand how deeply I felt for her and how deeply I wanted my
physical joy to flood her deepest recesses, she would just have to
open her thighs to me.

Deadre ended up moving to Colorado.  I flew out to visit her once.  I
slept in the basement with her brother.  He was a light sleeper, so
there could be no jerking off here.  On the last night before she
broke off the relationship, I had a dream of being in a swimming pool
with her.  It started out that I was in there alone, swimming laps. 
Then I ran into her.  Now you must understand that my sex dreams
have always come to a waking end long before I lose control.  In the
past I'd just wake up hard and shaking and have to jerk off.  But this
dream was different.  She put her arms around me.  I kissed her.  We
were both treading water.  And I slid my penis into her, all velvety
and soft and warm and slippery.  And she kissed back.  And her sweet
cavern was like a rows and rows of tiny tongues, swaying with each
stroke I gave her, licking fire into my pole.  And she held me
tighter.  Her lips kissed mine even harder.  And her other lips
kissed and caressed and soothed that wild appendage that ran my
life.  And my love for her burst out, coating her secret places.  I
was still squirting into my pajamas when I woke.

From Colorado, I flew out to California to visit my male cousins,
whom I hadn't seen since we had lived out there.  We were all in our
late teens now.  The eldest, who is two years my senior, gave me
endless detail about what it was like to get laid.  He also turned
me on to reefer.  The middle cousin, who was my age, informed me
that the perfect life would be a continuous stoned orgasm that
went on day and night.

I returned home a week later.  My uncle had a sailing yacht.  I
had frequently gone on day sails and overnight sails with him.
This summer he invited me on a three-week cruise that would takes
us to all points between New York City and Gloucester, Mass.  Three
weeks is an eternity to go without a squirt or two.  I made it
through the first week, horny as hell.  My prostate became so
engorged that I dribbled semen every time I took a dump.  It
was becoming unbearable.  Fortunately, I discovered some opportunities
I hadn't thought of before.  Sailing, you see, is hours of relaxation
interrupted by moments of chaos.  So, during the hours of relaxation,
I'd go and lie on the foredeck and sun myself.  Everybody else was
aft.  So I'd slip a hand into my pocket and very gently caress
myself.  This did backfire once.  Right in the middle of sliming
my shorts I heard, "Jibe-ho.  Boy!  Get your ass back here and
take the jib."  I had to jump into action and crank a winch while
my dick was still jumping in my drawers.

The summer ended.  My folks had decided to send me to an all boys
prep school that year.  I hated the idea, but I trusted they knew
what was best for me.  Well they didn't.  That place was full of
drugs, and I got into them heavily -- reefer and acid mostly.  I had
to share a room for the first time in a decade (except for that
basement episode with Deadre's brother).  I was still wracked with a
need to jerk off all the time.  I got good at doing it quietly so my
roomie wouldn't notice.  I even did it one time when we were both
studying -- or at least he was studying; I was pretending to study. I
sat with a book in my lap, rubbing the binding against my stiff poker
as it strained against my tenting trousers.  My movements were as
subtle as could be, scarcely even twitching.  The heat of rubbing took
so wonderfully long to build up from just a spark, to an ember, to
glowing coals, and bursting into sweet gooey flames only after an
hour of daydreaming and tiny tickles.

Whenever I got high, I just had to find a moment of privacy.  The
drugs added something new to it.  I'd rub and stroke.  On the back of
my eyelids I'd see strange cartoons of wooden dolls with wooden
pussies softening into a fiery green body with hips as wide as a
river and thighs made of mossy treetrunks and nipples made of flower
petals and a vagina full of strawberry Jello.  My whole body could
slide in, and she smothered me in fruity pussy-juice and buried
me in a coffin of pink slippery flesh.  And that's just one of many
fantasies the drugs brought on.

The drugged orgasms seemed to drift in from far away in space,
growing ever so slowly deep inside, like a seed springing forth two
leaves, then four, then a great many, then branching madly into an
enormous tree.  It drove spikes of rapture clean through my dick. The
gushing shredded my urethra into tatters of ecstacy as if the semen
were full of candied razor blades.  On acid, it was orchids and
butterflies and supernovas that exploded into my pants.

When I came home for Christmas vacation, I dated Rose, a girl I'd
been friendly with before I took up with Deadre.  On our first date,
I took her home after dinner and a movie.  We made out in her living
room.  I was falling for her now too, and I let her know it.  She had
always been shy with guys and had such a low self image that she just
fell into my arms and said, "I love you."  I was torn.  Here was this
delicate flower, waving in the wind, trusting me to treat her the way
she certainly deserved, and yet I was preoccupied with fucking her.
She was a petite thing, and it was nothing for me to hold her on
my lap for several hours.  At last, she sat in her knee length wool
skirt and straddled my left thigh.  I held her.  She rocked her
little jelly-filled cupcake against my leg, moaning, her eyes closed
and her lips protruding.

I was turned on as I had never been before.  My joy-drops were
soaking through my skivvies.  She was actually jerking off in my
arms.  This was my chance to really do the act that had obsessed me
for these past six years.  But I was petrified.  Rock hard and
petrified.  I knew she wasn't ready.  And perhaps I could have got my
dick inside her that night, but I didn't.  I didn't even try.  What's
more, even without it, she still made me feel like more of a man that
night than I ever had in my life.  I didn't leave until four that
morning.  I drove home, I pulled off my clothes, jumped into bed and
left such a puddle on one side of the mattress that it ran downhill
into the depression my weight made no matter where I tried to sleep.

Rose's parents didn't trust me.  After that vacation, the forbade
her to see me.  It's just as well.  It would have been a terrible
thing if I had dragged her into the drug world.

I really hated that prep school.  The thing I learned there more than
anything else was not to let my parents make my mistakes for me.  I had
believed it to be a bad idea going in, and the experience bore it
out.  My senior year I returned to public school.  There I met
Ronnie.  She was a sophmore, who to everybody's knowledge had never
been out with a guy before.  I took her into the woods near my house
one afternoon.  She let me put my hand under her bra and feel her
tits.  She let me put my hand into her jeans and feel her pussy-hair.
Then I began dry-humping her.  She didn't resist.  I squeezed her
in my arms and kept humping against her crotch.  She just lay there
with this puzzled look on her face.  I came in my jeans.  I tried
hard not to show it, but I was squirting away.

I took her home with my head full of what lay in store with Ronnie.
I went to bed that night and jerked off knowing in my heart that from
this girl I was going to get laid.  And soon.  It didn't matter that
what I felt for her was to what I had felt for Deadre or Rose as a
teardrop is to the sea.  Getting laid was everything.

The next weekend I took her to some woods farther away, along with
picnic fixings.  We got high first.  Then I started in again.  I felt
her nipples.  I unbuttoned her jeans and began feeling her pubic hair
again.  She didn't say anything.  I dipped my finger down into her
ravine.  This boy was about to get laid.  I knew it.  I fingered her
and fingered her.  She lay there limp and quiet.  Then suddenly she
said, "Do you love me?"

"Yes!  Yes!  I love you."

Ronnie looked right into my eyes and said, "I don't think you do."

And with those words, my whole image of myself came crashing down in
ruins.  I looked into her eyes and saw them filling with tears.  And
I began apologising again and again, and nothing would stop those
tears.  "Do you want me to take you home?" I offered, hoping that
would end this whole thing and I could just forget about it.  She
didn't want to go.  She just kept crying and telling me what a schmuck
I was.  And she was right.  I began crying too.

After what seemed like hours of this, when we were both too drained
to to allow our emotions to rasp us any longer, we lay down together
and hugged.  I did feel something in my heart for her after all.  But
how would I ever make her know.  We just began talking, about parents
and about the cruelties we suffered at school and who there were
phonies and how deeply we each desired companionship.  Then she took
me in her arms and held me tight and encouraged me until I dry-humped
her again.  This time, she came as well -- or at least she says she
did.  After that, I felt like I could talk about anything with her.

So that is how, somehow, the conversation got around to jerking off.
She was the first person to whom I admitted doing it.  "I do it all
the time," I told her.  "Several times a day."

"So do I.  I can't even remember when I started.  I must have been
two or something."

"Do you think it can be a good thing?"

"I sure hope so.  It sure feels good -- and it doesn't hurt anybody.
Why, are you ashamed of it?"

"Well yes.  A little.  I mean most guys would make fun of me if
they knew."

"But they don't.  So don't be ashamed.  I'm not.  Did you really mess
your pants just now?  Where did it go?"

"Oh, just give it a few minutes.  There'll be a wet spot soon.  It
has a funny smell.  Go ahead and sniff ..."

With that, all the shame I had felt all those years crumbled and
slipped off my shoulders.  We gave our genitals names that day:
Wesley and Wesliette.  We talked about how they both had to have
their exersize.  She told me that she knew I had come in her arms
that first afternoon, and that she had been scared but she liked it.
I said, "How could you tell?  I tried to hide it."

She laughed.  "It was like you were weak and strong at the same
time," she said.  "There was no doubt about it, even though I'd
never seen any guy do it before.  It was obvious."

Ronnie went with me that summer to the beach house.  We ran naked
together on the beach.  We dry-humped or gave each other hand jobs
every chance we got.  A few times I rubbed my bare penis against her
bare pussy hair and squirted onto her tummy.  But, much to my chagrin,
we didn't get down to doing the deed until we had been going together
for four months.  Despite all my begging, she kept saying she wasn't
ready.

We gave each other our virginities one July night, just outside a
cemetary that had graves dating from colonial times.  We did it
inside that same tent my sister and I had slept in going across the
country.  I was so nervous I couldn't keep my dick stiff.  It
wouldn't go in at first.  Then when it did, she cried out in pain,
and instantly I went limp.  Then when I got hard again, I put it in
and came instantly.  It was most unsatisfying -- not what I had
expected at all.

We did it as often as we could after that, which wasn't often
at first.  There was never any place with enough privacy.  And
my orgasms were always disappointing, even on those occasions
when I was able to last.  I couldn't believe it.  I must be
weird.  Intercourse orgasms weren't anywhere near as intense
as jerking off ones were.

Then one weekend afternoon, everybody was out at my house.  I took
her up to my room.  I told her, "I am determined to eat your pussy
today.  Are you ready?"  She nodded.  I undressed her, then myself. I
laid her down on the still-made bed.  I kissed her for a while and
fondled her nipples.  Then I kissed around her thighs and pubic hair. 
I stared straight into her slit.  I was dying to taste it, but at
first I couldn't get over the thought that it was unclean.  I
stiffened my resolve.  I stuck out my tongue, and for just a second
touched its tip to her clit, then backed away.  Then compulsion
tumbled over me.  I pressed my open mouth to that thing and licked
deeply from one end to the other and slobbered and gobbled.  It was
the most savory treat I had ever tasted.  Within seconds I was
spewing cum onto the bedspread.

That fall I went off to college.  She was now a junior in highschool.
We continued to go steady from a distance, she visiting me on long
weekends.  When we were apart we wrote each other letters about
how we masturbated all the time.  She once signed a letter in big
clumsy unsteady letters, "Wesliette."  The image that brought to
mind was so overpowering I had to jerk off that instant.

She graduated early and came to the same college.  We continued to go
steady until my senior year.  We made love all the time, but I still
exercised Wesley every chance I got.  She assured me that Wesliette
got her workouts too.

Since then, I have given up drugs long ago.  I've gone with a number
of women, and married one of them.  But none of them have been able to
give me anything that quenches my thirst for masturbation.  I still do it
at least once per day, no matter how many times I make love that
day.  And the orgasms I give myself continue to be stronger than the
ones any woman can give me.  Single sex I do for the pure joy of it. 
Partner sex, well that's for that special tender feeling you can't
get by yourself -- intimacy.  So I don't feel at all guilty about
jerking off.  I've had some embarrassing moments, but been caught
with my dick in my hand only once.  That was when I was staying with
my friend at his brother's house in Ontario.  His brother was used to
living alone.  There was a stack of Playboys in the bathroom.  I had
gone in there to pee, but when I saw the Playboys I figured I had a
private moment, so I dropped trou and went to work.  My friend's
brother burst in on me and said, "Oh -- jerking off, eh?  Well just
go ahead and finish." Then he left and never said another word about
it.

So here I am approaching middle age.  According to my estimates, I
have masturbated over 11,000 times and still climbing.  By now, about
15 gallons of semen have spewed in vain from my loins, and every drop
has been a joy.  Life is short, and I intend to fit every ejaculation
I can into it.  I haven't gone insane or blind, and my palms are
still hairless.  The only time masturbation has done me any physical
harm was once when I was hiking through a California canyon.  I
didn't know it, but my hands had brushed over some poison oak.  I
stopped in a sunny clearing on a hillside and stroked myself amid the
bay trees and mesquite bushes to an exquisite gush of penis-nectar. 
Then two days later, my misery began.  I'm more careful in natural
settings now.

I have to say that it is a bit frustrating that intense orgasm and
tender intimacy are not wrapped in the same package for me.  In a
perfect world, there would be a way to get both sensations at the
same time -- and often.  But I live in the real world, and yes, even
there, life is sweet.


   If you liked this narrative (or even if you hated it), let me know
   at an49600@anon.penet.fi

Be good to yourself,
Hartley









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