Date: Wed, 13 Aug 2014 06:28:39 -0500
From: jason.kason@manlymail.net
Subject: Cock Worshipper Part 2

COCK WORSHIPPER PART 2
by Jason Kason
jason.kason@manlymail.net
jasonkason.tumblr.com

~~~~~~

Yeah, well there's been a change of plan.

When Philip read my first journal entry he said I shouldn't go on to write
about my first time sucking a lad off like I'd planned to, but should
instead describe the times I used to look at blokes' dicks in the washrooms
at the caravan site where we used to go on holiday.

He reckons my whole sex compulsion thing as he calls it (it's me who uses
the term cock worshipper) stems from back then.  It's all to do with what
he says is my need to gratify other males as part of a father fixation.  Or
at least that's his theory and I suppose it's as good as anyone else's.

That's the trouble with having to go through all this bullshit.  Everyone
has a theory about why I'm like I am and everyone thinks they know best.

But when you get caught with your trousers and pants down by the cops too
many times, and when you've been filmed on CCTV taking cocks from every
which way like a total bum-whore, these are the sort of hoops they make you
jump through.  Systemic therapy: that's the new buzzword.  It looks better
on their records than putting me through the courts.  It must tick the
rehabilitation box on whatever forms they have to hand into head office.

So, yeah, the campsite.  This maybe should have been part one.  Typical of
me to balls my journal up before I even got properly started.

Now I've already admitted to Philip that I've tried to do this loads of
times before: write down what happened that first time I went into the
men's showers at the campsite.  It's like the moment is tattooed on my
memory in full and clear detail and yet I've never been able to coherently
put it down in words what I saw and what I felt.

Philip reckons it's all to do with 'imprinting': the experience is so
important to my sexuality and has embedded itself so deeply in my psyche
that it's difficult for me to be able to handle it.

I told him I don't know about any shite like that.  It's pretty clear to me
that the reason is that when I think about how to write it down I always
end up getting horny and need to wank off, and after blowing my nut I can't
be arsed to start writing it all down.

So here's another attempt from me to get it down on paper.  I'm typing this
up in the learning centre so, even though I'll have a hard-on that'll end
up aching in my pants, there's no way I'm going to be able to so much as
touch my dick with all these people around.

Okay, so first a bit of backstory.

The reason we ended up going to the campsite every summer is because after
my dad walked out on us, he wouldn't give my mam the money she would have
needed to take us somewhere better.  I mean, he used to piss off to Egypt
and places with his new wife and twat-faced step-daughters, but there was
never enough dosh around for holidays with me.  And let's face it, my
mother's new bloke wasn't going to do anything in the way of earning money
as that would have meant him getting up off his fat, lazy arse.

The place was a total shit-hole, if I'm honest.  There was a chemical works
right next to the campsite where a headless body had been found in one of
the huge silos a few years earlier.  It was the notorious 'torso in the
tank' case which my mam used to go on and on about, giving me many a
nightmare about a headless zombie coming to get me in my caravan bed.

And there must have been a sewage outlet next to the little quay because
the stinking water was always full of condoms.  There were signs about
jellyfish which for years I thought the floating things were until I
started using condoms myself and then the following summer thought, "Oh,
Jesus fucking Christ."

Anyway, enough of the sob story.

The important point is that until that first holiday at the campsite, my
mam had always taken me into changing rooms with her.  Whether we were at
the swimming baths, the sports centre or the shared washrooms in the cheap
B&B's we went to in Blackpool, I always went in with her and so was used to
being surrounded by women in varying states of undress.  My dad would have
considered helping a kid to get changed as totally demeaning, so while he
was around the male changing rooms were an absolute no-go.

When my step-dad came onto the scene, he might not have cared a jot about
helping me get changed, but he said he thought it was wrong for a boy my
age to be going into the women's changing rooms and seeing all these things
a young lad shouldn't.

Knowing him, he was probably just jealous of the eyeful he thought I was
getting.

So what had never been an issue until then, suddenly became something which
was strictly not allowed.  I was told that I had to go into the fellas
changing rooms on my own and I was genuinely terrified at the thought of
being around all these big, naked blokes and having to get my kit off too.

The next summer holiday saw me nervously walking towards the shower door
with the male symbol on it, clutching my little washbag of soap and shampoo
and quaking at how loud all the men inside seemed.  To me it was like they
were mocking me with their laughing and jeering, the tiled walls and floor
amplifying their voices.

Once I'd pushed into the room, my apprehension turned to something totally
different – I didn't yet understand what – and I froze in the
doorway, my eyes bulging out of my head and my mouth gaping wide.  The room
was full of steam and there among its swirls and eddies were flashes of
something totally new to me.  Men's bodies: naked and wet; some wonderfully
muscular, some intriguingly flabby, and almost all with hair sprouting from
places I hadn't known possible.  Fellas' bums, squat and firm and for some
reason quite intriguing.  And even better, there out front, they were
parading the most amazing and fascinating things I'd ever seen until then.

There between their legs was an incredible variety of cocks I could never
even have dreamed was possible.  Long ones, fat ones, wrinkly ones, curved
ones.  Some had big pink heads that were always popped out, some had long
skins that made a funny mouth shape on the end.  Some dangled right down
and slapped between their thighs while others stood out a bit when their
owners walked around, like the blokes were feeling a bit sexy even though
they probably weren't.

If I had to draw a thought bubble to show what was going on in my young
head at that moment, it'd say simply: "Oh... my... fucking... god..."

When I too got undressed and went for my shower, I have no doubt at all
that my little prick was totally stiff.  As it would be, pretty much every
time I went to the men's shower room from then on that summer.  Some of the
men would look shocked when they saw my little chub-on, others would smile
or even make jokes, but to me it seemed like the right and proper thing for
me to do: I was showing them mine in all its limited glory just they were
showing me how magnificent theirs were.

Only some kind soul must have told my step-dad that his kid was forever
hanging around the fellas' shower room with a full-on donger on him that
never went down.

I heard him and my mam talking about it on the bed which folded out from
the dinner table when they thought I was asleep.  He said he thought it
wasn't natural, "a young lad getting hi'self worked up like that in front
of all of those blokes walkin' 'round in the stark-nuddies."

My mother, bless her heart, was quick to jump to my defence.

"Of course it's natural for him to be curious," she snapped.  "He's never
seen stuff like that – his father would never let him anywhere near the
men's changing rooms – so it would be strange if he wasn't interested in
stuff like that."

"But getting himself all... you know... agitated...?"

For all his roughness, my step-father could never bring himself to use what
he saw as crude language.  Even the word 'mating' said without warning on a
David Attenborough programme could make him blush.

"Oh for God's sake, Pete," my mam whispered harshly.  "It's a reflex
action!  He's in a place he's never been before, feeling as tense as you
like and thinking everyone's looking at him.  Of course he's going to
get... well... 'agitated' as you put it."

I liked that explanation and if I'd needed any justification to continue my
twice-daily loiterings in the shower-room (which I didn't), my mother's
defence of me would certainly have provided it.

As would my Biology teacher's advice, given some years later, when I was by
now spending months looking forward to the summer fortnight at the campsite
and had, for personal reasons, boosted my two daily showers when on holiday
to four.

Mrs Gren had told us that it was all good and proper for us to be
interested in the changes that happen during puberty, even when it's our
own gender that we're looking at.

"So it's normal for lads to want to look at older fella's dicks?" some
wise-arsed lad in the class had asked, much to the hilarity of his mates.

"For sure it is!" our naive teacher had proclaimed once the commotion had
settled.  "Boys normally find the changes that happen – the growth of
pubic hair, the enlargement of the penis to name but two – quite
enthralling.  As do girls with the female equivalents."

I'd smiled at that, feeling pleased that my step-father had, for the second
time, been proven wrong.  Not that I'd for a moment doubted myself: like I
said in my last journal entry, my view had always been that if something
felt good, it was to be done as often as possible without further analysis.

And it felt good for me to look at naked men.  It felt so good I needed to
bash away at my dick in one of the toilet cubicles straight after, a wodge
of loo paper at the ready as all the fellas' big schlongs I'd seen ran as a
slideshow in my head.  My mam had called it natural curiosity and my
teacher had said it was a normal part of growing up: what two better
endorsements could I have asked for?

The following summer, after all those months of waiting, there was a young
couple with a little fat daughter in the caravan next to ours.  I didn't
really like the girl because she was way too young for me to make friends
with, but I liked her dad and I remember he was called Mr Barrass.

Not the most common of names and I could probably look him up if I wanted
to, but even if I did, what would I say to him after what happened?

My mother loved the little girl who used to eat whatever was put in front
of her and who I took to calling Humpty Dumpty, because she really did look
like the fat, vacant little doll from 'Play School'.  My mam would invite
her into our caravan continually and would dote on her and keep feeding
her, which ended up making me think – as a result of something my
step-dad had said – that she might have preferred it if she'd had a girl
rather than me.

You know, I can't even remember the kid's name.  Theresa springs to mind,
but that's not really the right sort of name for a kid younger than me, is
it?

Anyway, my mam said I should start going with Mr Barrass to the shower room
on the campsite.  I've never figured out why.  Maybe she wanted him to act
as the stand-in father figure that my step-dad had never been willing to
fill, or maybe she was worried that I was spending way too long in there
and had at the back of her mind the 'not natural' warning whispered at her
across the table-cum-bed so many years earlier.

If it was the 'not natural' thing that'd make it quite funny in a way,
because she would have been setting in place something that my step-father
would have seen as the embodiment of all that was unnatural.

Because it turned out that Mr Barrass, for all his cutesy giggly wife and
barrel-shaped daughter, had a bit of thing for me.  Maybe he's still got a
thing for young lads whose mams encourage him to go to shower rooms with;
maybe that's something I could ask him if I bother to look him up one of
these days.

But no.  That would be way too nasty.  That makes it sound like I regret
what happened or blame him for it.  It's not like that at all.  I was the
one who set him up, truth be told.  I was the one who played him like a
fiddle.

I can be a devious little bastard sometimes, you see.  That's part of this
thing what's wrong with me.  It's what Philip calls my inner demons and
it's the thing he's trying to rid me of.  The first stage of that, though,
is that he's got to convince me that I want to be rid of them.  And that's
where he and I are having a few disagreements at the minute.

Anyway, poor old Mr Barrass.  The bloke who probably wanted a civil
partnership and a couple of cats but back then, in the eighties, had to
settle with a shit-for-brains wife and a kid so fat he couldn't bear to be
look at her.

He had a fascinating cock and a nice plump set of balls; I can clearly
remember that much about him.  Isn't it awful that I can remember what his
junk looked like clearer than I can remember his face?

When we used to shower – and it quickly became a twice-daily routine for
the two of us – I used to like to see him in the nuddie with his lovely
pubic bush and his little arse that looked so squat and cute and kind of
tasty in a way.

I used to always pull my foreskin back when I was with him because I
thought his dick looked so great with its head out on show all the time.

One day when we were showering he said, "Jason, do you like doing that to
your willy?"  He called my dick a willy, like I was fucking three or
something.

"Doing what?" I asked.  "And it's my cock, not a willy."

Mine was just as hairy as his and had a proper manly shape, it was just
still a bit smaller than his.

He'd smiled and then asked, "Do you like continually pulling your skin
back?  On your cock, I mean?"

There weren't any other fellas in the showers that day.  I probably should
have said that earlier.

I didn't know how to reply to him, so I said, "Well... Mr Barrass... I
dunno... it's just...  How do you get your skin to stay back like that all
the time?  It looks kind of cool."

He'd laughed at that and I could tell from the way his lovely-looking dick
grew a bit that he loved me calling it 'kind of cool'.

"I'm circumcised, Jason," he told me.  "I had an operation to take part of
my foreskin away.  So my willy... my cock... always looks like this."

"I want mine to look like yours!" I announced and he laughed again and
ruffled my wet hair.

Now that write this I wonder if maybe all he needed was a son.  A little
boy to tell him how great he was.  Maybe that's what was missing from his
life.

Jesus, now I'm starting to sound like Philip.  Next, I'll be saying Mr
Barrass should have tried harder to keep his responses me-focussed.

He rambled on about what circumcision was and why he'd had it done but I
didn't really listen, so the next interesting bit that happened was when we
in the changing rooms after we'd finished showering.  Like I said, it was a
quiet day and me and Mr Barrass were the only ones drying ourselves off.

I had my underkeks half pulled up when he said, "Do you want me to check
you dried properly, Jason?"

"Y'what?"

"Just... you know... what you said about me being circumcised," he blurted
out, suddenly sounding a little bit nervous.

"What I said about what?"

He smiled at me, regaining his normal tone.  "I hadn't realised you were so
clueless about stuff like that, Jason.  I thought that maybe it would be
helpful if I should you how to dry off properly."

"You mean, my cock?" I asked.

He laughed and glanced over towards the door, "Of course not!  I mean
underneath it.  Where it joins with your balls.  Where fungal infections
are most likely to occur."

"Fungal infections?  What are those?"

"Itchy, scratchy things," he told me, with a wince.  "Like eczema or warts.
You wouldn't want either of those under there, would you?"

"No I wouldn't," I answered truthfully.

"So it's best if I show you how to check you've dried properly."

"Okay," I said brightly and dropped my towel to let him do what he needed
to do with my cock and bollocks.  I know at that point I wasn't hard
because of what happened next.

He knelt down in front of me and put his hands up to my genitals.  His
hands were shaking: I distinctly remember noticing that and also the first
thought that came into my head: "Whatever's going on here, it's a big deal
for him."

He lifted my dick up – that's how I know it was definitely limp – and
made out like he was inspecting what was going on between my cock and
balls.

His hand felt lovely on my prick.  His fingers were so warm and soft and
the way he was holding the shaft and squeezing it a little made my innards
feel like they were moving around.

He said, "It seems okay, Jason.  But I think I should show you how to dry
off down here."

He lifted his towel and rubbed gently and sensually under my knob, smoothly
caressing that sensitive part between the base of it and the top of my
wrinkly nut-sack.

It felt really nice.  Too nice.

I could feel I was getting hard in his hand and I got all embarrassed and
said I was sorry for it.

"It's not a problem," he replied smiling up at me.  "All of us get
turned-on when we feel a different hand on our cocks.  It's perfectly
natural."

That's where what I'd said to my former mate Edgy came from.  The stuff
that Mr Barrass told me.

"Can I do the same on yours?" I asked him.

"How do you mean?" he said back.

"Can I make sure I get all the stuff you've told me by drying you off just
like you did with me?"

He glanced around the shower room as if maybe some other guys had managed
to sneak in without him noticing.  Finding that it was still empty he
smiled nervously and answered back, "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,
Jason."

He pulled his towel down like I had and I saw once again how amazing his
skin-pulled-back dick looked and how nice and full his bollocks were
hanging down.  He smiled at my reaction and put one foot up on the bench to
give me better access to what he was offering me.

"Your dick's so great, Mr Barrass," I told him.

He smiled and said, "You're a nice lad for sayin' that, Jason.  And you've
got a lovely bonny face."

He looked around again to check that we were still alone, and kept doing
the same thing over and over, the whole time that I was fondling him.

I put my hands on his cock, which felt so big and thick compared to my own,
and then lifted it upwards so I could see where it joined with his balls.
It was nice looking at him under here, a place that was so secret and
private, and I felt my own boner swell up and stand fully upwards, as if
peering up at what I was doing with Mr Barrass' bits.

"What am I looking for, Mr Barrass?" I asked him, trying to see if the
wrinkled skin showed any signs that it was inflamed or even reddened
between where his dick and balls joined up.

"If you... er.... keep holding my willy up just like you are, and maybe
squeezing it a bit, the redness underneath might... you know... become
obvious if it's there."

Oh yeah, I thought.  Like I don't know what that's all about.

Nevertheless I did what he'd told me to, and when it started getting bigger
and firmer I couldn't believe how thrilling it felt.

I looked up at him and grinned.  "Yours is getting bigger now!"

He smiled down at me, "I said it was a natural reaction when someone's
touching you down there.  It happens to everyone."

"It feels really cool!" I told him, squeezing it more firmly.  I bet his
boring wife had never said anything like that about his knob as it got
stiff.

I said, "The skin's not going red or anything, but maybe it will if I rub
it a b?"  Like I said, I could be a devious sod when I wanted to be.

I began rubbing his shaft gently, trying to look all innocent as if I
didn't know that I was basically starting to wank this older guy off.  His
knob swelled between my fingers and kept growing bigger and harder against
my skin, a sensation which I find unendingly fascinating to this day.

He muttered, "Yeah, that's it, Jason.  You've really got the idea..."

And I kept rubbing him like that, quite slowly and sensually, watching his
cock growing to become massive and upright in front of my face, with the
slit on the end of it starting to ooze with clear liquid which made the
head of glisten and take on a beautiful purple sheen.

I said, "It looks lovely when it's all big," and reached down with my other
hand to squeeze my own.  Mine was straining in how excited it felt: I'd
never let it swell so hard without relieving it by beating it off.

I was just about to say, "I better rub mine the same way, Mr Barrass.  See
how it compares," when some old bloke came huffing and puffing into the
shower room and Mr Barrass quickly pushed me away.

"Okay, Jason, that's... er... how you tell if you've got eczema..."

He turned around to hide his erection from the old fella and bent down to
pull his stripy pair of briefs on.  He called across to me, "Pull your
pants up, Jason.  Tuck yourself away, now."

I wasn't going to let him leave it like that.  I'd had this nice, young
bloke's rock hard cock between my fingers and I wasn't going to let it go
without a fight.

"Would you show me again in your caravan, Mr Barrass?  I don't think I
really get it from all the stuff you've said."

He looked across at me, his eyes quite fearful.  He clearly knew what he
was getting himself into but he wasn't so uncomfortable about it that he
could bring himself to say a flat 'no'.

I went on, trying to sound like just a curious young lad who was so eager
to learn, "I mean, your wife's with my mam in South Shields today.  And
Humpty's with them too so it's not like we're gonna be disturbed."

I'm sure I didn't call his little girl Humpty.  I no doubt said her real
name but I can't remember what the fuck it was.

He nodded slowly, grabbing his shirt from the hanger.

"I dunno, Jason.  It seemed like maybe you understood it well enough..."

He needed me to convince him.  He was a bit nervous about acting on the
attraction he obviously had for me and he needed it to be me who would lead
him on.

Good job he'd come to a pro on that score.

"The whole eczema and warts thing's got me really nervous, Mr Barrass.
Maybe, instead of coming back to your caravan, I should talk to my mam
about it..."

What a manipulative little shit-face I was back then!

(I guess that's pretty much the same as now, except I'm not so little.)

"No, I don't want you to do that, Jason!" he said quickly.  "I mean, you
shouldn't really tell your mam any of this..."

"Well I just thought if you could show me again on me... and then I'll try
it again on you... I won't need to tell anybody, will I?"

"Okay," he conceded, glancing at the old fella who was wheezing and
snorting as he slowly got undressed.  "Yeah, we'll go back to my caravan
and I'll... er... go through it again."

So we did.

His caravan stunk of toast.  I quite vividly remember that.  Maybe Humpty
kept demanding toast with jam and honey and cream on it and stuff, or maybe
the parents lived on toast while the daughter ate everything else they had.

Glancing around at how their caravan was different to ours, I pulled my
trousers and pants down and presented him with my cock.  He held it and
rubbed it the way that I had with his.

"Yeah, rubbing it lets you see any signs of infection, Jason.  It stretches
the skin and makes any problems look bigger."

He really thought I didn't know about wanking!  It was kind of cute, I
suppose, and showed that he mustn't have started pulling his pud until he
was just about leaving college!

"Can I see yours while you do me?" I asked him.  "So I can compare?"

He flushed red.  "I'm afraid I'm... well... a bit aroused, Jason.  Having
you come back like this, and telling me that you're wanting me to –"

"I don't care about that, Mr Barrass," I laughed.  "Like you said, this is
all natural so it doesn't bother me if you've got a woodie."

He nodded gratefully and pulled his trousers and pants down.  His dick
sprang up like it was on a coiled spring and his bollocks pressed outwards
as if his spunk factories had been working overdrive at the prospect of an
upcoming jazz-off.

I reached forwards and lifted his cock so it was vertical as if inspecting
its underside.  It felt lovely in my hand – warm and hard and sort of
pounding with his blood – and I liked how when I gripped it a dribble of
clear liquid oozed from his piss-slit.

"Okay, so nothing under yours, Mr Barrass," I told him with a smile.

He tried to smile back at me and yet in his eyes I could see that he knew
my game; knew I wasn't as innocent as I was trying to let on.  But it was
important to him to pretend that this whole thing really was just
educational; that he was doing me a favour as a kindly father-substitute
and that there was nothing sexual in it, nothing at all.

That was what he must have been telling himself to try and ignore how
excited he couldn't stop himself from feeling.

"I'm sure there's nothing under yours too, Jason," he said, swallowing with
a dry-sounding gulp, "but it'll be best to make sure."

He started rubbing my foreskin up and down, gently and sensually starting
to beat me off.  It felt so good to have another hand doing it for me,
moving in unpredictable ways and with a coarseness to his skin that was
totally unlike my own fingers, and I groaned in my appreciation.

"Does that feel good?" he asked.

"Yeah," I giggled.  "Is it supposed to?"

"Of course.  Things that are good for you normally feel good, don't they?"

I chuckled back at him.  "If you say so, Mr Barrass."

"Call me Ted," he said.

Isn't that strange that I couldn't have told you his name was Ted until I
got to that part?  This not wanking off while you're thinking through your
memories kind of pays off, doesn't it?

So Ted Barrass or Edward Barrass: that's the name I'll have to look up on
Facebook if I can be bothered.  He'll likely be friends with a younger
female Barrass – possibly Theresa – whose big multi-chinned face
would no doubt fill up her whole profile pic.  If I can find someone like
that, that'll be him.

He said I should move around so I was standing in front of him with my back
to him while he "examined my cock".  I think the angle must have work
better for him.  Fellas like me can wank a cock off from any angle and in
any position within a one metre radius – even upside down – but poor
old Ted Barrass wasn't so proficient.  He needed me in the same position he
was used to when he was jerking himself off.

I stood in front of him, my back against his chest and belly, and he
started jerking me off a lot more confidently.  His technique was rough and
a bit quicker than I would have liked, but it was still nice to feel
someone else's hand on me and even better that it moved in all sorts of
ways that mine never would.

"The trouble is with doing it this way, Ted," I said, "is that I can't see
your cock to compare with mine.  I reckon it should be right in my face so
I can see really closely what's going on."

He laughed at that: by now I think he was getting the message.  He'd taken
on a cock worshipper; there was only one way this was going to end.

He got up and moved around so that his nice big donger was bobbing in front
of my face and I could sniff how great it smelled with his fat, hairy
bollocks swinging around underneath it.

I suppose I could have sucked it if the thought had occurred to me.  The
trouble was, it didn't.  It was only when I was with my mate Edgy a few
weeks later that that idea had presented itself.  Typical that Edgy hadn't
gone for it, whereas Mr Barrass almost certainly would have.

God, imagine if I'd have known all the stuff I do now, with Mr Barrass in
that little caravan of his.  I mean, imagine if I really had leaned
forwards to suck him off and then bobbed my head under his swollen nut-sack
to stick my tongue up his cute, hairy arse!  And then bent him over his
fold-out table to fuck him while I jacked off that lovely cock of his.

Jesus, he'd have still been spunking up when his airhead wife and fat-girl
got back from South Shields.

But I didn't; I didn't know about anything like that.  I just knew that he
had a lovely big cock that was so great to look at while his hand was
whacking away at mine, and that as long as I pretended I knew diddly-squat
about sex, it was likely that he'd keep going until I was squirting all
over his concealed drawer units.

He kept beating me off, his huge cock throbbing upright in my face, and
said, "Jason, does this feel nice?"

"It feels brilliant, yeah," I said.  I wasn't sure how much longer I was
going to hold out.

"It's something that men do," he told me.  "Something that you'll probably
start doing pretty regularly soon."

I really can't believe he was such a retard that he thought this was my
first time at wanking.  I was nearly as tall as he was.

I reached up and grabbed his own cock and stated jerking it as well as I
could with no foreskin to guide me.

"Ooh, that's nice," he called out.  "Yeah, Jason, keep doing it like that."

I gripped my palm more strongly around his dick and pumped up and down on
his shaft, like I would on my own but on that the foreskin would be moving
with me.

I wish I could remember why he said he'd been circumcised.  Something about
his hideous wife: maybe she found the whole foreskin thing a bit icky for
her delicate tastes.

I dunno if that's true.  It was probably a medical thing.  I just like
blaming stuff on straight guys' godawful wives.

We kept wanking each other until the inevitable end came.  He started
spurting first and the sight of all that lovely white cum squirting out of
his swollen piss-slit had me shooting my own load, his hand still slamming
back and forth long after I'd finished off.

When eventually he did let up, I cheerfully let myself out of his caravan
while he hunched there with his trousers and pants around his ankles and
his head in his hands.

When I told Philip the story for first time he said, "And that was your
first sexual experience with another male?"

I'd nodded and he went on, "Surely you see the significance of it?"

"A fella wanked me off in his caravan.  I enjoyed it.  Fucking loved it, to
be honest.  So yeah, it was pretty significant."

"But it goes deeper than that, Jason.  Your dad had abandoned you to take
some other woman's kids on foreign holidays, your step-dad couldn't be
bothered to spend time with you, so your reaction to that was to flirt with
the first bloke who showed you some attention and then you ended up
seducing him to fulfil your need for male affection."

"Or... maybe I just liked him wanking me off," I suggested with a grin.

Philip smiled.  At first I couldn't tell if it was because he liked me
cutting to the chase or because he was being indulgent.

He likes being indulgent.

During one session, a good while ago, he asked me if I fancied him.  Asked
me if I liked to imagine the two of us together and what he might look like
naked.

I laughed and said, "Come on, Philip!  It says in my record I'm a sex pest
so of course I fucking do!"

And he laughed back, even though I could see he thought he'd maybe pushed
me a bit far, and said, "Forgive me, Jason.  I'm just being indulgent."

The next morning when I went out of our caravan to find Mr Barrass so we
could head off for our shower as usual, his car and caravan were gone.
There was just a big empty space where his caravan used to be, the grass
all yellow and two brown hollows where the wheels had been.

I asked my mam what had happened and she shrugged and said vaguely that
something must have cropped up.  Maybe one of them had been ill, although
wifey and Miss Dumpty had both been well enough in South Shields.

"Where were they from?" I asked her.  "I mean, did you get their address or
phone number or something?"

"They were from over Shildon way but I didn't get anything more than that.
Why do you ask?"

I shrugged.  "I just liked Mr Barrass.  He was... er... fun..."

"Aw," she crooned.  "You and him must have got on well, going for your
showers every day."

"Yeah, but now he's just pissed off like every other bloke does."

"Hey, you!  Don't swear!" she snapped.  "You might be upset but there's no
call for talk like that."

So that was the campsite story, as requested by Philip.

Coming up next – I promise – the very first blowjob I gave.

That time at the level crossing really was the first occasion I got a cock
to worship good and proper.  Bulmer might not have wanted me to caress it
and kiss it and rub it across my face – let's face it, he was just a
horny lad with a pork-on and wanted someone, anyone, to suck him off –
but I managed to stall things enough to really savour the moment.  And that
established the pattern that I pretty much followed from then on: the cock
is to be worshipped and praised even if its owner is too stupid to
appreciate the needs of the divinity stashed away in the front of his
trousers.

~~~~~~

I'd love to get some feedback about my 'Cock Worshipper' journal if you're
enjoying reading it, even if you just take the time to say 'hi' as a fellow
fanatic.  Or why not follow my blog to find out when my next journal entry
is due.

jason.kason@manlymail.net
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