Date: Sun, 16 Nov 2014 12:09:55 -0600
From: jason.kason@manlymail.net
Subject: Cock Worshipper Part 9

COCK WORSHIPPER PART 9
by Jason Kason
jason.kason@manlymail.net
jasonkason.tumblr.com

~~~~~~

I've been having a long think about what I want to write about, since
Philip has given me the freedom to talk about whatever I want, and I've
decided I want to go back in time a bit, to the night I first wanked off.

You see loads of books about this kind of stuff on the shelves at Tesco's:
'My Very First Snowman', 'My Very First Tricycle', 'My Very First iPhone 6
with 4G'.  Well, this is my own version with a cutesy cover and nice glossy
colourful pages: 'My Very First Wank'.

"Aw," you can hear the nice ladies on mums.net saying, "isn't that sweet!"

I've already talked to Philip about the first time I jazzed off because he
was interested in what I was thinking about when I did it (I mean, duh!)
and, more predictably, how I felt about it afterwards.

He said, "Most young gay men, when they first masturbate, find themselves
climaxing when they look at or think about their own genitals.  Was that
what happened in your experience?"

I gawped at him like I was especially dippy today.  "Who's doin' what now?"

That's my way of saying, could we cut the crap please?

He bristled but rephrased his question: "The first time you wanked, did
thinking about your own cock make you cum?"

"Oh, right," I nodded.  That was more like it.  "But, actually, no, I
didn't think about my own cock.  My own cock has never really been that
interesting to me."

"Really?" he asked.  Now he looked genuinely intrigued.

I nodded.  "Yeah.  You'd think I probably would have enjoyed looking at it
when I wanked, and maybe trying to worship it the way I do with other
blokes' cocks now, but I've never been that bothered about it."

"Does it revolt you a bit?"

"My cock?" I laughed.  "No, of course not!"

I was reminded of a lad in sixth form whose organ I had the honour of
gratifying for a while.  He was called Thomo, not short for 'Thomas'
obviously, but instead was the nickname for his surname 'Thompson'.  I
can't actually remember was his first name was.  Ian, maybe, or Lee.
Something one syllabled.

He was a swotty, specky lad who had a wanger with a curve in it.  I kid you
not, the thing bent so strongly to the right that by the time you got the
tip you were looking at it side-on.  Trying to be positive about it, and
hoping of course to properly exalt the sacred organ, I told him first time
I saw it that it would be good for shagging around corners.  He didn't find
that even remotely funny but it turned out that he was able to provide me
with sensations like no other when he had it up inside me, the way it kept
veering the side and jabbing my appendix.

Perhaps after all this time, it'll turn out the appendix is really a
G-spot.  Who knows?

We got partnered up in a Biology lesson, doing some experiment or other,
and he said in quiet voice calm as you like while he was tilting his head
to read the thermometer, "Latham says you like helping lads out...?"

Stuart Latham.  Pity his knob wasn't as big as his gob.

I glanced at the front of Thomo's trousers.  For all his face was pretty
grim to look at, he had a nice hefty bulge down there.  He'd probably
worked himself up into running a hard-on, plucking up the courage to make a
move on me.

Not that that mattered.  Even if his zipper hadn't been straining with
whatever his dick was doing inside his old-man drawers, my response would
have been exactly the same: "Yeah, I do."

Writing the measurement he'd taken in his notebook, he said, still without
looking at me, "D'ya wanna help me out?"

I felt like telling him he could help himself out by buying a max-strength
bottle of Clearasil, but instead I asked him, "What sort of stuff were you
thinking of, Thomo?"

He looked at the stop-clock and cocked his head again to take another
reading.  He muttered, "I heard somewhere that a lad's bum can feel exactly
like a fanny.  D'ya wanna help me find out if that's true?"

I nearly laughed out loud at that.  Like he had the first fucking clue what
a fanny would feel like!  Even the sluttiest of tramps in the bottoms sets
wouldn't touch him with a six foot pole.

But I would.  I mean, he had a cock didn't he?  So instead, I let that one
go and said, "If you let me suck you for five minutes, then yeah, I'll help
you find out."

He looked over at me and smiled.  He would actually be quite cute if you
could get past his awful skin and thick-rimmed glasses.

"Proper bum stuff, you mean, Kasey?" he whispered.  "With my knob... you
know... properly up your arsehole?"

Pretending to write some stuff down myself when the teacher looked over at
us, I nodded and said, "You'll need a condom, though.  And you'll have to
bring it."

I would bring the lube and it wasn't like that was cheap.

He got back to writing more measurements down and went on with his voice
shaking slightly, "Will you shave your arse crack for me?  It's just... you
know... it'll feel better if it's not hairy."

I shook my head, just randomly filling the table in my notebook with
numbers.  Now that a cock was filling my brain, I couldn't really focus on
whatever it was we were supposed to be doing.  "I don't want my arse to get
itchy, Thomo.  I reckon you'll have to take it as you find it."

After all, beggars can't be choosers.

He nodded.  He knew the score.

We started meeting up after school behind the bins around the back of the
sixth form 'Youth Hut' as it was called, me slavering over his
strangely-shaped cock for a good ten minutes or so and then sliding his
condom down it so he could, with some difficulty, work his bent shaft sort
of side-on into me.  Then we'd have about thirty seconds of rough and rapid
fucking, with me jacking myself off furiously at the way my appendix was
tingling, and him quickly filling the condom deep inside me and off to the
right.

He always had his eyes closed when he fucked me: I used to look back at his
greasy face huffing and puffing away over my shoulder.  He'd be wincing
like he was in pain while he pounded at my butt and I was never sure if it
was because he didn't like the feel of my hairy arse-crack, or if the bend
in his dick really did make sex quite painful for him.

After a few romantic dates like that, one night Thomo turned up with a C&A
carrier bag full of odds and sods of clothing.

He grinned at it proudly and said, "Hey, Kasey.  I've brought you a
prezzie."

"Oh nice," I said.  No lad had ever given me a present.  Actually, that's
not strictly true because I did once receive a herpes virus from some kind
soul during a blowjob which still brings me out in coldsores to this day.

He pulled out a red frock from his bag and held it up.

He smiled at me and then saw my face which must have been like: you've
gotta be fucking kidding me.

His smile sort of faded and he said, "Is it not your colour?"

"Not my fucking colour?  It's a dress!"

"Yeah..." he said uncertainly.  "But you like dressing up in woman's
stuff... er... don't you?"

"Why the fuck would I?" I asked.

"I thought that's what gay-boys liked," he replied.  He fished around his
bag, maybe thinking I hadn't quite understood what he was suggesting.  He
pulled out a bra and some rolled up balls of socks.

Now I'd seen enough.

"I'm fucking going, Thomo.  I'm not standing around having frocks shoved on
me."

I turned to walk away from him – and you've probably realised by now
that it's very rare for me to pass up an opportunity to spend time
worshipping a cock – but he quickly stuffed his misjudged gifts back
into his bag and called for me, pleaded with me, to come back behind the
bins.

"I just thought," he began to explain, when we were back in our lovenest,
"that you must like to dress up as a girl.  I didn't really think it
through."

"But I'm a lad like you, and I like that.  Why would I want to be a girl?"

"I dunno," he said.  "I just thought that was how it worked.  That one day
you'd get an op and start living as a woman."

"Fuck off, Thomo!" I said in near outrage.  "I like having sex with lads as
a lad myself.  That's what being gay means.  Boys doing it with boys.  Two
cocks together, two pairs of bollocks."

"Well, yeah... okay," he said, his eyes not on me but staring at the back
of the big council bins as he thought it through.  "I guess that kind of
makes sense, Kasey.  I just didn't think about it like that."

I nodded and he went on, "So if I'd brought some clothes to dress you up
as, say, a builder with a hard hat, some Doc Martin boots and one of those
bright orange jackets... would you have liked that?"

"Fuck, yeah!" I said, hoping he'd do exactly that.  But he never did: I
think he only really wanted me in that frock with the rolled-up sock tits
so he could imagine I was some lass he had his gozzy-eyes set on.

Anyway, to get back to Philip's question which was got me side-tracked, I
might not want to worship my own cock but I don't have any ill-feelings
towards it.  And I sure as hell don't want it snipped off in an op!  It's
sometimes nice to have one of my own to play with, but I think it prefers
it a whole lot more when I'm paying tribute to one of its brothers.

So back to 'My Very First Wank' by Jason Kason.  Available now at all good,
or maybe not so good, bookshops.

It was Sunday night and I'd been allowed to watch 'Spitting Image' which I
used to love and had gone upstairs and was brushing my teeth with the music
for 'The South Bank Show' playing.

I'm sitting here wondering why my mam and step-dad would watch 'The South
Bank Show' because they hadn't any interest at all in artsy-fartsy stuff.
I think my mam just liked the theme tune and my step-dad probably couldn't
be arsed to reach out and pick up the remote control at that time of night.

Anyway, with Melvin Bragg's nasal tones coming up through the floorboards I
made my incredible discovery.

I don't know why I was playing around under my bed covers, but I had my
torch shining on my cock and was looking at it poking upwards from pyjama
bottoms, its little slit peering at me as if confused about why it had such
a raging hard-on.

I guess I was fascinated by it, perhaps an early indicator of how devout a
worshipper I would one day become.  I'd had erections before, of course,
and maybe I'd similarly shone my torch on them, curious about what they
signified, but those ones had gradually withered and died when I hadn't
really known what I should do with them.

But this night the thing just wouldn't let up.  It was throbbing quite
painfully and the bean-sized tip of it had darkened from pink through to
purple.  It was also gently seeping a clear, thick liquid, I remember that.
I was a bit disgusted by how slimy it looked but was, at the same time,
intrigued about what was leaking from its slit that was that was making the
end of it so gooey and slippery.

Sex ed lessons at my school were pretty much non-existent, you see.

I ran my finger across the pounding purple head of it, shuddering and
gasping at how sensitive it was.  Then I raised my sticky finger to my
mouth and tasted the ooze that was smeared on the tip.  It was actually
quite nice: it had a salty, sexy taste that made my cock throb even harder
and the slit start dribbling even more profusely.

I was getting really hot doing this.  I could feel my cheeks were burning
and my forehead had sweat trickling down it.  It occurred to me that if my
mam had to get me out of bed for something, she'd wonder what the hell I'd
been doing under the covers.

(Looking back, of course, I realise she would have pretty quickly figured
it out!)

I strained my neck forwards to try and lick the swollen head of my cock.  I
wanted to lap at the nice-tasting goo that was weeping from it in another
early hint at the obsession that would one day consume me.

Needless to say, I couldn't get my mouth anywhere near my boned-up prick
but if I had, I dare say 'My Very First Wank' would have actually been 'My
Very First Meal of Hot, White Cum.'

Giving up on trying to lick myself, I pulled my foreskin right back and
then pushed it forwards again so that it covered the glistening purple head
and made a little puckered mouth at the end of it.

Then I did it again, enjoying the feel of the circular opening of my
foreskin sliding back across my mushroom head and the way my slit oozed a
gob of drool at the exquisite sensation of it.

I did it a few more times, steadily getting more confident, just easing my
tight round skin back and forth across my now straining purple helmet.

And then we were off!

I grabbed my cock with my whole hand – fingers and thumb wrapped right
around it – and took up a firm, rapid rhythm jerking my foreskin up and
down.  I was panting and gasping, the sweat now soaking my arm pits, almost
overwhelmed by how intense and luxurious it felt.

I wasn't one of these lads who farted about with their pricks over a series
of nights, slowly figuring out what feels nice and what doesn't, squeezing
a bit here and stroking a bit there.  I just grabbed the shaft of it and
started quickly and roughly wanking myself off, using pretty much the exact
same technique that very first time that I've stuck to all these years I've
been doing it.

I opened my legs as wide as I could, for some reason that made it feel even
better, and yanked my balls out through my pyjama fly so that they bounced
up and down and smacked against my hand as I pumped my fist faster and
faster on my grateful dick.  I knew full well how noisy I was being, with
my bed creaking like a see-saw and my bed-sheets thumping like a drum, but
this was simply far too nice for me to care.

To be honest, I didn't really think about what I was doing: that'll be the
"emotional blinkers" thing again that an earlier counsellor mentioned.  The
fact I was having 'My Very First Wank' hadn't occurred to me until after
I'd finished and I realised from all the thick, white fluid that had just
spurted from my cock and was making a mess on my tummy, that I'd just
experienced my first spunk-up.

While I was doing it, in those brief few minutes, I just lay there with my
torch still on, completely mesmerised by my hand sweeping faster and faster
as it pounded up and down my now painfully hard cock.

I was panting and sweating, and feeling a little bit scared by how
frantically my hand was now hammering up and down my throbbing cock but was
unable to muster up the willpower to stop myself.  My face must have been
scarlet and my pyjamas soaked and yet my hand kept beating at my dick, the
incredible feelings from it surging in waves up my spine and making me gasp
and whimper.

If my step-dad had bothered to traipse up to the loo during the break in
'The South Bank Show' he'd have heard it all going on in my bedroom: the
sound of my bed screeching like it was being sawn in two; the rapid beating
of my fist against my bed covers getting faster and faster; and maybe the
sound of me myself, breathless and grunting as I discovered the first of
many tricks my rock hard cock could do.

I don't reckon he did, though.  Before school the next morning, I looked at
him and my mam to see if they seemed at all different with me, but neither
of them did and so I figure my first time enjoying the love of my right
hand had gone totally unnoticed.

At the very least, as with my all matters sexual, my step-dad would have
looked away and blushed.

For the first couple of minutes I must have just marvelled at my own cock
as it enjoyed being wanked off for the first of many, many times: engrossed
to see how much bigger my hand was making it grow and how the head of it
looked so plump and shiny, puffing up so fat it was a like an over-ripe
plum.

But I soon grew bored of that.  I'd seen my own hard-on countless times
before and, while it was nice to see it in its new-found glory, hardening
and swelling to a size it had never yet achieved, I found it was far more
fun to think about other lads' cocks and whether their owners – the boys
in my PE class to be more precise – did to theirs under their bedsheets
what I was doing to mine.  How much sexier would theirs look when they were
rubbing at them like this; how much thicker and longer would they grow from
the dangly little peckers that flopped around in the showers?

"You're absolutely sure of that?" Philip asked.  "That very first time, you
thought of other boys' dicks?"

"Of course I did," I shrugged.  "Mine's nice enough, but other ones are so
much more interesting."

Lying there gasping and soaked with sweat, I thought about my friend
Taylor, who used to stand alongside me at the bench when we got undressed
before sport.  He was a really weedy lad but he had a lovely, full cock and
I always enjoying sneaking glances at the whopping great bulge it made in
his tight white pants when he pulled his black trousers down.

The mental picture of Taylor's well-packed briefs made my own fist-pounded
hard-on twitch with delight as I grabbed it more tightly underneath my
bed-clothes.  When I thought about how he looked naked in the showers –
his big, fat prick dangling down between his legs and looking totally
disproportionate to his scrawny body – it sent bolts of sheer pleasure
coursing up to my brain.

So that was how it worked, then?  Your dick felt better when you thought
about other dicks.  It must be like at school, when the teachers say that
your writing gets better when you read other people's writing, just like
your own drawing and music also benefit from studying other people's stuff.

It just worked that way with knobs too.  It stood to reason; there was no
point even questioning it.

Another lad in my PE group was Gibby and thinking about his cock made my
own feel just so, so good.  He was dead short but when he showered among
all us naked lads, I could swear his pronger used to get much bigger.  I
mean, it never stood up or anything – he'd have been the laughing stock
if it had – but he seemed to love showing it off, washing himself
flamboyantly with his hips pushed forwards and his dick looking so big and
heavy, smiling at anyone who he saw checking it out.

One week, I'd made a point of noticing that when Gibby first took his pants
off, his saggy nut-bag hung down much lower than his stubby-looking knob.
But in the showers, when he was flaunting his bits and soaping himself down
like he thought he was a porn star, his cock steadily thickened up and
slowly lengthened downwards until it was hanging about twice as low as his
hairy bollocks.  Maybe to him that was a full-scale hard-on; maybe he just
had really droopy boner.

I don't know that Gibby was necessarily gay but he was definitely an
out-and-out exhibitionist.  He loved it when other people were looking at
his pumped-up prick, seeming all the bigger because of how he was so short.
He didn't even blush when the teacher came in; I think he liked to see Mr
Coltman's face looking envious at how little Robert Gibson had a knob that
went halfway down to his knees and was probably even bigger than his own
man-sized dick.

During 'My Very First Wank', I thought about how some weeks when Gibby was
really putting on a show, his foreskin would roll back from his bell-end so
you could see his little red slit poking out from underneath it.  To me
back then, that was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen and I used to have
get the hell out of the showers as quick as I could in case my own knob
would bone up and everyone would start jeering and pointing at my stiffie.

So there I was lying there, having all these lovely thoughts about how nice
Gibby's cock looked and wondering if he lay in his bed pulling away on it
like I was now with mine.  How cool would that be, watching his hand
beating up and down his nice meaty hard-on, seeing his foreskin roll right
back and expose the big, red helmet that had for so many weeks fascinated
me.

I thought of a few other lads in my PE group too with pretty much the same
enticing images flashing through my brain until I came to Vaughan Macadam,
or Macca for short, who got changed opposite me.  I'm not sure I ever spoke
to the guy but he will always be special to me as the subject of my very
first ever spunk-up.

There's another nice glossy book for the shelves at Tesco.  Not so
colourful this one though: mainly just different shades of cream.

Macca used to climb on the long bench that ran down the middle of the
changing room stark bollock naked and do a stupid dance that made his cock
and balls jiggle around.  He seemed to revel in it and would do it just
about every PE lesson and all his mates, much rowdier lads than me, would
clap and cheer as he paraded himself for them.  It wasn't like they were
making him do it: Macca was one of the coolest guys in our year-group and
he'd only go and do stuff like that if he wanted to.

I don't think he was an exhibitionist, like Gibby certainly was: after all,
his cock never showed the slightest reaction when he was doing his stupid
dance.  I think he just liked to make his mates laugh and clap and tell him
what a nutter he was, and probably enjoyed the looks of shock on the
quieter boys in the group.

I used to love to watch him jumping about like that, almost in a trance at
the sight of his dick and nuts bouncing around, one minute slapping
side-to-side against both his thighs and then leaping up and down and
whacking against his pubes.  It was quite beautiful in a way and would have
looked even more stunning if you could have filmed it and played it back
frame-by-frame in slow motion.

I said that to Philip but he wasn't impressed.

I said, "It's a pity there weren't mobile phones with cameras on them back
in those days.  I'd have spent each week sneakily recording the changing
room and then played it back over and over up in my bedroom."

"And no doubt you'd have had a criminal record a whole lot earlier," he
retorted.  "You'd have ended up on the sex offender's register for doing
something like that."

"I meant when I was that age myself," I was quick to point out.  "I'm not
into dodgy stuff, as well you know."

"I know that," Philip replied.  "And I meant that too.  But even teenagers
who film other teenagers can find themselves in very hot water."

"What, you mean they end up all sorts of lists?"

Philip nodded.  "So I think it's best you were limited to the technology of
the eighties, Jason, don't you?"

I nodded back.  "Christ.  I'd have had my name on just about every database
going."

It's a good job, then, that the movie fuelling my first wank was just
playing in my head.

So thinking of Macca's knob brought me gasping and whimpering to my first –
shall we say – unexpected orgasm, though not with the memory of him
jumping about like an idiot on the bench, but what he might look like stood
there with his dick at full-mast in front of us all, doing what I was doing
with his hand sweeping up and down it.  That was the image that brought me
off: one of the most laddish of all lads who was in my year at school,
whacking away at his big hard dick on the bench with his mates all cheering
and clapping, and me peering up at it with dumbstruck awe.

I can still remember it clearly: the vivid mental picture that made my cock
start spewing.  Macca's cock was right in front of my face: its huge domed
helmet glistening and dribbling while his hand pounded fast and hard up and
down the imposing shaft.  He looked down at me, leering broadly at how
shocked I looked, and then directed the purple head of it forwards to fire
off a massive wad of spunk straight into my face.

A fairly appropriate image to cap off a cock worshipper's first wank, don't
you think?

I could elaborate that final climax-inducing image and say that the
position of the strip light behind him made it look like his crotch had its
own radiance, giving his cock a golden and glorious aura as his hand jerked
away at it, but Philip would see straight through a trick like that.  He's
not stupid is our Philip.  He plays it dumb sometimes but he sees through
most of my shenanigans as quick as a flash.

One day when I walked into his office, before we'd even said hello, he
glanced at the lump I was making in my trackie bottoms and threw me a look
of scolding reproach.

"What now?" I said by way of greeting.

"You seem to be bulging somewhat, Jason.  I hope you're not up to your old
tricks again."

"What old tricks?" I asked, knowing full well what he meant, and making
sure I crossed my legs when I sat down on the chair.

"You know which tricks.  Wearing a penis ring and loose-fitting tracksuit
bottoms," he said.  "Strutting around outside of the pound-shop in town,
advertising your wares and hoping another man will make eye-contact."

"It's nothing like that," I retorted.  "I was just in a rush and didn't
have time to find a pair of clean undies."

"So if you were to pull your tracksuit bottoms down right now, you wouldn't
be wearing a ring around the base of your shaft to make it look more
prominent?  Is that what you're telling me?"

"Er... yeah... kind of," I tried, admittedly dismally unpersuasively.

"Would you like to prove it to me?" he asked.

"Hang on!  That wasn't the part of the deal," I came straight back with.
"I just had to turn up here and talk to you about stuff.  There was nowt
about having to flash my dick off to you."

He smirked and nodded.  He knew my game.

"You must stop doing this, Jason," he went on, more quietly and with his
eyes more compassionate.  "You know what'll happen – you know full well.
Some guy with throw you a nod, the two of you will head off to the nearest
toilet stall, and then security will see what you're up to in there and
call the police.  And as you've already got a suspended sentence for your
other misdemeanours, we both know where it is you'll end up."

I shrugged.  "At least I'll get my teeth done for free.  A lad I knew went
in for a stint and came out with a nice new smile – top set and bottom.
Would have cost him twenty grand if he'd had it done himself."

"Is that actually true?" Philip asked with some interest.  Now I had him
weighing up the costs and benefits of a spell inside.  He'll probably be
ordering himself a cock ring and pair of trackie bottoms to swan around the
High Street in next.

But seriously, though, a few months in prison doesn't really worry me.
Imagine all the cocks to worship: all those horny, boned-up knobs that are
desperate for a bit of kindness and attention.  It wouldn't even worry me
if things got a bit rough in there sometimes: whatever predicaments I'd
find myself in, chances are I've already done stuff like that before and
chances are I've done it in worse places than a prison shower.  So I can't
see whatever goes on behind bars could really be that bad.

The day after 'My Very First Wank' the end of my cock stung like anything.
Next morning at registration I was almost grimacing with the jabbing pains
coming from my bell-end and kept having to fiddle with myself during
lessons to try and stop it hurting so much.

Maybe all lads get that.  Maybe the male teachers who noticed me keep
wincing and having to adjust my prick were thinking, "Oh aye, so Jason
Kason's just started bashing his meat off, has he?"

Maybe if I'd been a bit more switched on and looked around at my
classmates, I'd have noticed that every single other lad, one-by-one, was
having his own special day when he would keep flinching and tweaking the
front of his trousers.  I'd have liked that – seeing each boy in the
class figure out in his own time and his own unique way how his cock and
his hand made really good friends.

All of us slowly joining the wanker's club but none of us saying a word
about it to each other.

So anyway, that nasty searing pain quickly died away and I started rubbing
away at my hard-on pretty much every night from then on.  Sometimes I'd
sneak a quick one on my bed when I got in from school and sometimes I'd
have one first thing while I was in the shower.

And all the time, when I was merrily wanking off, I kept thinking about as
many cocks as I could, seeing nothing at all unusual about that until the
catalogue incident, several years later, with my former-mate Edgy.  I'd try
and clearly memorise what everyone's cocks looked like in the showers after
PE: that almost never failed to fuel a good wank.  But some of my closest
friends weren't in my PE group and I had to just imagine what theirs might
look like or sort of mentally construct them from odd flashes I might
glimpse when we were taking a pee.  When that failed, I always had my mam's
catalogue to fall back on but even she could sometimes get funny about how
often I looked at it especially as I never picked out anything I wanted.

So I had a stash of a few other bits and pieces underneath my old art
folder at the bottom of my wardrobe.  There was a cutting I'd kept from
'Smash Hits' magazine of the fellas from Spandau Ballet wearing just loin
cloths: that was just incredible as the five of them were all a bit sweaty
and the third one in – I had no idea of any of their names – had a
really pronounced bulge that was made all the better for being a bit
ambiguous as to whether it was being made by his cock or his balls.  I had
a picture I'd found on the back of a 45 single which showed Grace Jones and
her brother both in the nuddie; him with this mammoth black monster out
front that would need deifying rather than mere worshipping.  And,
underneath those, I had a small collection of pictures I'd cut out of the
Sunday magazines showing the likes of Boris Becker, Jason Donovan and Matt
Goss, all with their shorts or trunks showing off fascinating lumps.

It was all laughably tame compared to what's around these days, but any one
of them could easily get a good wank underway when my memory or my
imagination just wouldn't cut it.

One day when I was off school sick, I must have been consigned to my
bedroom and feeling piss bored.  For some reason I got out my collection of
'Guinness Book of Records' that my gran bought me every Christmas and which
were never normally opened except from a sense of duty on Christmas
morning.  I had absolutely no interest in them but had never had the heart
to tell her – the poor old bugger probably couldn't think of stuff to
buy a teenaged lad – so they just got filed away on my bookshelf, all in
pristine condition.

Anyway, I was having a rifle through them – like I say, I must have been
bored out my mind – and after I'd looked up stuff about who was the
fattest person who'd ever lived and who could eat the most boiled eggs
before chucking up, I flicked to the sports pages.

Now I remember the rest of this day very clearly because it was the first
day I ever wanked off five times in a row.

It was the cricketers that did it for me.  It was nice enough that when you
saw them from the back you could always make out the really obvious of
their underwear against their crisp white trousers, but the big hefty
mounds they were packing out front were just out of this world.  I can't
remember why I was sick from school, but my illness didn't stop my dick
standing up on permanent hard-on all through that day.

For a brief time, I actually got into cricket.  Well, I bought a sticker
album and started collecting the stickers showing all the players bending,
batting and bowling in their tight white trousers, which is near enough the
same.

It was years later that I found out that cricketers only pack huge bulges
in their crotches and have really prominent underwear lines on their arses
because of the cups and jock straps that they have to wear.  All those
wanks I used to have had been under false pretences; all those 'Guinness
Book of Records' hardbacks pored over with a magnifying glass when in
reality there hadn't been a single cock making as much as a dimple.

Anyway, that's my potted history of self-abuse all the way from 'My Very
First Wank' that Sunday evening, through to the infamous catalogue incident
with Edgy, which I've already told you.

I feel like this has turned out to be a rambling journal entry so sorry
about that.  No doubt in my next session, Philip will want me to continue
writing about the whole father figure fetish thing he reckons I've got
going on.

Thinking about it though, it's probably best when he guides me about what I
should write here.  There's no way I'd have admitted that before I tried
writing under my own steam, but he's probably right to give me a bit of
direction.

So maybe treat this one as a sort of interlude in my chronicle (or should
that be 'gospel'?) of cock worship before we get back on track next time.

~~~~~~

jason.kason@manlymail.net
jasonkason.tumblr.com