Date: Mon, 04 Aug 2003 12:59:32 -0700
From: Bob Stardog105 <stardog105@hotmail.com>
Subject: My Sexual Childhood 4: Puberty Pleasures

As the only child in a traditional Catholic family, it should come as no
surprise to learn that I was masturbating before I knew what it was. My
parents insulating me from sexual information had worked so well that I had
no inkling getting nude and experimenting with my genital area was sexual. I
knew that I should not get caught, but that was true of eating between
meals, watching too much television, reading comic books and a host of other
house rules.

I was presumably in the fifth grade, something early or middle of my tenth
year. At infrequent times I would be home alone in the late afternoon, after
school but before my dad came home. My mother would go out visiting or
something and the whole house was mine, if briefly.

bathroom discovery

One such afternoon without any apparent influence or model I went into the
bathroom, locked the door and took off all my clothes, even shoes and socks,
to sit nude on the toilet. Possibly I saw myself naked in the mirror above
the sink but would not have noticed since I did bathe by myself and saw how
I looked getting into and out of the tub. (I looked on the frail side, not
fleshy or muscled or robust. I'd have shown some ribbing above a perfectly
flat stomach and nondescript limp genitals, a little nut sac and a doodle of
an immature, foreskinned penis.) So there I sat on the toilet nude, possibly
the first time in that position, alone and with no chance of being
discovered. I might have handled my genitals, ah fluffing them or so,
letting them dangle freely, enjoying my being naked all over. That was the
extent of my first secret adventure. But my mind was racing forward.

For the next chance, and these were always uncertain events separated by
many days, I had the idea that I should use a hand mirror to look at my
behind, as I sat on the toilet. When I got the opportunity I quickly locked
myself in, shucked off everything and reached for the round hand mirror.
Looking up there was not as easy as I'd fantasized. I had to stand, bend
over and separate my legs and do additional contorting to get an obscured
shadowed view (one that I can't recall now, but easily reconstructed as a
boy's round behind with a cinched disk in the crack). As an incidental
activity I was moving my genitals this way and that to get an unimpeded view
in the mirror. When I sat back on the toilet seat to unkink from the bending
over, I used the mirror to check how my scrotum and penis looked from
underneath. I fingered them and lifted them to see how they changed
appearance in the mirror. They looked different from that angle. I could see
the special curves of the organs, their sag and weight. I could see how the
penis was tightly covered as it hung there. A predominant teardrop bulge
near the end. This examination became more engaging than the bent-standing
one.

At some point in this play I noticed that my dick was acting funny. It had
become obstreperous, not limply dangling or flopping about, but now poking
out like it was objecting. Its insolence could not be ignored. I put the
mirror down, giving me a free hand to deal with it. Hunched over to get a
close look, I grasped the offender in my fist, squeezing it tight and moved
my hand so that the foreskin slid up and back along the shaft, letting some
of the head peep out blushing in my grip. I released it; saw it was still
standing up, possibly even more now. So I gave it another chastisement in my
fist, making sure it knew it was thoroughly punished. But it not only stuck
up, it started swelling as if from indignation.

I was alarmed by this turn of events. My mind leapt forward that I might
have permanently hurt myself, would have to tell my parents and be taken to
the doctor. Still, there was a general sense that I was feeling OK and my
dick felt OK too.

I decided that probably if I continued working it over that it would settle
back to its dormant self.

I returned to grasping the stiffened penis, moving that skin back and forth
with determined force.

It was amazing that the penis had to my mind grown enormously. I was less
aware that it had hardened or colored or changed shape than that it was much
much bigger. I thought that my handling it was a form of massage and that if
I were to massage my arm or leg it too would balloon up. Wow, who would have
thought it" Maybe I was the first to discover this. Maybe it was something
scientists should be told about.

I returned to my experiment working my dick over in the same persistent,
vigorous way.

Suddenly something changed. Inside me. I felt a severe impulse. Not a pain
but equal in intensity. Not something I could understand. I had this sense
of gathering pressure, a pending eruption, an explosion. As it came closer
to me, it was a total black out of senses, as if I'd fainted and come back.
There was no sense of pleasure or completion or release. Just that something
very dramatic was about to happen and now had passed. I was OK. Or was I"

I focused on the streamers of white stuff that has shot from my dick over my
legs and the toilet seat. That was not good. At least it wasn't blood. But
it wasn't pee either. Something was wrong. I broke something. Would I tell
my parents, get taken to the doctor" Maybe it would heal on its own. Boy, I
better not mess with it again. I had a close call this time. Can't afford to
risk things like this again. And maybe there was something wrong with me
now, something that would take time to show up. Wow, I really better be more
careful.

So I cleaned up. Got back in my clothes. Pretended nothing had happened and
waited to see if any problems developed. Another whole day went by. My
mother left me alone again. What should I do?"

I quickly mulled over the possibilities. First nothing had developed.
Everything worked as before. Next, I wondered what it was all about, what it
meant. Only way to understand it was to do it again. Now I knew what to look
for. That was a plus. So I rushed into the bathroom. Locked up and sat naked
on the toilet to check everything out carefully this time.

Again my dick dangled there, the image of innocence. But I knew better. I
handled it and its two pendent accomplices. Getting them all accustomed to
being scrutinized, rubbed and fingered. The penis, as it was wont, started
to lose its composure. It drooped longer, became more substantive, and began
to expand. Time to renew its education. It found itself once more in my
wrapped fist. From its limp squiggle it had become a stiff rod.  It became
perturbated, wondering why it was getting picked on. Sticking out in pout. I
would give it no time off for good behavior. It would get its due. I started
in with the up and down motion. A good long session to make it pay attention
before a breather to check its condition.

It looked very much beleaguered from its thorough handling. The moist head
was sticking out of the foreskin now showing its dark red blush of shame, a
marked contrast from the tiny pink pee slit. The revealed head glistened in
a slick coating, like an oiled ball barring. The skin was much more loose
this time, rolling back easily to near the flanged corona. The penis shaft
was very springy, thin like a reed or bamboo. It had doubled or even tripled
size from its sedentary state. It all looked great to me. A wonderful play
thing.

I resumed handling it. While I may have done another check or two, I doubt
it. I hurried forward with the complete workout feeling the build up of
pressure and pleasure. Yes, pleasure. This time I knew what was happening. I
was observing it closely. I was in control. There was a growing sense of
warmth, of deliciousness, of gratification with the penis getting rubbed up
and down. And it built quickly. It was going someplace, and I knew where. I
felt the gathering of the impulse, that sudden reaching of the cliff edge
and knowing the fall was inescapable.

Festoons of white stuff again, not as fulsome as yesterday but still forced
streamers of it ejected straight up to dribble down my hand and bursting
penis. A flood of pleasure rippled though me everywhere. It was a flash of
heat, of light. It was past. I slumped forward, let the sensations seep
through all of me, feeling the sense of exhaustion take over from so much
power rushing out.

I had made it happen again. It was wonderful. It was me.

aftermath

In the next few hours of that day I had a chance to review what was going
on. First, from the slump after ejaculation, I felt guilt. If not before
than now I realized that this was not just something that my parents would
disapprove of (to put it lightly) but that anyone who knew this about me
would know I was evil and doing sin (though I was not sure which sin).  I
decided I should "give it up." But that of course could not happen. At the
first opportunity to get in the bathroom with little chance of discovery I
would rush in to masturbate. Still the guilt ate into me. I was committing
sin.  But next my mind caught on that I now had a perfect pastime. A perfect
pleasure that was available whenever I could get in the bathroom. It was so
great. It cured everything. No boredom, no loneliness. I came down on the
side of I'd do it because it felt too good to be bad for me (apart from the
sin thing).

My next worry was that somehow my parents would "know." They had special
adult knowledge and would see something in me, a look around my eyes" a
special mark" that grownups could recognize but kids did not know about. I
decided to risk it. Luckily I was right, nobody could see anything but a
little boy, someone who had never had anything sexual mentioned to him.
Someone who knew nothing about life.

Over the next few weeks I began to diversify my activity. Realizing that I
could not wait for a vacant house every time, I started masturbating when
I'd sit on the toilet during regular bathroom visits. Then I'd masturbate
while I was bathing, though it was annoying to try to get the sperm threads
to wash down early enough when I drained the tub so I would not be found
out. Finally I started very stealthily to masturbate in bed.

bedtime capers

Masturbating in bed was not something I easily thought of. The idea came
slowly. What if my parents were deep asleep" What if my door was closed"
What if my covers were pulled up to my chin" It seemed safe enough then.

I slept in underclothes and pajamas. Once in bed, once the house was quiet
(though no telling if my parents were really asleep after saying their
Rosary), I'd slip down my pajama bottoms to my thighs. Then my briefs came
down too, leaving me with my genitals available for whatever I thought they
needed most. My legs were flexed, first to give me a tent to move my hands
without any rustling sounds against the sheets, but more likely it mimicked
the seated posture I'd experienced on the toilet. This position had the
great advantage (at least later) of allowing easy access to all areas of my
groin to inspire sensitivity along the creases of the scrotum, the inner
part of the thighs.

So in the dark quiet house I'd take my clothes down, make a tent of the
covers and using both my hands explore myself. I got lots of pleasure from
all the areas of my genitals (I avoided the anus as it was "dirty") circling
in on rubbing the stiff penis for longer periods of time, but would break
off to examine how each testicle slipped easily in its bag, how different
funny little tubes ran in the bag under the skin, how the skin wrinkled up
and finally firmed tight over the balls, after which I'd return to that
baldheaded bastard to give him another jacking to show him who was boss.
Finally when the patience of my little dick was exhausted, I received hot
spurts over my bare stomach as payment for my tormenting it so thoroughly.
The sense of completion, a special restful glow, settled over me. It was a
panacea to my gray life. It brought contented sleep.

My house did not have Kleenex. We used cotton handkerchiefs which were
washed until they were thin enough to read through. I never figured out how
to ejaculate without leaving evidence. Most often after my stomach was wet
with clearing fluid, I'd just slip my shorts up which served as a wick or
blotter to soak up the spermy liquid. It left stains and smell. I'd use them
several nights in a row and have yellow blotches on each for the wash.
Possibly when I started, my ejaculations were not as copious as when I
became a teen but at some point it became a laundry problem and I coped with
it by rinsing my tight briefs out before hand or hiding them and putting
them in the washer myself when a load was being done. Regardless, it was
never a good solution and caused some curiosity from my parents I did not
want. When I left for college I abandoned in the recesses of my closet a
shoe box stuffed with old smelly, yellowed shorts.

fantasy island

Almost from the beginning when I handled my stiff dick I used images to get
me to ejaculate. I'd pretend this was being done to me by a friend or that I
was doing this to a friend. My very first fantasy was that I'd take my
classmate, friend and neighbor Johnny out into the undeveloped areas behind
our homes, out where no one could see us and show him what I'd discovered.

We would sit side by side in a sheltered place (I'd picked it out, an
abandoned gravel storage yard). I'd explain that we had to get our pants and
shorts down. We'd each slip them down to our thighs, our bare behinds
directly on the sandy ground. Once we were both exposed I'd handle my dick,
then handle his as a lesson and then supervise him as he handled his own. I
guess I shot before I went to the next fantasy step where he'd handle me. I
used this fantasy again and again as I lay in my covered bed. I'd feel the
hot sun on our naked places, feel the grit on our behinds and see how his
penis looked once I worked it over.

It was not too much later that a new neighbor, Jamie, cultivated me into a
sex partner and soon after that I was able to do the same to a boy cousin,
Malcolm, who was slightly younger than me. Malcolm, and eventually other
boys, became the focus of my sexual fantasy life.  Early on I had long
stretches of no partnered sex and in those dry spells would spin off images
of what I wanted to do next with Malcolm.

Here are a couple.

Malcolm and I would be left alone in his home while our parents went to the
market (it happened in reality several times). We strip and go into the
bathroom to look at each other. We both have drank a lot of water and when
we needed to pee we would each insert our stiff penis into the other's
behind to pee there, filling our partner so he'd have to sit on the toilet
to empty it.

Malcolm and I would be left alone for days in our grandmother's home to look
after it while both our parents took her to the hospital etc etc. Once
there, I lay down a rule that we had to spend the whole time with our
penises sticking outside our open briefs/pants and that at anytime either of
us wanted he could examine the other in whatever way and for however long he
wanted. I'd be able to see when Malcolm's penis got stiff or see him when he
needed to pee. He monitored me just as closely, day and night.

a non-Malcolm fantasy

It so happened in reality that one sunny afternoon when I'd been outside
playing I noticed a couple of youngsters, boy and girl, directly across the
street in their front yard. The little boy, for reasons unknown, had a very
distracted look and in that diminished state pulled down his blue shorts (he
wore no underpants) to his tanned knees. This was not in particular
connected with the girl in the yard who was distant from him. No one else
was around. Being "mature" I walked over to him and helped him slip his
shorts back up to his small waist. I behaved, as anyone from any window
could see, with appropriate care for him.

But my mind as I walked to him was filled with the sight of his genitals.
The tiny circumcised penis and tiny scrotum, his pale bare thighs. I knew he
was showing a bare behind too, thin and prefect.

I did not linger. I did not say anything. He did not react to me, but did
not pull the shorts down again either. I walked away. Again my mind was
overpowered, transfixed, by the perfection in him, his boyishness.

In my following masturbation fantasy I'd have spoken to him. Asked him what
the trouble was. He'd not be able to say. I'd take him by the hand to the
side yard, to a place out of view and again ask. Again he'd be unable. I'd
slip the briefs down to check. "Does it hurt here" Here" Etc"" and move my
hand first over legs and tummy then over scrotum and penis, then the
wonderful behind. I'd separate his legs, look at him from different angles.
He'd be like a doll, would hold each position as I examined him, felt him
tenderly. He does not know what any of this is or means. He is overcome that
someone is concerned for him, someone cared for him. He sees me as an
important friend and will from now on go anywhere with me and let me do
anything I need to do with him.

In reality I never saw him again, could not act on the impulse (and
presumably would not have if given the chance). But the image of him was
like a trap that sprang shut on me, one I could not be freed of. My mind
circled over and over on him, the Perfection, the Perfection.

activity as I matured

Well only Jamie and Malcolm were my partners until I was in college, just
those two. But Malcolm was a big outlet. As we grew we had sex with lots of
variations. Our opportunities increased as well.  But because constant sex
was a requirement for me, I still was a proficient masturbator.

Probably with input from Jamie and with my access to school books, even
dictionaries, and then from the general locker room environment I was able
to piece together a workable understanding of sex and how masturbation fit
into that. It happened gradually, but at a point in junior high I was able
to see the Big Picture, know what was happening with my body and for the
most part enjoy it (secretly of course). I got the boy lingo down after a
few mis-steps: Jack off, Jizz, Prick, Balls, Nuts, Queer, Cherry. As well as
the more academic: Sperm, Semen, Masturbate, Virgin, Homosexual.

My maturation process went in these steps: enlarging penis, beginning of
pubic hair, under arm hair, bigger testes, chest hair, deepening voice,
filling out and thickening of erection. As noted, I had an ejaculation
before I got any maturing characteristics. I never had a wet dream before
the first masturbation and was probably so drained I could not produce one
after. I would rarely get spontaneous erections in provocative situations.
In sex I'd start soft, would need to handle myself to get erect. In this way
I have had ejaculations before erections if too excited.

A milestone at the time, but the memory now lost to me, is initial
retraction of foreskin.  In the beginning masturbation sessions I would jack
with the hand grazing the covered corona at each stroke and on ejaculation
I'd spurt through the partly retracted skin still covering the corona.
Judging from others I can see that over time the sleeve of foreskin as
stretched through masturbation against the flange of the corona and loosens
on its own. Before this automatic loosening, to pull the skin tight against
the glans especially one that is swollen in erection causes discomfort. Even
tearing or bleeding. So from my adult perspective I can reconstruct that I
continued for months to masturbate and ejaculate through the foreskin.

This would have changed when I began masturbating regularly in the bath tub.
There I could soap up the penis, even retract the skin over the head for a
complete washing then hurry for a good rinse to take the sting away. I was
able to see how the foreskin worked easily down the shaft, to gather at the
base leaving the penis a smooth nub, just like on the circumcised Johnny.
Once I had this experience I would have masturbating in bed automatically
retracted more of the skin until it peeled back behind the corona on the
shaft, leaving the head bald. From then on at the time of ejaculation if not
before, I would consciously remove the foreskin completely, stretching it
down the shaft to add sensation to the glans as my semen spewed.

I remember peeling back the skin when I was soft to keep my penis bare
inside my briefs and pants for periods of time. I could endure the unusual
sensations on the head but in a matter of moments with walking the foreskin
would return to its usual protective place.

As I got older and had more contact with my peers especially in relatively
wild settings of boys restrooms and junior high PE locker rooms I became
very aware of how much of an oddity I was as an uncircumcised Anglo. True,
some ethnics like Hispanics were never cut but all the rest of the "whites"
had decidedly clipped dicks. This was another thing for me to worry about in
my seemingly being always out of place.

As if attracting bad luck I remember a morning walking laps alone around the
track when two other classmates passed me, one saying "We're gonna have to
circumcise you." Yikes. I did not need this. I was able to pal up with
another student so on the next circuit I encountered the first pair, neither
mentioned the subject.

I really liked not having been cut, did not what to change my status, but
did not relish the distinction either. Luckily Malcolm was uncircumcised
too, for the same reason, so this gave me reassurance once we became active,
but that sense of security was centered close to him not with me alone at
home or at school. There being uncircumcised was isolating. It probably
served as a cover anxiety for my deeper worry that if my classmates learned
of my compulsive masturbation they would marginalize me even more (if
possible).

As a practicing if reluctant Catholic I had to report my sins, including
those of masturbation. I hit upon the bland "I did impure actions with
myself and others x number of times" as my way to rush by the stickier
aspects of the mortal transgression, for which I'd receive a nominal set of
Our Fathers and Hail Marys to recite. It was always traumatic to confess and
I would go in less frequently as I got older. I had more and more guilt
problems, even giving me hallucinations at one point after masturbating in
bed of hearing my thumping heart as a beating against the outside wall.
Gratefully this was an isolated incident. Most often I could tune the guilt
out, as I did with the relevance of confession. One way I kept count of the
"number of times" was to put some ambiguous mark on my wall calendar.  Then
add them up before I went to church. That is the one way I can report with
confidence now that on a pure week I'd masturbate 5 or 6 times while in a
very active one it would be 9 to 12.

Of course I did not masturbate in bed 12 times a week.

In the bathtub I had the great pleasure of seeing myself naked and excited,
growing to full arousal and the fireworks of ejaculation.  Later I'd add to
this centerpiece the pleasure of anal/rectal play. After some casual remark
regarding hygiene from my mother (at the time I was told to start using
underarm deodorant) I began to use soap on my "dirty" anus. I guess before I
thought "what's the use"" anyway the sensation was not bad, and my esthetics
were not compromised. I progressed rapidly from chaste washing to using a
soapy finger inserted through the ring to rub the inside of the rectum. This
was a great leap of faith for me. I still had in the back of my mind a
childish version of the human body: The body was like a stuffed toy where
the cotton batting could come out through the seams or like an inflatable
beach toy where air could hiss out the opened plug. I thought that band aids
were to keep the blood from gushing out of you. Poking my finger through so
obvious a barrier was fraught with unexpected results.

I did not get damaged. The soap stung but was not long lasting as I'd
continue to withdraw and reinsert the finger until the loosened channel
rinsed out somewhat. While I did not get any instant gratification through
penetrating the fleshy ring of muscle, the exotic feelings permeated the
whole region heightening sensitivity. To do this special exploration to
maximum benefit I'd put only a couple inches of water in the tub. I'd do the
initial soapy insertion above the waterline, then the rinse out below it. I
was also able easily to soap up the scrotum this way, getting delicious
languid feelings as the testes slipped under the skin and the skin slipped
under my soapy handling. It's unlikely I developed the technique of
masturbation to ejaculation with a finger inserted in the rectum. (If so it
was not with prostatic contact. I am sure I did not figure that one out
until adulthood.) Regardless my semen jets landed on a face cloth I'd
prepared over my belly and chest making clean up a snap. For the rest of
that day I'd carry with me at my seat a certain "raw" feeling, not exactly a
soreness or abrasion or tingling, but possibly a mix of all three that was
unique to when I had given myself a good soapy probing.

Also behind the locked bathroom door I would slip in a few more naked toilet
experiments. I got to wondering how it was I could pee or squirt but not get
um mixed up. I decided to masturbate till I got real hard while at the same
time I needed to pee. I was at first afraid I couldn't aim because my
recalcitrant erection refused to bow down to the toilet, so I laid across
the seat to pee that way. It did not work. I gave up. I let my erection
deflate. Then sitting on the toilet I'd hold my rubbery penis so it would
point up at my face, slowly getting it to release its golden pressure.
Misjudging its force as the surprisingly hot liquid quickly climbed up my
chest, I covered the stream with my hand to get the flood under control,
rippling down my belly and thighs, until it was just a trickle welling up
from the pee slit to cascade back on the fleshy head, spilling over the
cupped foreskin, down the shaft to tinkle below into the toilet. A great
show. Of course my slippery companion was then given a vigorous jacking to
force it to make the other display to our mutual satisfaction.

I got delight in getting in position to pee then sealing off the edges of my
foreskin so once I got started the sleeve would balloon up with the liquid,
forcing its way down to the deepest creases before bursting the light hold
of my fingers at the top fringe. It was a kick to watch and had the added,
if dubious hygienic purpose, of flushing out the increasingly itchy
secretions under the corona, a problem especially noticeable during hot
summers as I matured and as I masturbated several times a day.

The other venue of masturbation was my closet.

I felt more and more confident as I grew up into high school age that my
closed door to the bedroom would be respected ("busy studying") and if not,
then my closed closet door would not invite anyone to look for me inside. So
I'd go in there and in the dark, unzip and pull my penis through the gap in
my briefs to masturbate into some old shorts or a handkerchief. It could be
done with ease and speed. I could time it so my family was still at the
dinner table and unlikely to call me or look for me. Often I would also be
able to ejaculate easily twice in an afternoon and again once at bed time.
The bed was my constant masturbation partner.

Once as an early teen I was sick in bed for a school day. The bedroom door
was closed to keep me quiet. I decided that I would probably not be caught
if I handled myself under the covers. I did so to a sticky conclusion and
rather than lay there wet and cold got up to blot my still stiff dick off,
which I kept protruding from both briefs and the gap in my pajama bottoms.
The door opened suddenly as my mother strode in. I crumpled to the floor
saying I was looking for a toy that had rolled under the dresser. It might
have been believable to her, not sure. Not sure if she saw my erection
bobbing in the air either. She said nothing. I did not do that again.

As a late teen I could masturbate both before going to sleep and on waking
up early in the morning. But since I was more drained now than when younger
I developed the expedient habit of masturbating with my legs together
(covers folded down), so that at the critical moment I could clamp them
tight to force an ejaculation that would otherwise stall out.  I had been
taking more and more risks and certainly this last noisy practice (squeaky
bed) led to my getting "discovered," a very embarrassing encounter with my
father, and our going that Saturday to church for my confession. Luckily he
was as uncomfortable as me, and between my being more quiet in my habits and
his discomfort we never had another "man talk" again.

Once I moved out, and in fact on the very first day away by myself in hotel
room in a distant city before the dorm of the university opened, I could
masturbate with total freedom. I turned down the covers on the bed, stripped
naked that afternoon and lay there under streaming daylight jacking away to
a huge ejaculation squirting head and pillow high in perfect liberation from
home, from parents, from Church, from all of it. I knew I was free to do
this anytime I wanted. No one could object. I knew for the first time that
it was not bad. That I was not bad. It was a great feeling.

Questions, comments, your experience welcomed. Send to:
stardog105@hotmail.com