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Masturbation…Most males over the age of twelve do it.
Some of us do it when we’re tired, others when we’re horny, some when we’re frustrated and others, well, just because it feels so damn good. Research indicates that fifty-four percent of men in the U.S. masturbate at least once a day, so it’s really a quite normal, common behavior.
Yet, there’s an pervasive negative view of masturbation in our society. Kids tease other kids about jerking off. Parents are horrified when they first discover that Junior is leaving a puddle of cum in his bed every morning before he gets up to go to school, then realize that his masturbatory activities are the reason hand lotion in the bathroom seems to disappear at such a rapid rate. There was even once a theory that jacking off would cause warts to grow in the palm of one’s hand.
Boys are conditioned very early on to go to great lengths to conceal the fact that they masturbate…And god forbid you get caught in the act! I know because I got caught in the act, and the humiliation was like nothing I’ve experienced before or since.
It was 1958, almost sixty years ago…The evening after I graduated from high school…I remember every detail of that spring as if it were last week.
When I hit puberty, my penis and testicles started increasing in size on what seemed like a daily basis. By the time I was 18, I had a fairly long and thick penis, and testicles the size of small eggs. The problem was that these two most impressive appendages were attached to the scrawny, lanky body of an eighteen year-old boy.
So, even though I was much better “equipped” than 99% of my classmates, I was sometimes the target of ridicule. Guys in gym class showers would tease me about the size of my penis and ask when my muscles were going to catch up to it. Comments were made to the effect that if I’d stop stretching it when I jacked off, it’d stop growing.
Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t bullied. Anybody with their genitals showing in the dressing room was ripe for some kind of insult. No matter your size, if your dick was out in the open, it was fair game. It was just a guy thing and everyone understood that at some point, it’d be their turn to catch hell.
Of course, in my simple mind, the teasing about my excessive jacking off carried some validity because I did jack off…A lot. Early in puberty, I would wake up in the middle of the night with my dick hard and throbbing and really not know what to do with it. I had heard other guys talking about “jacking off,” but it’s not like they were offering lessons or anything. So it took some time before I figured it out.
Then one day I was in the shower and in the process of soaping up my penis and testicles, took a couple of extra strokes and discovered the art of jacking off. Once I started there was no stopping. Given the chance and the privacy, it was something I’d do two or three times a day. I could never get enough of it.
The fact that I was an only child and had a bedroom to myself made it even easier to practice this ancient art form. My room was on the opposite end of the house from my parent’s room and there was a “Jack ‘n Jill” bathroom that connected it to a third bedroom. The third bedroom was a “guest” bedroom, but since we rarely had guests, it was usually empty. So, I had a bathroom where I could keep and use stuff like hand lotion and Kleenex without raising suspicion.
That said, I was usually very careful to lock the bedroom and bathroom doors before beginning to play with myself. I had a kind of routine I’d carry out where I’d strip off my shoes, socks, trousers, shirt and jockey shorts, leaving only my tee-shirt on. Then I’d stack my pillows against my headboard and kind of lean back in relaxed sitting position and spread my legs wide apart with a wad a Kleenex beside me and a bottle of hand lotion on my bedside table.
I’d play with myself until I had a fully hard erection, then pour a puddle of lotion in my hand and slowly stroke myself while I imagined one or another girl or woman in my school, church or neighborhood. While I liked girls my age, older women always have appealed to me the most. So, many times, when I had an orgasm, I’d have my eyes closed and my mind on one of my teachers or one of my mother’s friends. I’d slowly jack off and squirt my load onto my stomach, then clean the whole mess up, flush the Kleenex and store the lotion in my bathroom until the next time.
I was always careful to keep the doors closed and indulge in my “activities” at times when my mother wouldn’t be likely to come down the hall to announce dinner or something like that. As a result, I never had even a close call with her or my dad. Looking back, I do think that my mother knew what I was doing because while I never ran out of lotion or Kleenex. There was always a good supply of both in my bathroom with new bottles and boxes appearing anytime either got low.
I think my parents actually had sex quite a bit…They were always touching, Escort Sefaköy playing grab-ass and kissing and their bedroom door would suddenly be closed at the oddest times of day. It was made clear to me never to come knocking at those times. So I guess they understood the whole sex thing better than most parents in the 50’s.
Anyway, sex was a big mystery to most teenagers (And many adults) back then, and I was no exception. There was essentially no general access to hard core pornography like there is now. What little stuff we could get were old “men’s magazines” we stole from people’s trash or school paper drives.
“Playboy” had only been in publication for a few years and it was almost impossible for a kid to get a current copy. There were some other magazines like “Swank” and “Cavalier” that showed women’s breasts and nipples, but never, ever, any photos of genitals, male or female, and certainly no photos the actual sex act. I know now that these things existed in the shadowy underground of ’50s pornography, but they certainly weren’t available to any high school students with which I was acquainted.
The first time I saw a photo of a woman’s pubic hair was in a tattered, black and white newsprint copy of something called “Sun ‘n Fun,” which was purported to be a magazine about nudist colonies, but was really a “hard core” magazine for both straight and “queer” men because it showed men’s penises along with full frontal nudes of women.
It was a stupidly silly publication with grainy photos of nude people playing volleyball, tennis and sometimes showering or walking hand in hand. I remember being amazed that the blonde in the photos in this particular issue had coal black pubic hair…Another mystery that went unexplained for several years.
So, as an eighteen year-old high school senior, I had only seen photos of pubic hair on one woman, had only seen breasts and nipples in a few magazines and had never seen a nude woman in the flesh. Boys my age talked a lot about sex, but we had not the first real clue what it really involved or how you went about it. Guys knew nothing about sex other than what others’ older brothers, cousins and uncles told them and much of that “information” consisted of lies and fabrications that were contorted and confused as they were passed along.
Truth is, women were a complete mystery to most of us. As I said, I had fantasies about “fucking” girls my age, but for some reason, grown women appealed to me much more than girls and the one woman that fired my fantasies more than any other my mother’s youngest sister, Josephine…Or as I called her, Aunt Jo.
The youngest of seven girls and three boys, Jo was six years older than me. It was during my early teens that she became my “favorite aunt.” I was the oldest of a variety of cousins and even though I was only twelve when she was eighteen, we often drifted away from the crowd at my grandmother’s dining table to talk about music and school and what a “drag” adults could be. She never talked down to me, never dismissed my opinions, and always laughed at my attempts to be funny. Suffice it to say that my Aunt Jo had my attention from those early teen years.
Yet, as is normal with the progression of time and maturation, Jo grew into a young woman, moved out on her own and left me behind as I made my way through junior high and high school. We would see each other occasionally at family events, but we seemed to lose our commonality as we, and especially she, grew older.
Over time, Jo became a stylish, attractive, long legged brunette with (From what I heard when I wasn’t supposed to be listening) a wild side. The youngest of ten kids, she was spoiled, wily and worldly and the renegade of the family. She had her own style of dressing, a sort of ’40’s movie star chic that tended toward tight skirts, sleek blouses, stockings and high heels. She drank whiskey and smoked and was kind of flirty around men.
She turned heads, male and female, every where she went and even as a kid I could see that women watched their men more closely when she was nearby. Even my mother, who loved her dearly, paid close attention when Jo was around my father. I remember that probably the biggest disagreement my parents ever had involved Jo and my father and something about getting a bottle of whiskey out of the back of a walk-in pantry at a party.
I never knew exactly what happened, but there were harsh words by my mother and declarations of “innocent fun” by my father. In the end, my mother didn’t speak to my father for about a week and he had a hang-dog look for much longer than that. Looking back, I’d say he went without pussy for quite some time because of that deal with my Aunt Jo.
All of this served to pique my interest in Jo, but at the same time, I considered her to be more of a buddy I had lost touch with than anything else. She was around, but is a different league than I. I pretty much accepted the fact that she Yenibosna escort bayan had moved on into that strange world called “adulthood” and I just directed my attention to other things and people.
All of this changed suddenly and completely one Sunday afternoon at my grandmother’s after the lunch table had been cleared.
My dad and uncles were out on the back porch smoking and talking. My mother, grandmother and aunts had moved into one of the bedrooms to admire the latest of a growing brood of cousins recently born to one of my older aunts. My juvenile cousins were outside throwing rocks at one another, a favorite pastime of unknown origin, and I was laying on the living room floor watching a baseball game on television.
At some point, Jo came in and sat down on the sofa.
“Who’s winning?” she asked.
I glanced up to answer only to have my glance met with the vision of her crossing one long leg over the other and the hem of her skirt riding up to reveal the top of her right stocking, a strip of pale bare skin, and the elastic strap of her garter belt disappearing underneath the hem of her skirt.
“The…Um…Yank…Yankees,” I stammered, struggling to pull my eyes from the top of her thigh before she caught me looking.
“Don’t they always win?”
“T-they win a lot, but not always. Nobody always wins.” I laughed as I turned to take another look.
“I know,” she laughed as she continued to stare at the black and white image of Yogi Berra at bat. “I was just teasing you because…”
And she turned to glance back at me, only to catch me staring at her nylon encased thigh and the garter belt peeping from under the hem of her skirt.
Her eyes met mine and she raised one eyebrow in a questioning manner, “…because you’re a Red Sox fan.”
“O-oh y-yeah…” I stammered as I turned away, my face turning beet red and my penis rapidly engorging.
I knew about lingerie. I had seen all that stuff in the Sears catalogs and in the soft porn images in the magazines we’d scavenged around the neighborhood. Hell, my mother had bras and panties and stockings and yes, even garter belts…But that was my mother…You don’t think about your mom being sexy, or even sexual.
But this wasn’t my mother…This was Jo…Tall, long legged, flirty, sexy Jo…And it was Jo’s high heels and legs and nylons and flesh and garter that disappeared under her skirt to a place that was dark and secret and probably warmer than I could ever imagine…But lord knows my imagination was about to explode trying to come up with something.
I stared at the television, not seeing a thing. I wanted not to look, but I had to see it again. I tried with all my being not to look, but I failed.
Turning my head, I focused on Jo’s thigh just as she reached and pulled at the hem of her skirt down, covering the top of her stocking. I knew she had caught me looking and I could only look up to meet her gaze.
The slightest smile flickered across her lips and she said, in the quietest, yet clearest voice, “Don’t take advantage. It’s not polite.”
With the quiet utterance of those six words, I was paralyzed with embarrassment and could only drop my eyes to the floor and nod my head in understanding and shame.
I lay on the floor staring at the television, but had anyone come in the room and asked what was happening in the game, I would not have been able to answer. The image of Jo’s thigh was burned into my brain and each time I visualized that image, my penis throbbed with excitement and the need for release.
Finally, Jo grew bored with the game and went outside. Once she left I was able to surreptitiously shift my erection into a more comfortable and less visible position, then get up and go to the bathroom. My objective, of course, was to masturbate. But once I got in the bathroom, I remembered that unlike the bathrooms in my parents’ home, my grandmother’s older home had no locks on the interior doors. The remainder of the day was one of extreme sexual frustration and the ride home in the backseat of the car seemed as if it would never end.
Once home, I feigned fatigue, lied about incomplete homework, told my parents “Goodnight!” and beat (No pun intended) a hasty retreat to my bedroom. In a lust driven panic, I grabbed the hand lotion and a wad of Kleenex, and shed my shoes, socks, jeans. My penis bounced to vertical as I shed my briefs and was dripping precum before I could lay back on my bed.
With no need to play with myself to get hard, I filled my hand with lotion and slowly spread it over my erection. On the third stroke, I felt my testicles tighten between my legs. I slowed my stroking in an attempt to make the pleasure last, but it was to no avail. Before I could even visualize Jo’s stockings and garter, cum was roping all over my chest and belly. The force and volume of my orgasm was something I’d never experienced and in less than thirty seconds, I lay Halkalı escort panting, coated with cum and very frustrated.
Once I got the mess cleaned up, I got into the shower. Before I could get the water fully adjusted, my penis was erect once again. A lot of Lifebuoy soap and a self-imposed regimen of stroking five times, then counting slowly to ten, enabled me to go almost three minutes before cumming a second time in less than a half an hour.
I attempted to study, but all I could see was stockings, flesh, garter and the shadow under the hem of Jo’s skirt. Sleep came slowly and only after jacking off a third time. I tossed and turned and awoke at some point after midnight with a yet another raging erection. Jacking off a fourth time resulted in “empty balls,” but left a penis that was was chafed and sore. I awoke sleep deprived, grumpy, horny, and sore between the legs.
The only thing that kept me from rubbing my penis raw the next day was the fact that I had to go to school and then the dentist before I had privacy again. Things settled down a little after that, if for no reason other than the fact that I had chafed my penis to the point that there was little pleasure in the sensual abuse to which I was subjecting myself.
Looking back on this period of time, the thing that amazes me is that, because I had not the first factual clue of how two people had sex, when I jacked off , I was not visualizing sex with Jo. All I had in my mind was her high heels, legs, flesh, garter and skirt. Yeah, I wondered how she looked nude, but when my lotion covered hand wrapped round my erection, that image from my grandmother’s living room floor was what popped into my mind.
For the next two months, things moved along as normally as one might expect. There were the weekly Sunday dinners at my grandmother’s and on occasional “extra’ event like a birthday or christening and Jo and I both were always present. She was always affectionate toward me, always asked how I was doing, and never seemed to be uncomfortable with any memory of the Sunday afternoon in my grandmother’s living room. I was perpetually on alert for any opportunity to repeat that scenario.
If “stalking” had been a concept in 1958, I would have been the walking definition of that concept. If Jo was there, the I was on the lookout. I had studied the drawings in the Sears catalog and stared at the photos from the magazines and my imagination ran wild with thoughts of what was going on under Jo’s skirts. I figured out that if I couldn’t see the tops of her stockings and the clip of the garter when she sat down, I could almost always see the outline of the garter on her thigh under her tight skirt. Once I discovered this, anytime I was around her I was in a constant state of arousal and was always trying to position myself to get a glimpse and then get somewhere as quickly as possible to jack off to those mental images.
It all came to a head (Again, no pun intended) on the weekend of my graduation from high school. Unlike today, where graduating from high school is an expected outcome of a teenager’s progress though the educational system, in 1958, it was a big deal. Add to that the fact that I was the first person in my extended family to be admitted to college and it became an outrageously big deal. Just about every adult in my mother and father’s family attended the ceremony on that Friday night, and there was a big picnic/party scheduled for the next afternoon.
I celebrated with my friends on graduation night, but was really looking forward to the next afternoon because, yes, Jo was going to be there. The party was great fun, particularly for my parents because their son was the center of attention. We ate and talked and laughed and danced until well past dark.
Jo was more than her usual over-the-top self, dressed spectacularly and particularly vivacious, she spent a lot of time talking to me about my plans for college. She even danced one slow dance with me at the end of the night. I could barely think when she wrapped her arms around my shoulders and started to sway with the music. At the end of the evening, I was stunned to find out that she was going to spend the night in the “guest” bedroom next to mine.
And therein lies my humiliation…
After the party ended, I helped my parents and Jo clean up most of the mess, but when they sat down to talk, I wandered off to my bedroom to get ready for bed. I had all sorts of thoughts going through my head, all centered around Jo being in the room next to mine. But as time passed and she didn’t come into the guest room, my mind began to focus on the possibility of seeing her as she undressed for bed.
I quickly brushed my teeth, gathered the hand lotion and Kleenex out of the bathroom and put it under my bed, then turned off the light in the bathroom and left both doors in the bathroom partially open. Turning on the small lamp on my bedside table, I took a look into the bathroom.
With only a little adjustment of the two doors, I was able to stand next to the door to my room and use the reflection from the large mirror in the bathroom to see into Jo’s room. Then I undressed to my tee shirt and waited impatiently occasionally giving my penis a light stroke as I stared into Jo’s room. It wasn’t a long wait…
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