Hoo-boy…..for this, I have to go way back to 12 years old, at about the end of my seventh-grade year. I was in the bathroom taking a leak, and had a yen for giving myself a hard-on, so I kept on whacking away and whacking away….until I had an awful pain in my pelvis, my penis began spurting this clear liquid that definitely wasn’t the thick white stuff (thought it was just piss), and I started getting these Technicolor spots in front of my eyes. Then for the next minute I lost total control of my motor abilities, dizzily spinning around like I was about to faint. After that horrible minute I put my penis back, zipped myself up, walked out of the john and resumed whatever it was I’d been doing before. A while afterwards, I found I had to unstick the tip of my penis from my briefs. The incident went unnoticed by anyone else.
Several weeks later, after taking my gym class’s “special health” course (i.e., sex-ed), I was in the gym lifting weights with another guy, an eighth grader, while the other guys were out practicing baseball. We got to talking about the birth process, and what starts a pregnancy, and the other kid turned the subject towards sperm. I responded with, “Well, I’ve had hundreds and hundreds of erections before, and this thing called semen only comes out during a hard-on, but it never happened to me…..that must mean, then, that semen is invisible!”
Disgustedly, my weight-lifting partner slammed down his barbells and had me follow him downstairs to the locker room: “I’ll SHOW you that semen isn’t invisible!” (He’d always had a low opinion of my brain power.) We headed towards the toilet area; he took out his hard cock and began pumping away. I did the same with mine. We were at it for about five minutes, but I didn’t really feel anything. Then I saw the white stuff trickle from his cockhead and onto the floor. “See the sperm come out ?” he asked condescendingly. Well, I saw it, alright, but I never did come, so it was just a minimal education. Then the other guys returned, and we hastily zipped up. (He never cleaned up his load.)
But my REAL event and day of revelation occurred the Saturday after the last week of school. I was taking my usual afternoon bath when it suddenly hit me: washing my genitals felt so damn good, and I continued to lube my circumcised head up and down with more soap and water, mumbling alternately between how good it felt and being a cheering section for my dick. About ten minutes later, after much starting and stopping, never blowing a wad, I dried and dressed, no one any the wiser.
Some time after dinner, I went outside and ran down the hill to the old farm labor house (now vacated) and went into the old outhouse. I dropped my drawers and beat off. After two minutes I made myself decent again, ran out the outhouse, back uphill and in the house and straight to the john, where I locked the door and stripped completely down. I was as breathless with excitement as my penis must have been, and I alternately pumped and stroked—dry, no lube—and enjoyed myself fantastically for what seemed like fifteen minutes. After which point the pleasure somehow vanished and I was on some different plane altogether: no feeling, just a numb daze. I stopped, gave myself about two or three more pumps. Suddenly, a long white strand of thick fluid shot out of me, past the tub-and-toilet partition, landing towards the clothes hamper just past that, and splattering onto the bathroom rug. More spurts, none hitting quite the same distance. I instinctively took my arms away from myself, trying to enjoy the rest of the show.
I was king of the hill! “So, that’s what I make babies with.” Still on my knees making a small recovery, I redressed without any muscular effort allowing me to throw myself into so simple a task, my glans still slowly oozing sperm. I walked out, never mopping up the cum. I walked calmly down the hall and into the living room, plopping myself into an easy chair and looking placidly and uninterestedly at what the family was watching on the boob-tube. I got back up, headed for my room, and unzipped to pry my prick loose from the caked-over cum…..but suddenly, like before, my vision was engulfed by the Technicolor spots, sending me spinning in another dizzy spell, out of my bedroom, banging my head against a wall, down the hallway and into the living room. My sister asked me if I had a brain tumor. It certainly diverted our folks’ attention.
I stumbled back to my bedroom to recover. My mind was still reeling when my mother came in. After showing concern for my head injury, she asked if I was masturbating. I nodded. She then launched into an almost tearful lecture that I was engaging in too many adult activities and that she’d severely punish me if she found I ever did it again. She was thinking the next thing I’d be doing was to sic on all the girls and get ‘em knocked up! I still don’t know how she thought a dizzy spell was sufficient blame for jacking off; maybe it was the “evidence” I left in the bathroom, or that my belt buckle was still undone when I was spinning uncontrollably out into the living room.
In any event, I spent the next six months teasing and torturing myself sexually. I’d be in the tub, having that familiar feeling, but made sure I never did it to the point of orgasm. I made sure I savored whatever limited fun I got out of it. I discussed autoeroticism with my male peers in school; they obviously enjoyed it themselves; but I never found an answer regarding spilling seed on the floor. They took that all for granted. Then, one November afternoon I had my usual bathtime fun, only this time unavoidably giving my cock extra encouragement. Touching myself, then hands to my side, over and over again. Pushing myself past this brink, I got what I had coming to me. As the tidal wave of pleasure washed over me and the jizz flew, an almost simultaneous anguish seized me….what about another dizzy spell? What if my parents found out? (At least the cum just landed in the water and over my wet hands, and I didn’t have any gripping fear of getting Mom or Sis PG.)
Anyway, I panicked and prayed and vowed I’d never touch myself again. And so it remained the next three years; and coupled with my parents’ forbidding me and Sis from dating until we were sixteen—and essentially delaying Mother Nature for a good four years—I was pretty well doomed. That whole intervening period was taken up with frequent wet dreams: not really that, but just so many nocturnal emissions as there were no dreams to accompany them….that and the little chore to unstick my dick from my tighty-whities the next morning.
So I was sexless until my junior year, when I read an article in True Magazine detailing grown, middle-aged men’s masturbation experiences. The article quoted from one of Charles Manson’s autobiographical ramblings, in which he told of being raised in a series of boys’ homes, and he and his roommates always jacked off into a Kleenex, for fear of being subjected to mass humiliation at the cafeteria the next morning. I thought, “Why didn’t anyone tell me that before???” Can you believe it? It took a champion asshole to provide me with the solution. I felt like a complete idiot, but no matter: Sexual freedom was finally mine.