History: First Stirrings

 Well, my car is still in the shop.  I have given up trying to get someone to come to the house.  So, instead of the usual post…something a little different.  I’ve been talking about writing it for some time, that is, attempting to write my personal sex history—those 50+ years before I started the blog.  It won’t be all at once.  It might not even be in sequence.  Just some snapshots from the past.  I’ll just keep adding some around the usual reporting…  

 

My family lived on my great-grandfather’s farm.  It had stopped being a working farm in the 1940’s, long before my parent’s moved in at the top of the 1960’s.  The farmhouse was old and drafty, built in the 1860’s.  My older brother (by 4.5 years) and I shared what was once the master bedroom upstairs.  (My parents, being smart, took the smaller, but warmer, bedroom downstairs.)  The only heat upstairs was through an open iron grate in the floor.

The grey stucco house was on six acres of land.  What once were fields of corn were now mostly high weeds.  There was a small stand of trees near the old chicken coop.  A huge maple stood in the back yard and the largest lilac bush I have ever seen grew on the site of the old privy.  But best of all was the barn.

It was painted grey to match the house.  The two family cars were able to be parked in it, but more importantly, it served as an amazing place to play.  Two creative boys could make it be anything:  a fort, a police station, a house, a castle, whatever we could think of next.  This was helped along by the hodge podge of things stored there: tables, chairs, china, a bed under a green tarp and a huge trunk that looked like a pirate’s chest.  (It was actually the trunk you tied on to the back of your Model T and it currently sits in my sun porch.)

We spent hours, well, weeks, cleaning that upper floor.  And playing.  And needing a bath before dinner we were so filthy.  (I still think my incredibly robust immune system benefitted from all that dirt I inhaled.)

But the barn also held the first inkling of sex.  Sometime during that cleaning, while my brother was out at the hose getting a drink, I found a brown paper bag wedged into a small space where the floor met the wall.  It held two paperback books.  They were porn, though I had never heard the word.  I was likely 9 years old.  I stared at them.  Unbelieving.  Then I heard my brother on the stairs.  I shoved them back in the bag and back into their hiding place. 

“Mom wants us to clean up and help with dinner.” 

I nodded and followed him into the house.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about those two books.  Were they Dad’s?  They must be, I reasoned.  I lay on the lower bunk of our bunk beds and thought back to what I had seen. Now, by this point, I’d looked at a copy of Playboy belonging to a friend’s dad, but this was different.  I closed my eyes and thought of the two covers.  The first one was a young woman running naked on a beach being chased by a naked man, ass shots of both.  The second was racier: a woman in garters and hose, with a black lace bra showing off for a half-naked hunk on the bed—all while another man was behind the head board snapping photos of her seduction of the guy.

Did my prepubescent dick get hard?  Probably.  I knew I had to go look at them again.  I did, of course.  Carefully.  Never sharing with my brother what I had found.  But I didn’t think to actually read them for almost a year.

But that summer held another surprise.  Just before we were headed back to school, my brother announced that a guy he knew was coming over.  I vaguely knew him, too; his younger brother was in my class (and the source of the Playboy.)  What was different, was that my brother said they’d be upstairs in the barn—and I was to stay out—and should go play in the house.

What!?!  I couldn’t believe it.  But I did what he told me to do.   I lasted maybe 30 minutes until the pull back to the barn was too strong.  I wanted to know what was going on.  I’m not even sure what I thought was going on; I just hated being excluded.  I went quietly in the big front door.  The sliding door to the stairs was partially closed, but my skinny body could slip between the door and the frame with no problem.  I paused on the first step.  I listened.

I heard murmuring.  I heard the guy laugh.  Then my brother did, too.  More low sounds. 

I started up the steps.  Softly.  Like a cat.  But I hit the step that was cracked and it squeaked loudly.

“Don’t come up here!”  My brother’s voice was loud.

I froze on the step.  “I just wanted…”

“Go inside,” he said firmly.

I turned and went down.

I heard the bed squeak, the noise the springs always made when we sat on it.  What were they doing?  And why couldn’t I join in?  Now they were laughing as I shut the sliding door.  I went into the backyard, climbed the huge maple tree and felt sorry for myself.  

The next day, the sliding door in the barn now had a lock on it from the inside.

Many years later, when I was no longer the pesky, inquisitive kid brother, I asked my sibling what they were doing upstairs.  He was indeed getting his first blow job that day from his friend.  Something that at the time I didn’t even know what it was…

Here we are a little younger. 

I have always loved this picture.  

The hero worship in my eyes. 

He was and is a great mentor.