I was a very fat baby at birth. And I didn’t want to leave the womb. I was expected in late November and showed up just before Christmas. The story that my mother didn’t tell me (until a touch of dementia loosened her up a little) was that I came out pissing. A geyser. Everywhere and all over everybody as the doctor held me aloft. How perfect for a man who loves to include some piss in his sex. It goes right along with a recurring childhood dream of swimming in a pool of piss. I had it nightly for years…
At around six months old, I lost all that baby
fat. I was thin. Painfully thin for all my childhood. I am still under weight for my height. And now I am thankful for it.
I took my time learning to walk. I am told I could crawl so fast, I didn’t
bother with the other. But once I did, I
ran. The old homestead was the perfect
place to race with the wind across the fields.
But I digress.
We left me with a dry orgasm…
I desperately wanted sex. But I didn’t know how to go about it. I was still pretty much a loner. I had friends, but not anyone that I thought
would do that “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours” thing.
So, I read Dad’s books when I could find them. And rubbed.
Wrapping my hand around my shaft took me some time to figure out. I did not shoot. I just got an occasional pearl of liquid.
I was now in ninth grade. My last year of any kind of gym class. And everybody was maturing. But not me.
A kid, destined for the football team, had matured earlier than most. He knew it and paraded around the locker room
stark naked showing off his man-sized dick.
As the fall semester progressed, it seemed like everyone else was
catching up with him. Lower voices, pubic
hair.
And me?
Nothing.
That November my church presented the opera Amahl
and the Night Visitors. I was
playing Amahl, singing boy soprano. The
first show went smoothly. By the second
one (on my 15th birthday, no less) I thought I had caught the cold
that had progressed through the company.
I had to really work on my high notes.
It wasn’t a cold.
In two weeks time, I was a baritone.
Puberty was upon me. Hair—below the
waist I was a forest. But nothing on
that scrawny chest. But best of all, I
was getting more and more semen.
In one of Dad’s books, there must have been a mention
of self-sucking. I don’t think at the
time I would ever have thought of it on my own.
I tried it. I bent forward. Nope.
I lay on my back and curled my legs over my head. My cock was right in line with my mouth. Bingo.
I licked and shot a load in my mouth.
And loved it.
The bunk beds were now side by side twins in my big
room that I had all to myself. The headboard
was slatted. I found I could use my toes
and get them into the space between the slats. I could grip the head board with them and stay
in place. It was uncomfortable if I stayed that way too long. So soon, I would just roll up and over when
it was time to shoot. It was so much
easier on clean up. Otherwise, I’d have
to haul out that yellowing athletic sock I kept under the bed.
During the summer before I went to high school, I was
doing one of the jobs around the farm I hated—picking up the litter along the
road. Our once sleepy rural road was
suddenly connected to a new portion of an interstate. Traffic doubled—then tripled. In 1972 we were still a nation of
litterers. So at least once a week I was
tasked with picking it all up.
Well, this hot July day got hotter as I picked up a
piece of newsprint. I seemed to be a newspaper
for swingers. There were ads looking for
thirds to add to couples, a couple looking for a Dom, etc.
But there was also a picture of a man fucking a
woman. I could see his dick going into
her. A first for me, in this age before
the internet. The covers of all those
porn novels were drawn—and never showed anything that hardcore. It was always a tease—a moment depicting just
before you did the deed.
I raced through the rest of my chores. I dumped the trash, washed my hands and took
my find into the barn where I couldn’t keep my hands off myself…
*
High School. At
last. I was growing taller—and fast. I remember sitting in class and picking at
the cuffs in my grey corduroy pants. I
had to let them down—I just kept growing.
I was still unsure of how to approach anyone. I’d found my group easily—the drama club—and there
were boys there who I knew had to be gay.
But I didn’t make a move. There
was one who actually lisped and walked like a girl—I couldn’t. Another I was sure was queer one minute and
then he’d do something that left me doubtful.
Yet another was just strange—but he seemed to have eyes for me.
I also wasn’t encouraged to partner up from watching
the hetro side of things. There was a
nasty break up of a couple while they were currently cast as the love interest
in the play we were doing. I hated the tension
and nastiness of it all and wanted no part of it. Add to that my parents wondering when I was
going to start dating, I just told myself to wait.
And I did. I waited
until I got to college and was in my own space.
*
There was one more discovery during high school. The summer of my sophomore year, my brother
came home for the summer and moved back into that tiny room. He brought with him a metal box, the kind of
locked box where you keep your important family papers. Of course, I snooped when he was away at
work. They were magazines. Not the over-the-counter gay magazines, but
stills from the fledgling gay porn industry.
He had seven of them that were gay and one straight one. A light bulb went off. Was he gay?
Did he have the same feelings about guys I did? But I knew he’d be brave enough to act on it.
I looked at one of the gay mags. Then I made myself look at the straight one.
I knew which turned me on more.
I waited.
And dreamed…
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