Chapter 19: A Few Short Stories


Author's Note: These incidents don't each rate chapters on their own, but they are amusing to share and, as with all of my other writing, quite factual. When I grew up in the 1970s, boys who suspected they might be gay generally kept their mouths shut about it. Only fools and misfits admitted their fatal twisted souls to the rest of the world—those poor unfortunates who were either too effeminate or too stupid to know any better.


More meaty stuff will follow- but this rates a smile or two. You may contact me at I will let you know when further chapters post.


When I was about 12 and in the seventh grade, a mischievous and kind of perpetually playfully hyper boy sat behind me in math class. (I wrote about him once before—mentioning that eight years prior he had been in my kindergarten class and that I was always attracted to him then because he had large mole on his hand and always smelled like peanut butter) I thought he was sort of cute and sometimes I think he saw me looking at him, and when he did I'd quickly look away. His name was Brian, and he had an older brother who looked just like him only bigger, and I was so envious because I wished I had a bigger, handsome older brother too. Starting one day, Brian started to call out to me under his breath during class. "Pssst! Hey Brad!" he'd whisper loudly. When I turned around, Brain was holding his hand out towards me with his fingers in a ring, making what I now know was the universal boys' symbol for jerking off. But then, I didn't know what it meant yet.

Normally, I didn't let things bother me much, but I strongly suspected that Brian's hand signal had something to do with sex, and I was very embarrassed not knowing the meaning of it. I know I blushed and started to get visibly upset after he called my name, I turned around and he repeated the gesture a few times. I was really ashamed because I (correctly) believed he was teasing me in some way about something he knew about sex that I didn't. But even more shamefully, I think I wondered if perhaps he was playfully propositioning me and that I was missing his meaning because I was too dumb to know what he wanted. He called me again and again, and each time I turned he showed me his cupped hand, and then he'd laugh as I turned away.

Doubtlessly Brian has learned this gesture from his older brother. Brian still had a high voice and was less developed than me, but this minor teasing made me feel really stupid and inferior. Before long I learned what the symbol meant, and I wished I had been worldly and cool enough to have understood it just a few months before so I could have said something smart back to Brian when he was teasing me. (Something cool, wise and in-your-face like, "I know you do it. What, are you asking to do me too, gay-boy?") Secretly, I still wondered if he was asking me if I masturbated, as I had to admit I would have gladly done it with him if we could have arranged it and I could have been sure that he wouldn't have teased me about it. I wondered if he did it too, imagining in my mind's eye how he'd look, lying on his bed and rubbing his stiff dick.

* * *

In eighth grade I recall we had "Health" class, another name for sex education, and it was taught by the elderly man who was our gym teacher and the school's football coach. One day the topic was nocturnal emissions, or wet dreams, and he explained that all boys had them.

Someone asked the coach if he was SURE that all boys had them, (assumedly, the boy asking had not ever had one and likely just wanted to make sure he was normal) and the teacher answered, shaming him by saying "Yes. All boys have them. If you don't have them it's because you aren't old enough yet or because of one other reason. Does anyone know what this other reason is?"

Smart mouthed Timmy Bergen laughed and raised his hand, and without waiting to be called on, he called out "You won't have them if you're playing with yourself every day instead!" Everyone in the class laughed, and the boy who had posed the original (and quite sensible) question turned as red as a tomato. By asking his honest question, he had let on either that he was too immature to have wet dreams, or that he didn't have them because he was a masturbator. I had learned all about masturbation by then and was a frequent participant. I was so angry with the monkey-faced football coach I just wanted to kill him for embarrassing that other boy so needlessly.

But then dim-witted Billy in the back of the room spoke up. Billy was a bully, and I was afraid of him. He cheated on tests, stole lunch money, liked to pick fistfights and was someone I kept away from at all costs. Billy especially hated me because he thought I was smarter than he was (but almost everybody was smarter than him, I'm afraid to say) and he caught me laughing sometimes behind my hand at his unguardedly ignorant stupidity when he'd speak up in class. "Wait!" cried Billy. "What is 'playing with yourself'? What do you mean? What is it? How do you do it?" The room fell silent for a moment, probably because the boys realized that the first one to laugh would pay for it dearly as soon as lunch time recess came around.

"I can't tell you that," said the old coach with a smirking smile on his face. "Ask some of your friends to show you how." And with that it seemed the entire room erupted in laughter, directed at Billy. I had to join them. It felt really good to know that tough-guy Billy didn't know about something so important as jerking off, something that even I knew about.

* *

In seventh grade I also became fascinated, even fixated on pubic hair. As I explained, I had always been intrigued past the point of being normal about the process of puberty, and as my older friends matured I would look for chances to see their tufts of pubic hair whenever I could. At some point it occurred to me that pubic hair might come in different colors, perhaps related to the color of hair that the boy grew on his head.

Carl was a blond boy who caught my eye. He was in my eighth grade homeroom class because our last names started with the same letter, but was not in any of my other classes. Carl's head was covered with fine straight hair that was so blond that it was almost white. He wasn't an albino or anything, just a very, very fair boy. I became rather fixated by Carl, staring in his direction during homeroom, sometimes putting my face down in my arms and secretly looking down underneath the desks to try to stare at his crotch. Like most boys of that age (13 and 14) Carl had unplanned erections from time to time, and I'd always be on the alert, looking to catch him nudging it as he sat sleepily in his seat before morning roll call. I imagined how Carl might look naked, wondering if his patch of pubic hair might be as blond as the hair on his head was. I vividly imagined that it was golden-white, perhaps the color of corn silk and if perhaps felt just as soft to touch.

All year long, I devoted much private energy to wondering how I could find out. I hatched bizarre plots in my mind, among them imagining I could put a letter in his locker that purported to be from the school nurse, ordering him to provide a sample of his pubic hair in an envelope, then figuring out how to intercept that envelope before she got it and opened it. Finally, I looked up his class schedule and found out when he had gym class. I figured out how to get out of my class early (probably with a forged hall pass or something) and I appeared in the locker room just as the boys in Carl's class were changing their clothes. Heart pounding I walked through the locker room, knowing my timing to see Carl going into the showers would have to be just right.

But my timing was off, just by a little bit. As I came around the corner I ran into Carl standing there, but still wearing only his tight whites, and froze in my tracks.

"What do you want?" he asked, as I had stopped like a statue right in front of him.

"Umm.... N-Nothing...!" I stammered, making up some lame excuse, blushing and quickly turning around to exit the room, suddenly wondering what had possessed me to try such a dumb stunt. So, I never saw Carl's pubic hair like I wanted to, after all my careful (and admittedly obsessive) planning. After thinking about some more ways might achieve this objective, I eventually just reluctantly gave up on the idea.


High School homeroom was always an odd sort of place. In other classes students were grouped by their academic abilities or by subject of study. Homeroom grouped us together alphabetically by last name, which had no relationship to our place in the social or academic circles we normally traveled in. I attended a rather large high school, so, in homeroom I was surrounded mostly by boys and girls who I'd never have been paired with anywhere else: some boys reeking of cigarette smoke from the bathroom, air-headed girls endlessly applying eye makeup with the precision of brain surgeons, dopey boys who played with sports trading cards and talked endlessly about NBA basketball players I didn't know.

Some of the homeroom boys my age were slightly cute to me, though, and I used this opportunity to observe them, just as I had earlier explained I would observe Carl, then keeping an eye on his tight jeans hoping to see him have an unexpected erection. (Keep in mind that this was the late 1970's and boys usually wore very tight, straight legged blue jeans that were almost like a second skin.) Any boy with an erection had a hard time hiding it, and those who had boners frequently even had visible slightly faded outlines of their erections worn into in their pants where the blue had faded a tiny shade lighter, where they constantly rubbed against jackets and desks.

Two very dopey, goofy boys sat behind me in homeroom during most of ninth grade that year. Ronny and Donald were like two peas in a pod, chattering and arguing nonsense with each other, both obviously tuned to the same Beavis and Butthead brain frequency. Ronny was sandy haired and freckled and looked like he didn't own a comb. Donald had a brown buzz-cut, a big nose and a dense, dull look in his dark brown eyes. Though they were 14, they would still bring Matchbox cars to school and play with them on the desks making pretend car noises with their mouths while they drove them around. They would amuse themselves by drawing on each other with pen, and talk about the trouble they were in at home, with teachers and with classmates. Their conversations about girls were especially funny, as they alternatively talked about girls like they were unobtainable goddesses and then a moment later like they were slutty sex objects. Their lack of experience with the opposite sex was obvious in their stories of bravado with each other. One day I laughed out loud as Ronny said carelessly but resolutely "What a great day this would be to sink my cock into some chick's steaming pussy". "Yeahhhhh, me too", agreed Donald. It was just so absurd.

One day I heard them arguing in hushed whispers and turned to look to see what was going on. They were fighting for control of a ballpoint pen, one trying to wrest it from the other, then quickly holding it up in front of his eyes to stare at it. Then the other boy would reach for it and try to grab it away.

I saw that it was a trick pen that had a small drawing in its see-through plastic barrel of a cartoonishly busty girl wearing a bikini When the pen was turned upside down, the girl's bathing suit would slowly disappear, leaving her naked. It was just a drawing and not a very good one at that, but the two boys were transfixed by it, pie-eyed over her repeated magic strip tease.

"Give me that! It's mine!" cried Donald, grabbing for it after Ronny had been gazing at her reverently for two or more minutes, his mouth agape, turning it over again and again, as the little drawing of the woman obediently and repeatedly dressed and undressed for him.

Looking at Ronny, I was amazed and very amused to see that he was obviously suddenly sporting a protruding boner, one he hadn't tried to hide at all; one that stuck almost straight out at right angles from inside his trousers. As he jerked the pen roughly away from Donald's attempted grasp, he turned slightly and absent mindedly rubbed his hand several times against his crotch, probably because it felt good, causing his erection to stop pointing straight out and now stick straight up in a noticeable tent as he fingered it through his pants.

The sight of these two dweebs playing with matchbox cars and getting hard-ons over a trick pen was just too funny to me. I remember to this day Ronny's fixated, gape-mouthed drooling nearly cross-eyed gaze fixed on the pen's tiny plastic lady he held just inches from his face as his stiff dick stuck straight out in his pants. I was sure if he was so easily stimulated that he'd masturbate that afternoon thinking about the pen. I wished I could have been there to watch him do it.


I have sometimes wondered if all people's orgasms feel the same. More specifically, I wondered my orgasms were unusually powerful compared to other boys I had jerked off with, those boys who didn't "shoot" like I did. My teenaged orgasms were so incredibly powerful—that by the age of 15 or so if I didn't carefully cover up as one approached, there was no telling where I would find the resulting emission had landed. The self-induced contractions I had as a boy were so strong that I could easily hit myself in the neck or face when I ejaculated, each and every time. In an earlier post I had related the story of how one day I simply COULD NOT find where "it" went after one especially intense after-school solo session, and I found out only several days later when I saw it—now very stiffly petrified and dry—launched high on the wall above my bed's headboard. With horror I found how hard it was to scrub it from the wall, as it had attained the consistency of dried Elmer's Glue. The shiny, scrub mark on the wall paint remained there as a perpetual reminder to me of my obsessive self-stimulated bedtime fun and games till I had grown up and moved away.

I wondered if my orgasms, which felt to me like somehow oddly pleasant 1000 Volt jolts from a cattle prod (if such a thing makes any sense) were part of the reason why I became so addicted to this habit as soon as I had learned it, and couldn't wait to race home and experience these incredible feelings of climax every day after school ended. I've detailed my (pretty ridiculously thorough and compulsive) exploits with my neighborhood buddies while growing up, and I am sure that none of them squirted even remotely with the distance that I did. Most didn't make more than a couple of inches of distance.

Frankly, It just didn't seem reasonable to me that boys who just dribbled a bit could possibly have the same powerful sensations inside as I did, when mine went off every time just like a nuclear rocket launcher. I wondered how theirs might have felt to them: certainly pleasant, I was sure, but did theirs feel like an internal 1000 volt electrical explosion the same as it felt to me?

This riddle made me feel inside both a little special, but simultaneously a little bit frightened that my craving of the sensation was driving me compulsively to experience what they never felt, in a way that made it such a top priority for me to experience orgasms so frequently, far more than any of the rest of them seemed to need, and in fact for me, as often as was physically possible.

One of the many times I had masturbated my teenaged friend Jake (I've told you about him before) as he willingly stood before me, I watched him ejaculate without my trying to block the flow at all. He groaned slightly and copious amounts of emission flowed out through my fingers and fell on to the floor, but only an inch or two in front of him. "Gosh Jake!" I had said. "You sure came a lot. When did you jerk off last?"

"I don't know," he had answered. "Maybe a week ago? I don't remember."

He didn't remember? And, A WEEK ago??? These answers were practically unbelievable to me.

Until they come up with an instrument to medically measure the sensations objectively and strap me into it, I guess I'll never know. But I'll still wonder about it.


I was 14, in ninth grade, when I glanced over at the new boy undressing for gym class. His name was Günter, and his family had just moved here from Germany. To my horror, I noticed that Günter was clearly missing the end of his penis! Trying to sneak looks in subsequent weeks confirmed my suspicions—the end of his penis was clearly gone, a stub, chopped clean off. Horrified, I tried hard not to imagine the graphic bloody accident that he endured that would have severed the head of his cock, and I could only imagine with anguish the pain he must feel being so disfigured.

I wanted to ask other boys if they had noticed... but asking another boy casually "Hey, so did you catch a look at Günter's dick in the showers? What's up with that?" was too risqué and openly gay for even me. I even briefly considered asking him directly what had happened to him, before I dismissed this idea as thoroughly unwise or simply crazy. Nevertheless, I had a hard time getting the vivid visions of his imagined gory mishap out of my mind, icy fingers running down my spine every time I envisioned the particulars of his situation. I wondered if he could jerk off, or if that pleasure had been taken from him so cruelly by his sad fate as well.

Now, where I grew up, nearly every boy was circumcised at birth. Up through high school I had no idea that I had myself been "altered", nor that any of my friends had been either. And, prior to the world of the Internet where nearly anything is viewable by simply typing a word or two into a search engine, the only access a boy would have to seeing other penises would be to see his own, his friends', or perhaps tribal African ones depicted buried in dusty National Geographics at the library.

It wasn't until years later that I realized that it was I, not Günter, who had been "disfigured" in a bloody deed, and that it was the end of MY penis that was missing and not his! It had simply never occurred to me that the rest of us were the ones who had been altered by the knife!

Maybe if I had been smarter, or I had the guts to ask someone else, or if Günter's stubby little penis had been somewhat longer (it was short enough that it didn't take much imagination to see WHY I thought its end might be missing!) I wouldn't have felt so badly for Günter all that time.


I had written before about my cheerful friend Greg, the one from Spanish class who had so readily been willing to admit he masturbated frequently, and was so eager to discuss the topic whenever I wanted. We talked about jerking off with the same regularity and casualness that most people discussed the weather.

A sort of cool boy named Trent sat near us and overheard us talking one day before class began. Trent had slicked back wavy black hair, a leather bomber jacket and he was always spitting coolly through his front teeth and onto the ground when outside. He listened for a while and then approached us sort of wide-eyed and asked with great surprise, "Are you guys talking about jerking off?"

"Yes, Trent. You do it too, don't you?", teased Greg, unafraid of the reaction he might receive.

Shaken, surprised and unsure of how to respond yet remain ever-so-cool, Trent turned quickly and walked away form us mumbling something about us being crazy. But overnight he had obviously had time to think about it, and the next day he was prepared. Trent approached us and in a well-practiced, carefully prepared manner he said "Yeah I do it to, so what. Almost everybody does." That may have been true, but admitting you jerked off when you were 14 was not the kind of thing that most boys went around and did especially in the open, unashamed and casual way that Greg and I frequently discussed the topic.

Upping the ante, Greg smiled at Trent and said "Cool, do you do it in your bed too?"

Trent obviously hadn't practiced any lines beyond his opening one, because he stammered and looked at the floor at this latest query. "Yeah, so what?" he said. "Where do YOU do it?"

"Everywhere!" laughed Greg. But bed is best. I always keep a big tissue box near me. My whole trashcan gets filled up.

"I wonder what your mom thinks?" snorted Trent. "She's got to know what you are doing when she see all those crusty tissues. "Me?" he gave a twisted grin. "When I feel it coming, I just sort of turn on my side and let it squirt through the air and onto the floor."

Greg and I stopped laughing and just stared at Trent. "You squirt it ON THE FLOOR?" we both asked.

"Yeah, he said, slouching back, eyes half closed and looking oh-so-cool. "It dries by the morning." He blew a bubble with his gum and cracked it as it burst.

"DRIES??? Sure it dries! It must dry into a crusty gross nasty mess!!" cried Greg." And you're worried about what MY mom thinks??? I wonder what YOUR mom thinks when she sees that!"

"You guys are fagots," said Trent dismissively, popping a bubble, effectively ending the conversation because he had run out of cool things to say.

I laughed, envisioning in my mind cool, 14 year old Trent jerking in his bed , turning briefly on his side and letting his sperm fly onto the rug as he orgasmed. I imagined how his rug must now look after him doing this every night for several years. I stared to plan ways that I might get into his house so I could inspect it myself. Unfortunately, that never happened.