Date: Sun, 27 Feb 2011 20:25:18 -0800 (PST) From: The Paternal Watcher Subject: My Junior High 6 Hard as diamonds, my penis pointed the way, and I followed it down along the sidewalk, Harold walking alongside me. His house was third from the corner, but we walked the other way along his street. I knew that each of the houses on Harold's side backed up to the park, and that at the end of the road there was what looked like a T intersection, but with one end (the left) ending at another pedestrian entrance to the park. It was towards that end of the street that we walked, along the manicured lawns that glowed under the occasional street lights which made me feel like I was glowing in my nakedness, and next to juniper bushes that seemed to want to reach out and grab at my hardness. My sneakers fell silently on the pavement, or at least I couldn't hear them above my heart. My eyes I kept fixed straight ahead, afraid that if I looked elsewhere I would see something, like a car or midnight pedestrian, and I would lose my nerve. "It's not that cold out," Harold said, his voice seeming like a thunderclap to my ears. It wasn't. The air was cool, but only barely so; there was some humidity hanging in it, clinging to my nipples and chilling my nostrils slightly. "Yeah," I said, looking down at my feet. They walked onward, left, right, left, right, walking on either side of my penis, which continued to lead the way down the street. As I looked up, I saw Harold looking at it, too. He kept looking up at where we were going, and then back down at my dick. I think I got harder. "Okay," Harold said, stopping unexpectedly. I looked up and realized we were just one house from the end of the road, and Harold had decided to stop in the shelter of a large cedar tree. It cast a large shadow in the moonlight, cloaking us in darkness. Probably no one could see us there, but I could see well enough. He handed me my clothes. "My turn," he said. He pulled off his shirt and held it out, waiting a moment for me to pull my shorts up over my boner. He doffed his shorts just as quickly, and in seconds our social positions were reversed. His penis was simply amazing to my eyes. It looked about as big as mine, but it pointed to the sky, practically paralleling the curve of his abdomen as it rose achingly from his loins. I made no pretense of looking away -- this is what we were here for, and we both knew it. While the journey away seemed to one of miles which took hours to complete, the walk back was scant seconds that flew by without giving me more than a taste of what I wanted to drink in with my eyes. His pubic hair looked darker in the night, and his skin seemed ghostly pale under the passing streetlight. His balls bounced to and fro, and the tip of his penis wiggled a bit as he walked. He said things to me, but I grunted response without actually hearing what he'd said. And then we were back. He pulled on his shorts and shirt before leading me back inside. "I'm still in a weird mood," he said to me in the kitchen. "You want to watch a movie?" Without waiting for an answer, he left the kitchen, and with me trailing after he went to the den. The room was filled with dark, leather couches, and the television was in a big cabinet which had room for the cable box, video tapes, and a VCR. I had none of these things at home, and marveled particularly at the cable box's three rows of buttons, making available an inconceivable fifty-four channels. I turned it on and asked Harold what was good. "You can try the Playboy channel, sometimes it's not scrambled," he said, giving me the number. He was rummaging in a closet at the other side of the room. "Depends on if my dad leaves it turned on." I flipped to the channel, and watched the wavering image, trying to figure out what body parts I was looking at. Somebody was saying, "Oh, oh, oh," but I couldn't tell why. "Never mind that," said Harold, "look at these." He put down a box on the floor beside me, pulling a video tape from it to put in the VCR. The box was full of Penthouse magazines. I picked one up and opened it, looking at the naked women and trying to figure out how vaginas were put together. They just seemed like they were missing pieces, or something. Starting up the movie, Harold said to me, "Okay, here's the deal. I bet you five dollars that you won't jerk off and eat it." My blood froze. What did he just say? He wanted me to what? "If I don't come in my hand and eat it, I owe you five dollars," he explained. "If you don't, you owe me five dollars. Deal?" Of course not, I thought. I don't know how to jerk off and I can't come. (Thanks to the letters column called Penthouse Forum, where readers sent tales of their sexual adventures, I knew the word "come" meant to ejaculate. All the letter writers spelled the word C-O-M-E, which was the fashion at the time.) "Yeah," I said, "sure. What do we have to do?" "You go on the couch, and take a magazine. I'll stay on the floor here and start the movie. We both jerk off and come in our hands, and then we have to eat it." "Okay," I said. I moved to the couch, and opened the magazine again. I knew that I had to be sexually aroused to do this, and from what I had read in that book at home, it involved "stimulation of the penis," whatever that meant. I decided to watch Harold and see what he did. Harold was no help. He laid down on his stomach, a magazine open on the floor in front of him and the television playing the porn movie he'd produced. As he glanced from one to the other, his right hand disappeared underneath his middle, and his butt cheeks began to clench and relax. From time to time he glanced over at me, but I think mostly he didn't catch me looking at him. I somehow felt I wasn't allowed to do that during this test. I also kept my own penis, which was softening rapidly, out of sight behind the magazine. In time, Harold's glances my way became more infrequent as he became more focused on himself. His butt cheeks clenched rhythmically, gradually increasing in tempo, as he turned the pages back and forth between what were apparently his favorite images. "I'm ready," he said without fanfare, rolling over to reveal his rigid member and his hand, which he held aloft and cupped slightly. I craned my neck to see. In his palm a liquid glistened. It was semen, I knew it from the descriptions I'd read, but this was the first time I'd seen it. Harold was no stranger to the stuff, I realized much later. He didn't have any doubts how to make it, and he actually lapped it down from his hand pretty quickly after a tentative taste. I was fascinated, but also grossed out. It seemed no better than drinking my own pee -- it came from the same place, at least. "So you gonna be much longer," he asked, looking me in the eye for the first time since we'd begun. I climbed back on the couch, cringing at the touch of the leather, which had cooled quickly when I had moved. I spread my legs so Harold could see my penis, which was completely dormant, and looked again at the magazine. I flicked it a few times with my hand but, with nothing to clue me in on how to proceed, I was defeated. "I can't," I said, ashamed. Harold looked at me quizzically, shrugged, and got up. "Then you owe me five dollars," he said. "I haven't got it," I admitted, as the weight of my words fell upon me. He turned off the lights before I'd finished collecting my things, and called over his shoulder, "You'll pay me one way or another." Follow The Paternal Watcher on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/The-Paternal-Watcher/136637463070505