Date: Wed, 24 May 2006 15:29:36 -0500 From: Timothy Stillman Subject: t/g bi masturbation exhibitiionism youth "A Summer Lullaby" "A Summer Lullaby" By Timothy Stillman It was the summer before I learned how much I hated summer. I was nine years old. It was hot, mid June. I was happy for no apparent reason. Heat and humidity clogged everything. It was normal to perspire all summer long, and to hide often as possible in the air-conditioned movie house. Or to use the municipal pool all the sun gowned day. I had the body of an eel, seemingly, by this, I mean, boneless appearing. I was small and not tall and I was in the bath this Saturday night, seven thirty, bubble bath, hot water, for hot baths made me perspire more in the warm, air clinging closed door bathroom, and for some reason waved coolness over me in a way I can't explain. The bubble bath was lilac smelling, all white foam and inviting. The night was filled with TV for my grandparents, in the living room, next to the bathroom. I was washing my legs and my chest with the soft, seeming kindly, sensuous washcloth. It was green and was smooth and was mine and mine alone. As my towel was mine and mine alone. I was squeezing the warm bubbles between my legs and the water washed over them a bit, for my knees were up some, and I formed a trough I played my hands with. My hands were small, but my fingers long, and I looked forward to my minty colored somehow cool feeling green shortie pajamas as I would crawl into bed, directly before the fan my dad had brought home from the barber shop, before he left us forever, and the drapes on the little windows above me were green also, and the world seemed green, the grass outside, the wind, the heavy trees strummed with the thick green leaves in the night breeze. The dance music from the TV played. Backed by the cicadas of summer nights here. The light in the ceiling of the bathroom, a few feet over from the tub, was yellow beaming and soft glow. The vanity table where my mother sat on the plastic covered stool and looked in the clear mirror when she put on her make up before leaving for work or for a party or dance at the Eastern Star, sometimes with a date, or sometimes meeting one there, was covered with yellow and stars, like the kind I used to bring home from kindergarten when I did some project well or not too badly. I raised my left leg and washed it carefully. It was a thin stork leg. Then the right. The soap bubbles and the bubble bath clung to the legs. My penis was erect. It was this I want to talk about. I had had it hard before, sometimes. Sometimes I touched it. It felt good. Mostly though, I just used it to pee. Peeing felt calming and like I was part of something I didn't understand, as the golden stream would come out of it as I emptied myself of part of my life. I sometimes used to feel my penis, a little golden brown worm of a thing, harden when I peed. Mostly I peed sitting down, because I just was one of those boys who did. I was embarrassed at home or especially at school to have others hear the urine splash. Even when alone. I never ever used a urinal, unless there was no choice. But that was okay, peeing. I had been taught, trained how, I guess, in very early years like everybody else but I didn't remember it. Sometimes I liked to stand naked in front of the vanity mirror. I did, this penultimate summer night, as the bath water ran. I had been taking baths on my own for some time now. I didn't remember how long. I liked seeing me naked. There meant there was something to me other than my name and my face and my too long neck, and my eyes that shyed away from light, even if only partially bright. I hated having my picture taken. The flash of light gave me headaches and hurt my eyes. My teeth were not good looking. My smile looked simpy. So I seldom smiled. I turned, this evening, side to side in the mirror, after I had turned the water off and made a creamy lather of half a tub full of lilac bubbles for me to luxuriate in. I liked holding my penis tonight, especially. In front of the mirror. And in the tub. It felt soft and spongy, even when it was hard. I never wondered why it was hard. And that it was with me all the time pleased me now. I rubbed the underside of it, as I sat in the tub, remembering myself naked in the mirror. I wondered if there was a bone in it. But when it was not hard, where did the bone go? Sometimes, I would stand naked in front of my reflection, with my hands held behind my back, and looking intentionally sad, and downcast. I had no idea, but that always sexually excited me. As though I wanted to be told what to do. My penis jumping all on its own, up and down. I had turned to the right, then the left, looking at my reflection. I touched my nipples. Gently. I promised myself I would never let anyone give me a titty twister. This was a thing boys did at school to prove they were boys or something else non-understandable. They never did this and shouted it out as the pain started because of their fingers tightening and turning, to girls, because that would make the titty twisters girly boys. Which, when you thought of it, made absolutely no sense. Though I was not sure what a girly boy was, I thought I was one. I liked it. Whatever it meant. I sure closed my eyes tightly as I could, and windmilled my arms as I ducked deep down when a baseball accidentally came my way in a game I was forced to be in. I stuck out one leg in front of another, before the mirror, and then the other. I had no hair on me, of course, save for the small amount of brown hair allowed to grow on my head in summer. I was forced to get a hair cut every week. The hairs on the back of my neck never seemed to come all off even when the barber dusted and put talc on my neck and lotion too after each hair cut. My neck itched constantly back there and I scratched often. Making red marks. And got yelled at for them too, at home. I had gradually enjoyed being naked, as often as possible. I was more than an object that sat in a class chair. I was more than a thing that ate hamburgers and had one friend each July and no friends the rest of the year, and I mean that literally, no one. I could go weeks in school without saying a word, until I was forced to speak by a teacher. I turned my hands inward to my balls, here in the tub. Remembering me in the mirror only a little while ago. The room was filled with bath water hot steam. The windows above me, too small and too high, for anyone to see in, though this always concerned me, and made me afraid, were also steamed. I moved my hands, fingers of each in closer and closer on my hard penis, not touching it. The tip of it just poked pinkly through the bubbles and my penis jumped a little and it wanted to be touched and it was the first time really I started on the long road to being me, a road that I still travel, and still am trying to figure out me, but that summer night I touched my penis in a way I had never done so before. For more reasons than I had before. Deeper reasons. I rubbed it more than I had before, in the tub. When I would stroke the underside, it would send these ripples of happiness through me. It was like my body rushed through me and said it was alive and it was mine, and this gave me such a sense of community, such a sense of belonging. I lay back in the tub, remembering turning my back on the vanity table mirror before I got in the tub this night, and I looked over my shoulder and smiled as I saw my curvy back seemingly without a spinal column, and my small butt and reached back and touched the flesh. Kids at school made jokes about butts all the time. Really mean jokes. Ugly and kind of sick making jokes. I never knew why. I liked mine. It was part of me. Like all the rest of me. And I put my arms around me and looked back at the mirror as best I could. It looked like someone was embracing me. It made my penis rise and it had been hard ever since, and now in the tub, now I touched it with the soap and the washcloth that was mine and very much mine alone, and I touched my penis with the soap tip and some bath bubbles and the edges of all my fingers and I tickled it and it seemed to tickle me in return, and everything that was me-trembled. I lay back and made my penis and my small balls rise above the water and the bubbles. It was pretty and it felt good and I wished I were it, so I could know what it felt like being it, but this was nice too. I pushed it from side to side. And examined it with my fingers and eyes very very closely. I lay back further and humped my legs up and my abdomen, and my penis waved in the hot air and the seemingly cool somewhere or other, and I took the washcloth and the soap, obvious thing to do, but to me, it seemed, my hands were, song like, doing something that were beyond me knowing why, and I rubbed the soap and the cloth on my wet gleaming little pole, and it just rippled through me and I was lost in sheer pleasure. I had never had much pleasure in my life. This was so thrilling. I remember thinking that this was going to be a great summer, and there were to be so many great summers in my life, because it seemed that masturbation, though I was to call it rubbing my penis, not knowing the other word, for some time, and I felt so intensely good and I rubbed faster, would make up for not having friends. The soap on my penis. Molding it on with my finger. I could not stop touching it. And raising my little balls, one at a time, and holding them. They and my penis felt so deliciously warm. I wanted to touch them with my tongue. I swear I could hear my penis giggling. I rubbed gently, and I felt this sweet pressure in the center of somewhere in me that I had never known I had before. On down the road was the guilt of the thing. On down the road was the fear of what would happen to it and me if I didn't stop. But now was just the sheer lovely being of it. I thought of nothing, of no one, my mind was a blue sea of love of myself, and since no one else would be loving me in any way for a long time, perhaps not even now, I wiggled my toes and I stretched my legs and my butt cheeks clinched and I rubbed it only a minute at most, I was to examine any details later on, now was just the sheer act of being a boy, of being me, when I already knew I did not belong, though I had no idea why. I later learned it was because I was me. Period. That simple. And because of that, this sacred, sexual world sealed my secrets, because, though the fact of masturbating would be hounded with painful God's watching and getting madder by the minute, but the fantasies of later on, the pleasures, the loves I said silently to others, these things were my birthright, these things were my world, and since I was off limits to everyone and everything else, as I already then knew, and I was blamed and blamed till my head almost exploded, for the craziest, silliest things, I refused to let myself feel shamed for these dreams in head and heart. And I felt the ripple and the applause in my body and I opened my eyes wide when I wanted to close them in the shiver of almost and almost more and I wanted to see, I had no idea what was happening, but I just knew it was wonderful, for it was the only thing in my life I did not enter into with fear of rejection or hurt of some kind that I could not imagine but always fully expected. My penis shook and my left hand held it, and though later on, when I tried it in the bath with the soap and the washcloth, when some of the soapsuds got in my slit and it hurt so horribly much while at the same time feeling so good, this time, that did not happen. I held to myself and I bent over into a comma, and I just felt these rushes through me, all through the heart of me, and I was so happy god I was so incredibly happy. I felt cuddly. I felt sleepy. I felt nice warm on a cold and snowy night. I felt so much. So deliciously much. I felt so supremely un-alone for the very first time. I leaned over, my stomach quivering, my balls almost throbbing, and put my hands on my knees, which I again had raised and my penis thrust its first orgasm, over and again, lighting me inside like Christmas, and I held it with both hands again, and I felt tears-- it was me I had finally found me. And the rest of the summer was indeed wonderful. I could do it three or four times a day. The house was big and shadowy and I was alone in most of it more often than not, before my mother found me at it one day, and her tears and screams petrified me, but I still did it, for even the good boy me could not stop. But that was down the line. Now was just the beginning. I got out of the tub, feeling weak and a little giddy. I dried myself off with my own and my very own Terrycloth towel, as I looked at myself in the vanity mirror. And I saw myself hard again, as I stuck myself out at the mirror, feeling so sexy, so I used the towel to do it again. It was every bit as bubblicious this time too. But I fell against the vanity mirror table during the coming, because my legs couldn't quite support me for a moment. Perspiring, and rubbing it away, I put talcum powder on my crotch and my penis, which stiffened again-I would force myself to wait an hour till bed time, for fun-and on my butt, to cut down on summer chafing. And also because it felt cool and nice and girly too. Then I put on my minty green pajamas, dried my hair, which took about five seconds, having to have all those weekly haircuts always bothered me-I always wanted long hair-to be mistaken for a girl, maybe, and I combed it. Then I opened the bathroom door, and was more than I had been before, which meant I was more of what I had been before, and stepped through into the green living room, and my life really then begin. My grandmother looked up from the TV show, and asked if I would like some ice cream? I said, in a voice that tried to hide the giggles running like mice paws all inside me, sure. My grandfather was asleep on the rocker. Lulled by the TV music to sleep. And so the adventure began: I rubbed it to orgasm, these words far in the future, when I sat in my shortie pajamas, on the couch, my legs up under me, my hand secretive, rubbing, even when by myself, watching TV at night or in the afternoon, with a bowl of my summer favorite food lime sherbet on the table beside me. Pow pow pow my body and mind silently shouted when I came. I rubbed my penis when I went to bed and when I woke up in the middle of the night and in the morning. And when I sat in the attic of a summer afternoon, all dark spaces and alone, I would pull out my penis from my summer shorts, in my blue rocker by the window overlooking the alley, when I felt brave that was, that no one could see me, or could, perhaps, and I would look at Robin or Aqualad in the comic I was reading, and their bare legs and their taut buttocks and their tight shorts, so wishing to see them naked, and I would come and come again. And that was how I spent my ninth summer. Though it certainly did not end then, that was the ultimate of it. I was a jacking off fool. I was drunk on the act of it. And I loved myself in those days long before I found out I had to hate myself in order to love myself, whatever the hell that meant, and of course it means nothing, except people believe the craziest things you can think of, a lot. I just wanted to tell you about my slippery eel body and how nice it was and how thin and how smooth and how it wanted to hold another boy or maybe a girl next to it, though all of this was very vague, and how pretty I looked then naked and hard. I learned that summer to jack off in various ways in front of mirrors and to see the all of me and to experience what my body looked like outside when I was experiencing the greatest feeling in the world inside. It was nice that summer, before my tenth summer-well, it was nice then too-but that was also when I learned I hated summer. But this one, I will leave it, with the naked boneless seeming boy with the brown hair and the blue eyes and the long fingers and the greatest, I thought then, penis in the world, and oh how I wanted to tell other boys what a great thing all of that was. Rubbing my penis was the very nicest before I had to imagine someone else, or find pictures somewhere to look at, or try to keep images from movies and TV shows in my head. Then, rubbing my penis was the all in all of itself. It's such a shame I was forced to leave such innocent pleasure behind. I learned to love standing wet before the bathroom mirror, after bath, or coming home from swimming, and peeling off my trunks. I looked even sexier when I was wet for some reason. And how my penis looked all shriveled and sad and especially bone white for some reason after I had been swimming and when I peeled off my trunks. But that shriveling didn't last long. I really loved rubbing my penis when I was wet. That whole ninth summer, sleeping came easily. I dived in eagerly. Always holding my penis of course. And it holding me back too, stiff and waiting for my magic to begin again. And waking was fun, because it was there to make me feel good yet again. My summer friend that year, leaving, never knew, of course. Every end of July, when he left for home, I always cried. I did not this time. Not much anyway. I had a friend of my own. I felt, in a very child wonder way, deeply serene and so content and settled. I didn't know who I was. But I was ME. And I thought that was to make me forever okay. We were partners. We would look out for each other. I would coax the sexual delight from it. It would anticipate me doing so. For, as far as I am concerned, it was the heart of innocence. Looking back, it would have been fun for someone I secretly loved, before I knew I loved them, to have been naked with me, and to have put their arms around me, instead of me pretending someone did, again really without being aware of the want, but I think I would have loved it if that person had kissed me. And had felt my penis. All feelings. All happy. I always was, after all, a nice little boy, and a very very lonely one. I wish I had had a friend like that. Looking back on it, I mean. I deserved a better chance at life, I think. I think, yes, I maybe deserved better than I got. Though, most everyone feels that way, I guess. But my penis rubbing was fun. And it's still one of the sweetest times I remember.