When I stand up naked and excited, my erect prick points straight forward like a directional signal, saying "follow me!" And that's what I've done.
I have played with it as long ago as I can remember. My favorite place as a kid was the bathtub. The warmth and the slippery soap encouraged me to stroke my little prick and enjoy the feelings, a bit like being tickled but much more pleasant.
I think my parents knew early on what I was doing. I didn't particularly try to conceal it because I had no idea that anyone might object to my having such fun. My father talked to me about it then. It was O.K., he said, but some people thought it was bad. It was important that I keep my privates, and any activity concerning them, very private. And so I did, for a while.
My parents don't play much of a role in this story, but they certainly did in my life. They were wonderful. Loving, supportive, tolerant, they were real liberals: nothing was wrong except what might hurt or diminish others or the world we live in. It's a pity they could have no other children, who would have been fortunate, too.
My folks were devoted to learning. I was reading not long after I began speaking, they tell me. At heart, I am a nerd (although I think I don't look it -- tall and fit, no glasses or pocket protectors). If something gets my attention, I want to know all about it. Research is natural for me -- but I can combine it with action.
An historical note: All this started decades ago, in a middle-sized midwestern town that it took the "sexual revolution" of the sixties a long time to reach. A kid today can get on the internet and learn in hours what took me years. But I had plenty of fun doing it.
I remember very well my first real orgasm. I was ten, still enjoying myself in the bathtub. My penis had been growing well and the pleasure of playing with it had grown as it responded to my caresses by getting long and stiff. This time I really wrapped my soapy hand around it and rode it slowly up and down, savoring as usual sliding over every bump and wrinkle. My prick began to tingle as it never had before and the pleasure was great, and growing. The wonderful feeling increased and increased until I could sense nothing else, my body jerked, a wave of the most intense pleasure swept me and nearly carried me away and then very slowly subsided, leaving me shaking and feeling wonderful.
I was so much in awe of the powerful feelings I had stirred up that I didn't try it again for several days, When I did, it was even better and I was hooked. From then on not a day passed that I didn't masturbate at least once. I couldn't spend all that time in the bathtub; I'd somehow find some other private place where I could take down my pants, take out my prick, and massage it to a climax.
I wasn't alone. Many of my friends at school had discovered the joy of masturbation, and we talked about it. We knew that it upset most adults and should not be encouraged in the very young, but we shared our feelings and shared the view that it was all right for us. We told each other about our techniques, which were all pretty similar.
When I found that my climax was accompanied by the emergence of a little perm from the end of my penis, I was delighted. Over months the amount increased, and with more and more force; it would send spurts that fell two or three feet away. This was a problem, since I felt I should conceal the evidence of my joy -- clean it up if it fell on a floor or, more difficult, not let it stain the sheets of my bed if that was where I took my pleasure, as it was more and more often. In bed I tried putting my prick in one of my socks, but that was irritating. I settled for covering the end with a handkerchief, which worked pretty well.
I also tried another method: recycling. Lying on my back and swinging my legs up I could bring the end of my stiff prick close enough to my mouth that I could touch its end with my tongue, which was nice but not near what I wanted. By jacking in that position and opening my mouth wide, I could get most of my shot in, although it was tough to keep my aim while in the throes of orgasm. It didn't taste like much but I liked the slick creaminess on my tongue and mouth and sliding down my throat. For a long time I struggled to get more of my prick in but I never made it. Eventually I decided that the effort involved was too much, and I dropped the practice. It would be a long time before I could get my mouth around a cock, and then it wouldn't be my own.
Starting high school was, of course, a big change in my life. Leaving the academics aside, I was fascinated by a whole new generation of girls. They were developing very interesting bodies, and my buddies and I spent a lot of time talking about them. Of course I wanted to know more, and as a high school student I now had access to the town's public library. A terrific bonus was the library's one-stall men's room; I didn't have to do all my masturbation at home any more, but could lock myself in there and whack away. To this day the odor of the disinfectant used there has erotic overtones for me.
My first research in the library was sex. A big illustrated Anatomy showed me how my penis worked and, much more interesting, what women's genitals were like; information that was mighty helpful later. There were only a few books related to sex as such, in the Psychology section off in a corner of the second floor, where a comfortable chair gave me a nearly private reading room. All the books but one were on early sex education, giving a lot of advice about social relations between boys and girls but always alluding to the sex act itself in vague or metaphorical terms that left me hungry for real information. The one totally different book was the famous "Psychopathia Sexualis" of Kraft-Ebbing, which the library committee must have missed. It, too, didn't tell me the things I most wanted to know, such as how does it feel to put your prick into a cunt? but I read it avidly anyway. It was full of good stuff and awful stuff. I learned neat words like "coitus", "fellatio", and "cunnilingus", and disgusting ones like "coprophagia" and "necrophilia". I wished very much that he would describe the first three in detail, but he didn't.
Some of K-E's hundreds of case histories were interesting stories. I still have the little notebook in which I recorded some extracts. There was the "onanist" who was so into masturbation that he devised an alarm that would sound if he got a hardon when he was asleep, so that he could wake up and whack off. I could never figure out how such an alarm could be built. Another case history told of a young woman who woke one morning at tne beginning of a magnificent orgasm, caused by a girl friend who had stolen into her room, pulled down the covers, and was performing cunnilingus on her. I thought the onanist's story weird, but the cunnilingus story tender and appealing, although distressingly absent of a real description of what the girl was doing. Yet another was about "a young man who used to frequent fancy-dress balls in girls' attire, and entice young men; he would pretend that he was menstruating, and thus induce the others to use him through the mouth. The assertion was made that in this way he had deceived fourteen men in one evening." I had a little trouble believing that one, as well as another: "The patient confessed that from his seventh year until a year and a half ago he practiced masturbation from eight to ten times daily." But, believing or not, that book sent me down to the men's room quite a few times.
That effect on me would have horrified Dr. K-E. Most of his patients were in pretty poor shape, and he attributed it to -- masturbation! He didn't seem to have anything against heterosexual fucking, but he thought that jacking off greatly harmed both the mind and the body. I figured it was just nineteenth century prudery and ignored it.
By the age of fourteen masturbation was a serious occupation and I was studying to make it as pleasurable as possible. An important step was lubrication. In the shower or bathtub soap was always handy, and the way it helped me glide my hand on the shaft was an utter delight. Without that I had sometimes jacked off so hard that my penis was chafed and sore. I heard somewhere about the sexual use of vaseline and tried it for a while. It certainly aided the experience; sliding my hand the full length of my penis instead of just moving one piece of skin back and forth greatly increased the pleasure. It was messy, though: hard to remove -- I could never get it completely off my prick, and it left a residue on my underpants. Next I tried some popular hand lotions. They gave a very nice, slick feel, but dried or got absorbed quickly and if I had a long, slow session I would have to apply them several times. Eventually I discovered "Dr. Abbot's Skin Lubricant", probably a precursor of K-Y Jelly, which was ideal. It was smooth, slick, didn't dry out, and washed off with water. I could play with my prick as long as I wanted; defer the ejaculation but enjoy all the sensations by just putting my thumb and forefinger right below the head and moving lightly, and/or use the other hand to make a tight ring around the base and massage that. Eventually I would wrap my hand around the shaft and pump its whole length vigorously, my body jerking in the waves of pleasure that washed over me, until my delirious climax.
Dr. Abbott should have paid me royalties. I told my friends about it, and they started using it with great success.
The other item I developed was the visual aid. While none of us had a really clear idea of how a man fucked a woman, we knew that that was the ultimate goal. I would often sneak glances at the girls in my classes at school -- they were developing those wonderfully attractive breasts -- and wonder how they would look unclothed and what was between their legs and just how one made use of it. A more inspiring source was the fashion magazines my mother left around the house. Almost all the photographs of young women were worth looking at, but the underwear advertisements were great. Delectable girls posed in panties and bras that my imagination could strip away to find the secrets underneath. At first I would fill my mind with these images before taking to my bed to picture them substituting for my moving hand. Then I devised a substitute for the hand. I would lubricate my prick generously and cover it with a large piece of Saran Wrap. Then I'd fold a thin pillow, place it in the center of my bed, and climb up, inserting my prick into the fold. I could fuck it! In my mind a beautiful girl under me was begging me to pump her as fast as I could, and I did, with sloppy results. The action of fucking and the response of my imaginary consort were nice, even though the final orgasm wasn't all that great.
I would have liked staring at those erotic pictures while fucking my pillow, but that was too hard to do. I tried holding the magazine with one hand while jerking off with the other, but that was also difficult. Finally, in a junk shop, I found a lap tray on little legs, designed for reading in bed, that would support the magazine and let me turn its pages with one hand while the other worked my prick or let me celebrate a particularly good photo using both hands on myself. That worked well. There was one more item. I liked watching my prick as I jacked off. I found that I could prop a large hand mirror on the dresser beyond the foot of my bed and see myself masturbating as if I were looking at another boy. That, too, added to the excitement of my solitary pleasures, and all those preparations helped make masturbation wonderful. Again, I told my friends how to look at girlie pictures conveniently while jacking off, and many of them followed suit.
We were greatly encouraged when one of our friends found a stash of real pornography that his older brother, left for college, had accumulated. It was the real stuff: naked women posing or masturbating or being fucked by men with astonishing penises. We looked at them together, comparing reactions, and bragging about what we could do to those beauties.
Four of us who lived close together were walking home from school one day as I described the action in the latest batch of porn I had obtained. The all wanted to see it, and I invited them to my room and passed around the best magazines, which we studied. I saw that Pete, as he stared at a shot of a young man fucking a very pleased girl, was rubbing his crotch. I could see his hardon bulging in his levis. Mine was, too. I said, "Pete, why don't you take that out and do it right." He looked at me with surprise. He kept on rubbing himself. "It's O.K.," I said. "I bet we all want to do it. I know I do."
I stood up, unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my fly and pushed my pants down past my knees. My stiff penis thrust far out against my jockey shorts. "C'mon," I said to him. He got up slowly and then did just what I had done. "O.K.," I said, pulled out the band of my shorts to clear my erection and pushed them down. My prick stood out straight and long. Pete stared at it for a moment and then followed suit. His prick was long and smooth, a light pink, with a rosy head.
Then Dan and Frank, without saying anything, had also stood and lowered their clothing an exposed their bare and erect pricks. Pete was fingering his. I sat down again, wrapped my hand around my prick and started pulling on it.
Pete asked, "You got some grease?"
I interrupted my stroking to fetch a jar of Abbot's Lubricant from my dresser drawer and hand it to him. He struck his fingers into it and smeared the cream onto his prick. I retrieved the jar and did the same and handed it to Dan, who used it, as did Frank next. We were all watching one another; the tension and excitement were palpable. One by one we sat down again, stretched out, and began slowly to massage our pricks.
The sight of those glistening rods was wonderful. Pete and Frank lay back with closed eyes in obvious enjoyment. Dan, like me, was watching the action, and smiled when our eyes met. For a while we all seemed synchronized, hands moving up and down in unison. Then the pace picked up, someone was groaning, our hands were moving faster, I saw Pete's body spasm and a jet of white spurt from him, and then I was lost in the overwhelming pleasure of my own orgasm.
When I could look around again I saw that everyone had come. There were gobs of semen everywhere, our pricks were limp and our faces glowed with satisfaction.
Pete sighed, "Jeez, that was something else."
"You liked it?" I asked. "You weren't embarassed, or anything?"
"No, not once I got going," he replied. "It seemed all kind of friendly, like, like we were having a game together."
"Yeah," said Frank, "who wants to be alone all the time?" And Dan nodded his head in agreement.
"Great," I said. "I got a real charge out of it. I think we ought to do it again. How about getting together on Thursday, here, same time?"
They all indicated agreement. Joint jacking had started.
Thursday there was real eagerness as we walked to my place and assembled in my room. Our pants and shorts came off immediately, and soon we were all stroking our greased boners like an athletic team working out. Groans and muffled shouts announced four orgasms, one after the other.
After we'd cleaned up and made another date, for Saturday afternoon, Dan asked, "This is going to be a regular thing, isn't it? Will it be just us four? I'll bet my buddy Ted would like to be in on it. Would it be O.K. if I ask him?"
We pondered that, and no one objected; but we became aware that we were starting something with a potential for trouble. If we were to form a group of masturbators, we would have to be careful about who joined us and who knew about us. Privacy and secrecy were all-important. As we parted we agreed to think about how we would proceed in the future, and what rules we might need.
At Saturday's meeting, after we had all jacked off -- Ted, the newcomer, joining in enthusiastically and eruptingly -- we held what amounted to a Constitutional Convention: rules for our little group. The primary rule was secrecy. We were to tell no one anything about us, save a possible recruit, who would have to be approved in advance by the group as a whole. The second was that a recruit had to be a junior or senior, and definitely masculine, with no hint of being girlish or "queer" or "faggy" or...(remember, this was decades ago; the word "gay" wasn't in use then, and the phrase "gay pride" would have baffled us). The third was that we would plan our meetings with great care, choosing times and places that would ensure our security. To implement the latter we invented some code words and phrases for arranging meetings and others to cancel them if some danger should arise.
We chose 4:00 p.m. on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays as our preferred meeting times. My house was the default meeting place on the weekdays, and Dan's on Sunday, when his parents spent the whole afternoon at their tennis club.
The whole affair went amazingly smoothly. One by one we invited meat-beating friends to join us. Some did not, and were not told enough to be any danger to us. Those who did were very appreciative. What had been furtive and solitary became open and shared. What had sometimes been a source of guilt or fear became an accomplishment supported and praised by our peers.
The group grew to fifteen members while I was with it. Not all could come to every assembly (although I never missed one), but there were always some half dozen of us, half naked, pulling our pricks in unison. To me, the sight of those glistening rods stroked by eager hands was exquisite. It turned me on terrifically and, if I stared long enough, just a touch on my own would make me blow my load.
We all felt the same: stimulated by seeing the others' stiff pricks. So the question of whether we were "homos" never went away. We discussed that a lot, sounding like a panel of lawyers, and eventually came to a rough consensus. Masturbating together was not gay (what else could a group like ours conclude?). Sucking another guy off would, of course, be gay, but letting yourself be sucked off (should we ever be so lucky) was harder to decide. After all, being sucked by a woman was obviously O.K., and if a man were doing it and your eyes were closed, what difference would there be? We finallly concluded that it was acceptable unless you wanted only a man to do it. Fucking a man was out; wanting to fuck a man or, worse, wanting to be fucked, was solidly homosexual. One more issue was on the table: What about jerking off another guy? This provoked a lot of debate. Like being sucked off, having it done to you was acceptable, unless you wanted only a man to do it. (I didn't much like the idea of having to consider motive instead of just the action, but without that qualification it probably would have been totally forbidden.) However, the jerker was performing a gay act. I objected to that; I said that it was only giving a needy friend a hand. However, a slim majority declared it gay, so it was out -- for the group.
Meanwhile, we discussed our techniques and demonstrated them. Sometimes we competed: who could come quickest, who could shoot farthest, who could last longest. In a gentlemanly way we did not comment much on the looks of our equipment, although we did openly admire Frank's, whose penis was an inch longer than anyone else's. We thought, the more to stroke, the greater the pleasure. I was pleased that mine was second only to his in size, although I wasn't so sure about the importance of size. Our members with smaller equipment seemed to have just as much fun as the rest. Perhaps we all had the same number of nerve endings where it mattered.
It eventually dawned on us that we were a very well organized little society; except for the secrecy. like some of the school clubs. We joked about becoming a recognized activity entitling us to wear the school letter. The name? It seemed a pity that "Glee Club" was already taken. "Masturbators" was kind of crude, but that led someone to suggest "Masturs of the Universe", which we shortened to just "Masturs". The clubs at school all had officers, but we didn't go for that, with an exception. The members knew that I had kicked off joint jacking, and in honor of my dedication to the art designated me the Master Mastur.
An early member, Ted, was a gifted artist as well as an enthusiastic masturbator. One day instead of joining the action he was watching the rest of us and penciling on a sketch pad. When he -- and we -- were done he showed us the result: a wonderful drawing of a strong hand stroking an exquisitely detailed penis with the other hand massaging the subject's balls. We loved it, and encouraged him to continue, with illustrations of each of the several variations of technique we had devised. He produced a total of six, which we declared both inspired and inspiring. Just looking at one would give you a hardon.
We named the variations.
The Full Fist method was our most common: one hand pumps the whole
shaft from base to head. We noted that it was in the middle in terms
of time to orgasm.
The second was Thumb and Forefinger, or Pinch: just those two digits,
close to the head. It greatly lengthens the time to orgasm, which is
all the more powerful then. (Of course any of these techniques can be
used alternately during one session. I have to end the torture of
Pinch by switching to a full shaft method, for a grand come.)
In Two Hands Full we just use two hands on the prick instead of one,
which gives the shortest time to climax.
Wringing it is a variation in which two the hands move as in wringing
out a washcloth, another fast come.
For Pull It, all five fingers of one hand circle the glans and move up
and down behind it. It as close as we could come manually to the
sensation of having our cocks in a hole, something we so eagerly looked
forward to.
A final illustration, for Pillow Fuck, was a cutout view of a handsome
lubricated prick in a fold of plastic wrap inside a folded pillow.
Several of us wanted our own copies of his fine work. I photocopied the drawings, two to a page, reduced, and stapled in the center, making a small six page pamphlet with blank covers. It was nice but, I came to feel, not good enough for us professionals. I worked up an outline of a proper little book, which we would title "Hand Book for Boys". As finally produced, each illustration, on a page, was faced by a written description.
As I wrote, rather loftily, in the Introduction, "Our Hand Book takes issue with 'Handbook for Boys', the old Boy Scout Manual which, in an obscure section on 'Conservation', warns against masturbation as depleting one's manhood. On the contrary, modern medicine encourages it as a natural and valuable preliminary to adult sexuality; every bodily function improves with exercise. We encourage that, besides simply recommending jacking off as a pleasant way to pass the time." The final version had sixteen pages and stiff covers. Four pages were devoted to advice about lubrication, ejaculation containment, and cleanup if containment didn't work. The cover illustration was that of a hand with fingers curled around an imaginary shaft. We were proud of it, even though some boys were reluctant to keep copies, for fear of discovery.
I learned much later that the shool authorities had got hold of a copy somehow, although they never determined its authorship and were not even certain that it had originated there.
Dan and I were walking home after another meeting at which I had brought up, again, the subject of one guy's jacking off someone else and had it voted down.
"Well, we lost that one," he said. "Too bad."
"You really liked the idea?" I asked.
"I liked it. It would be mighty interesting."
"I don't see why they objected so much," I said, "I think it's just giving a friend a hand. Anyway, that vote was for the group. It doesn't apply to individuals -- llke you and me."
"That's right," he answered. "What we do by ourselves is our own business. I could jerk you off, you could jerk me off, and it wouldn't affect any other person."
"Yes, we could, Dan," I said. We had a quiet moment, and I continued, "I think you ought to come home with me. My folks are going to be out until late."
He replied, "Oh, man...I don't know if I'm ready for that yet. Anyway, I've come already."
"Hey, it's just what you wanted. And I bet I can make you come again," I said.
He pondered. "You do like challenges, don't you?. All right!"
In my bedroom we both stripped completely, and by the time we'd done that we were both fully erect. I was tense and eager as we sat side by side on my bed and I wrapped my hand around his prick. What a feeling! The soft skin, the hardness beneath that slid on my palm as I slowly moved up and down!
"Hey, aren't you going to lubricate me?" he asked.
"Oh, yeh," I answered, dipped into my ever-ready jar of cream, and wrapped my greasy hand around him again. This was even better. I could slide my hand along his shaft, feeling all the little bumps and variations, go up to the head and over it and then back down to the base, slowly and lovingly. I was terificallly excited. It seemed almost that my palm was an erogenous zone that inflamed me as it caressed him.
His prick twitched and his muscles tightened. My hand tingled more and I stroked harder. Suddenly his whole body jerked, he cried "Ahh, aah", and a jet of white rose straight up and fell back on his stomach and groin and my moving hand. I held on squeezing lightly until his prick went totally limp.
When he finally opened his eyes he looked at me, smiling, and said, "Oh, man! That was even better than I thought it was going to be."
"Pretty nice," I said, "I liked doing it." I took some tissues and handed them to him. "You'll need these." I looked at my hand, decorated with a large gout of sperm. Dan was cleaning himself, not looking at me. I raised my hand to my mouth and sucked the sperm in. It was creamy on my tongue and its taste was close to my own.
I was enormously aroused. My own penis was rebar stiff. "Your turn now," he said, as he greased his hand and wrapped it around me. It felt wonderful. He moved slowly up and down my full length. I lay back. It was incredible, so different, and so much better, than doing it myself. It was like a wet dream but one in which I was fully aware of all that was happening, relishing every stroke, not to have to move a muscle while his hand was sending me to heaven. My whole consciousness was concentrated on my prick and his hand inflaming me with waves of sensation. The waves roared to a peak of glorious climax and I shot my load all over us.
We were full of wonder at what we had done. We talked. We'd had the best orgasms of our lives. We were definitely going to do it again. Dan left, I made dinner for myself, and went to bed early. I was still excited. As I recalled the feeling of his hand on my prick, it grew, and I pulled it, imagining he was doing it. My coming, not as great as the one he gave me but good, was followed by a long, restful sleep.
We met privately a dozen times after that and lovingly jacked one another off. We learned what the other liked best, and gave it to him, and our orgasms seemed to get more and more intense. I got a terrific charge out of making Dan come. Some kind of electricity went from his surging prick to my tingling hand that made me wildly eager.
Dan saw me licking his come off my hand in one of our sessions and followed by trying some of mine, which he declared agreeable. In my private fantasies I went even further, applying my mouth to the end of his penis to catch it all, and then dreaming of using my mouth to do the stroking that would have that lovely ending. I kept those thoughts to myself. I was not afraid of "gay" behavior. I figured the gays shouldn't have a monopoly on any form of sex, and I defined a "gay" person as one who wanted sex only with the same gender, which was not the case for me. If I wanted to have sex with another person, and the only one available was male, so be it. However, I was afraid of getting a "gay" label, which in those days would have incurred a real social penalty, so secrecy was necessary. I was pretty sure that some in the group were doing what Dan and I were, or going even farther, but we had our reputations, such as they were, to keep.
Between these sessions and the frequent meetings of our group I found my solitary jacks dropping off sharply. Oddly, perhaps, all that activity didn't diminish in the least my interest in the rapidly maturing girls of our school, but I still hadn't found a way to get intimate with any. Heterosexuality was still a big mystery.
That changed a few days after graduation. Dan had left for the summer, or maybe longer, and I was back to solitary sex. I got a job making deliveries, on my bicycle, for a local grocer. One of my first calls was to a lovely woman in her mid-twenties who had just divorced and, I learned, was permanently horny. She seduced me (if that's the right word for someone as eager as I was) and I spent that summer as a happy sex slave. But that's a heterosexual tale that doesn't meet Nifty's requirements, so I will shortly submit the following phase, described in "Gay Education", which does.
I must add that, from what I've heard, a Masturs group is still flourishing at my school, and has dropped that silly prohibition against handling another boy's meat. Groups have formed at other schools around the country and "Hand Book for Boys", copied many times over, has been their inspirational classic.
I am pleased with what I have done to improve the lives of my fellow men.