True Story: Confessions of a Peter Beater

True Story: Confessions of a Peter Beater

Everything here is true to within the vagaries of my memory. Perhaps you too suffered as a youth through some of the same guilt and embarrassment that comes with compulsive masturbation, just as I did. Perhaps you felt as though nobody could possibly be as weak and so easily controlled by desires as you. If so, I offer you here the consolation that you are not alone.

I cannot remember my first erection. It probably happened in the womb. Having a hard dick at sporadic and unexpected times was simply part of my childhood. I remember, at age 5, asking my dad why my penis got hard sometimes. He proceeded to relate the anatomy of it: "Well, er, sometimes lots of blood flows into it, and that makes it get hard." Not a word on what purpose it serves.

I can also remember at that age and above that seeing my sister's pussy was likely to bring on an erection. All through our childhoods, my sister and I were quite frank with each other about our sexualities and our anatomies. Beginning at age 6, I remember that from time to time we would engage in a titillating game, usually at her request. It was most likely to happen on weekend mornings, when we would play together in bed while our parents slept in. My sister was in the habit of sleeping in a nightgown with no panties on underneath. This made the game even easier. It was simply that I should touch her labia or her clit with the head of my penis, which was invariably in an advanced state of stiffness by the time we were ready to proceed. The touch never lasted for more than a second, because as soon as it had begun we would roll back in peals of uncontrollable laughter. She also told me, on one of these mornings, how she liked to rub a crayon up and down her crack -- how "it feels sooo good." I recall that she fancied the green crayon the best, though I don't know why. She said that sometimes she did it in school, under her dress and through her panties.

Well, I know that many of you would rather learn more about my sister's habits than about my own. Unfortunately, I cannot oblige you. Although we were immodest with each other, we each still enjoyed our privacy.

I recall at age 5 or 6 asking my dad the proverbial, "Where do babies come from," question. He explained about the sperm and the egg and took me to a museum where they had models of fetuses in various stages of development. And when I asked how the sperm and egg got together, well he hemmed and hawed and said something about it happening from the mommy and daddy being close and something about hugging and kissing and being together for a long time. I believed it. Dad was dad. He would never lie.

So when I was 8 and one of my friends said the word "fuck," (which I thought was just another synonym for shit) and another kid said, "Do you know what that means?" I found out what it meant.

"You mean the daddy has to put his penis in the mommy's vulva to make a baby? I don't believe it." And I went on to repeat the line my dad had given me. When my friends insisted, I argued that it couldn't be. After all, how would animals know how to do that? And I went on believing my fantasy about human reproduction for few more years. (and by the way, yes, vulva was the only word I knew back then for that appendage)

But it was also at age 8 that I found out that I was not the only boy in town that suffered from frequent erections. On Saturday mornings when I was ages 8 through 12, my dad put me in these boy's swimming lessons, which were in an indoor pool. I have to explain that times were different back then. People were a lot less squeamish when it came to anything that could be even remotely interpreted as child sexuality. They didn't believe kids had any. So at these swimming lessons, we swam nude. As far as I know the instructors never touched any of the boys in an indecent way. The advantage for me was that there was no wet swimsuit to tote home in the middle of winter. The advantage for the instructors was that the boys, I think, tend to be more docile when they are naked, and more likely to do what they are told.

Those instructors were tough too. They made us swim laps until we nearly puked. But every now and then, some kid would pop a rod in there, which was especially embarrassing for him if we were to swim backstroke laps.

Another cute side-tale is how we spent our summers in those years. We vacationed at a beach house. The beach was clothing-optional. Mostly the kids went naked and the adult women went topless. We had been going there since I was 3. So it wasn't till I was 9 that I learned that there was anything unusual about a woman baring her breasts. And to this day, going to topless bars is not all that great a turn-on for me. A woman's breasts are pretty to me, but not the subject of any sex fantasies. Anyway, at this beach, my sister and I had plenty of opportunity to explore each other's bodies, which amounted to a lot of looking, a little bit of touching, and some watching each other pee.

But I gave up going nude at that beach after one day when I and my sister and her friend all went nude. My dick pointed skyward that whole afternoon -- and my mom was watching the entire time. It wasn't until my late teens that I was comfortable going nude there again.

In my sixth grade year, I had my first girlfriend. I remember being quite smitten with her and willing to tolerate a lot of abuse from her. She could dish it out too. She had some kind of need to make me feel uncomfortable when my friends were around. But she had her naughty thoughts as well. I remember one day when she suggested that we show each other our equipment -- that boyfriends and girlfriends did that sort of thing. But when I got excited over the idea, she backed out.

I used to have frequent erections thinking about her at night, imagining her naked. But I still didn't understand what the purpose of this whole erection thing was. It was just a nuisance that I had to put up with when I thought secret and delicious thoughts about her. I hadn't figured out that touching my penis when it was hard could be satisfying. And having intercourse with her never even occurred to me in any of my fantasies.

But now, I'd like to get to the meat of my tale -- how I came to be a peter beater. The following summer when I was 12, my folks sent me off to YMCA camp. As far as sex goes, I learned the rest of the story there. One of the boys explained to me what semen was, only he called it jiz. He didn't offer a clue at what caused it to issue forth -- he only explained that it came out of your dick. I also found out what blowjobs were. There was this one kid named Brady who got teased a lot because he still sucked his thumb. On a camp out one night, I and six others were in the same cabin as he. Somehow one of the kids cajoled Brady into sucking all of our dicks. None of us came. This was more an exercise in humiliation than a sexual thing. And I have to say that I am, to this day, a little ashamed of having participated.

At that same camp I met this one guy, whose name I've forgotten, who talked me into sneaking off several times into the woods, getting undressed, and rubbing our hard little dicks together. We even gave each other blowjobs, though neither of us came, nor had we ever. I remember the whole thing being very exciting and very naughty. At that time, I had never heard of homosexuality, so I didn't know that there was any taboo against what we were doing. I did realize, though, that my mom would probably not approve.

One more story about this camp. They would send us to the showers a few dozen at a time. There was this black guy named Remmie who was more advanced into puberty than the rest of us. In the shower, he boasted that he had fucked two girls. "That's bullshit," said this one guy. The rest of us were just as incredulous. "Betcha you ain't even jizzed in your life," the one guy said. By this time we were done washing and busy drying. So Remmie set out to show us that he was at least man enough to prove his challenger wrong. He began pounding his meat. The rest of us were mightily impressed at the size it attained. We all stopped drying and dressing to gawk at the spectacle. What he was doing was completely new to me. He stroked and stroked, but I guess he couldn't concentrate with all those eyes watching. At last he said, "The jiz ain't gonna come today."

On the way back to our quarters, I buttonholed Remmie and bombarded him with questions. I wanted to know just how you made the jiz come out, and what it would have looked like if it had. He explained that it would have gone on the floor (something I had already figured out) and wouldn't describe it any more than that. I guess he was a little embarrassed at how the events had unfolded in the shower. He did tell me that the boner (that was the word we used for erections then) went down right away after the jiz.

Well, I came back from that camp a changed boy. Suddenly I became aware that touching my dick when it was hard was enjoyable. I found a book on the human body and read and reread the part about sex. It made me hard every time, though I certainly didn't need the book to get hard. I was reaching the point that happens in every boy's life when erections were practically perpetual. When I was alone in the house, I'd get out the book and read it lying on my stomach on the sofa. I'd slide my dick between two of the sofa cushions and hump away while I looked at the detailed drawing they had in there of the female genitalia, complete with labels for all the parts. In the section about the male anatomy, there was a big word that I didn't understand -- ejaculation. The text said it was closely associated with another word I didn't understand -- orgasm. But I humped away, and it felt good, although neither of those two things happened to me that way.

Then one day I was home from school, sick. My mom had this policy of keeping me out of school one extra day after I felt better just to make sure -- but I had to stay in bed. Well I felt great and much too frisky to stay in bed. I got out my human body book and began reading until my dick was just aching with wood. I pulled off my pajama bottoms and began humping the sheet. Finally I put the book down, closed my eyes, and humped the sheet in earnest. It felt wonderful. I could have kept it up all day. But then suddenly each stroke began to feel even better than the last -- like tiny little fairies were kissing my penis all over, splashing it with a thousand little magic spells wherever their lips touched it. Then there were two or three strokes that, if my dick were covered in taste buds inside and out, it would have been like dipping it into chocolate syrup and sucking it deep into my body as through a straw. And I was determined that I would keep up forever these wonderful strokes that tickled my insides with fluttering appleblossom petals and bursting balloons. But suddenly there was another sensation -- like having to pee real bad only without the pressure. I felt my dick fill with fluid. And the thought struck me that I ought to squeeze it out. So I did. Took several squeezes to get it all. Then I tried to stroke some more to bring back the wonderful sensation. But now further stroking just brought on discomfort. So I stopped and rolled over and did nothing.

I had a pretty good idea what had happened. When I caught my breath, I examined the wet spot I had left on the sheet. My semen was pretty much water at that age, so it had sunk right in. I touched it, and then sniffed it to make sure it wasn't pee. I remember doing something else for a while, then humping the sheet again, with the same results. I did it a third time that day too. Each time, when my penis filled with fluid, I figured it would feel good to squeeze it right out, since that is what I had done the time before. The last time that day, though, there was only a drop or two to be squeezed. Each time I tried to continue after the squirting, and each time it was no fun, so I stopped and rested.

From that night on, I humped the sheet every night. Sometimes I'd slide my dick under the pillow and hump, but the end result was the same. About a week or two after my first ejaculation I decided to see what would happen if I didn't squeeze the stuff out. Well, it surprised the hell out of me to find out that that was simply not an option. I tried it on many nights, thinking each time that the last time I had just not concentrated enough. After all, the squeeze came from the same muscle that cleared the penis after taking a leak. That was completely a voluntary though very instinctive action. I even demonstrated to myself that I could hold off the squeeze at the end of a pee as long as I liked with enough concentration. But no matter how much I tried to relax that little squeezer though, it had a mind of its own once the balloons began to burst. Once that began and the gotta-pee sensation was upon me, it was going to squeeze and squeeze violently with or without permission from command-central. And, I had to admit to myself how, although the sensation of my penis filled with semen felt similar my penis filled with pee, this squirt had an extra deliciousness to it that went beyond the chocolate syrup feeling. This squirting was like finding a cherry in amongst the chocolate.

I also became aware at this time of the wonderful pulses that followed, one after another, after the squirt was done -- each like a sweet chocolate aftertaste. I got to know my body better, figuring out how to push my dick gently against the sheet to bring on the next pulse. How, when it seemed like there were no more twitches to be had, I could relax for a few seconds and suddenly I could tell that there could be one more by pushing again right now -- and maybe even another if I relaxed again.

I began thinking about sliding my dick in and out of girls' vaginas as I humped the sheet. Sometimes I even imagined my dick was inside Mrs. Bayer, who was a middle-aged teacher I contended with every day. But mostly I fantasized about being with the girls in my class. I imagined the intimate sensation of feeling some of me flowing deep into her insides. And what would the girl feel? Would it feel to her like I was peeing inside her? Then after I shot off I'd think how lucky I was to be male, since a girl would never know the exquisiteness of that chocolate syrup feeling or the joy of that uncontrollable squirt through her peepee. I figured that since the ejaculation performed the biological function of delivering the sperm -- a function that girls certainly didn't have -- that sex was probably a drag for them, what with having to watch the male in such joy and lacking the ability to feel it herself.

Another thing was that despite what I had witnessed Remmie do, I still thought I had discovered something new. I now knew this secret way to enjoy the wonders of intercourse without having to go through the trouble of finding a partner. I figured that none of my friends had an inkling about this. I remember a friend of mine, Cliff, and I were talking about girls and sex one day, both of us sporting hardons as we spoke. I asked him if he knew how the sperms got out of your dick. He said, "Sure. Every time you piss there's millions of them." And I knew that he didn't have a clue yet.

I did own a pretty decent microscope back then -- something less than a professional model but more than a toy. My folks had given it to me for Christmas. Usually I used it to look at bugs or pondwater. One day I decided that I was going to look at my own sperm. But squirting it onto the sheet would never do. My semen was still pretty watery, though beginning to get a little body to it. I found a film can and lay on my back and stroked my dick with my hand while I held the can over the squirt-hole with the other hand. It wasn't easy to get myself over the edge, since this was an entirely new way to jerk off for me. And I must say the orgasm was disappointing. But I did get a sample that I could transfer onto a slide. I put it under the microscope. It was clear. I increased the power step by step. The only things that came into focus were dust and bubbles. Oh well. I must have done something wrong, or the microscope wasn't good enough.

After my 7th grade year, we moved from New England to California. By this time, jerking off each night was an obsession with me. I had tried on a number of nights to go to sleep without doing it, but my hardons kept me awake until I did. Humping the sheet was still my nearly exclusive method. So anyway, we journeyed across the country by car, stopping to camp for several nights at a bunch of national parks. We had two tents. My mom and dad and my two little sisters slept in the big one. I and the biggest of my sisters (She is the one with the crayon, and she is also younger than I) slept in the small one. And it was cramped in there. My obsession for jerking off did not diminish one bit just because we were on the road or because I was sleeping with my sister. And the hard ground was not exactly humpable. So I waited until I figured she was asleep and stroked it lying on my back. Well she caught me the first time I tried it.

"What are you doing there?" she asked, kind of annoyed at all the motion I was causing in the cramped quarters.

"Well, er," I was stuck. Not only was this embarrassing, but I didn't even know there were words for what I was doing. But, as I said before, she and I had always had an easy rapport with matters sexual. So I said, "You see, I'm massaging my penis. When I do it enough, this stuff comes out of it."

"Really? That's kind of neat."

She never asked to watch it come out. We were in separate sleeping bags. So I lay on my back with my hand inside my pants and stroked until I filled my briefs with cum. She lost interest before I was done and fell asleep. But on a number of other nights in that tent, she would ask me, "Are you making that stuff come out?" -- sometimes even when I wasn't.

A few weeks after we arrived in California, my dad took me and one of his students on a backpacking trip in the High Sierras. It was a wonderful time -- something I'll always be grateful he did for me. We brought no tent since it hardly ever rains up there in the summer. We slept out under the stars. When I could hear both my companions snoring, I'd lie on my back, look up at those sparkling snowflake stars set in a sky as black as coal dust, drink in the cold night air, and stroke myself until I exploded into my undies and heaved a sigh into the chill Sierra night. Since then, whenever I'm in a natural setting, I always have an urge to go off somewhere private and pretty with either the sun or the moon filtering through the trees, and massage my magic wand to the burbling of a brook and the chirping of the birds or insects. And quite often I do.

That year we spent in California was when my semen really began to mature. It grew milkier, slimier, and came out in greater volume. Also, I began to have the experience sometimes, while humping the sheet, of cumming and suddenly feeling a gob of it on my throat. And it began to stain the sheet orange. I knew what I was doing was gross. But I couldn't help it. One week I actually managed to go two nights in a row without doing it. I figured I had broken this nasty habit now. But on the third night I was overcome with horniness. I felt as if I was drowning in it. I lay on my back and gritted my teeth, determined to fight off the urge. But my dick was throbbing. It kept beckoning me to it. My mind was captive to the anticipation of that unruly penis filling with up semen. I could almost feel it welling up from deep inside, cascading through my plumbing, and spurting out through my little peehole. The thought wouldn't let me alone. Finally I said to myself, "Just this once, then I'm quitting forever." I turned over, pulled down my pajama bottoms, and with barely a light touch on the sheet I began to shake, my toes curled up, my eyes squeezed shut, my face got hot, I clutched the pillow, and I gushed out an mammoth puddle onto the sheet and a gooey spot all over my stomach. I realized then and there that there was no controlling this thing. I was a slave to it.

That was also when I began the habit of using the top sheet to wipe off when I was done, but only after I'd spend as much as an hour feeling the delightful squishy sensation of wallowing in it. So the top sheet began to acquire orange stains too. And as my testosterone continued to increase my viscosity and volume, the cum began daily to soak through to the mattress pad, making it hard and crusty in the spot I liked to jerk off. I knew my mom had to be seeing this develop. I didn't think then, though, that she understood what it was.

Then one day my dad and I were in the car, on our way to a father-son afternoon in the park. Suddenly, out of the blue, he says, "You know, a long time ago, people thought that masturbation would make you insane. But it isn't true."

I looked at him. "Masturbation? What's that."

"Well, it's, uh, when when a person does -- like -- I mean if a man or a boy rubs his penis and, you know, makes it feel good."

He was on to me. But thankfully he was being nice about it. And if this thing had a name, then at least I wasn't the only one doing it. Does that mean that he did it once too?

"So why did people think it made a person insane?" I asked. I was most uncomfortable with the subject, but I was curious as well.

"It's because in insane asylums they saw the patients doing it. And they thought that's what made them insane. But it's not. Sane people do it too, and they never end up in the asylum at all. And it won't make you blind either."

I still wasn't up to asking him how many people did it. And I understand now that he knew good and well that I was doing it and he didn't want me to feel bad about it. But it didn't diminish one bit my discomfort over having this messy habit control me.

We moved back to New England a year later -- another tent-sleeping-with-my-sister hop across the country by car. She didn't seem to be as fascinated by my habit as the first time. And I was getting bolder with her, asking her if she wanted to do the stroking for me. And to my horror, I found what I was really wishing I could do was to fuck her.

We stayed at motels when we weren't near a National Park. Most of them had swimming pools. I remember this one in Iowa where the pool had a gentle jet of water coming out of the wall just at dick level. Hugging the wall and I let it beat against me until I came in my trunks right there in front of a dozen or so total strangers.

We moved into a new house in New England. Each of us kids had his or her own room, which was no big deal to me since, being the only boy, I hadn't had to share a room with a sister since I was seven. I had a brand new bed with brand new bedding, which I baptized on the first night. The urge kept on growing. Pretty soon once a night wasn't enough. Sometimes I'd wake up early and do it once before school, even though I knew my mom would find the wet spot when I was in school. On weekend mornings there was no two ways about it. The sheet was going to get squirted -- maybe even twice.

I did try the microscope thing again about this time, and by golly, I saw the little devils, vast multitudes without number, swimming around in my semen. What a thrill! I was a man.

I began coming home from school with enormous hardons. I discovered that I could lie on the bed with all my clothes on and hump the mattress, rubbing my penis against my jockey briefs until I came into them. I started doing this every day as soon as I got home from school, then sometimes after dinner again, as well as the usual squirt into the sheets at night. If I had a term paper or something that was due the next day, I couldn't work on it for more than twenty minutes at a time without taking a break to jerk off into my skivvies. Some such assignments resulted in eight or ten ejaculations in one night.

My undershorts began to develop orange stains in front, just below the elastic. The laundry was unable to bleach it out. This was now getting to be an embarrassment every time I had to change clothes in gym class, or anywhere else that there were others around. I got good at getting them off and my jock strap on quickly with my pelvis facing into my locker so that nobody could see.

And speaking of jock straps, there were several times when I went to the beach with a jock on under my trunks. Often the whole family would simply ride home in our wet swimsuits since the beach had nowhere to change. Once home, I'd go to my room and jerk off with the jock still on. I loved the way the semen oozed through its pores.

Then there was that time I had to get a physical examination. The doctor was training some female doctor, so she was standing there watching everything. He undid my pants to feel my abdomen, and there was that awful orange stain staring both of them in the face. I guess I was unable to hide my embarrassment because he turned to her and said, "You know, sometimes the boys are worse about this than the girls."

Once my folks went away for an entire week. They hired some middle-aged matron to come and look after us. Now understand that I was not in the habit of locking my door when I jerked off. In our family, respect for privacy was a big deal, and I knew nobody would barge in without knocking. But this babysitter must have been listening outside the door when I came home after school, hearing all the sounds I made and learning the pattern. One afternoon, just as I was shooting into my pants, she flung open the door and came blowing in without warning and with some lame excuse for doing so. Well, I was shocked to say the least, but I believed her excuse, and since I was fully clothed, I figured, innocently, that she had not an inkling of what had just happened. She probably didn't even know that boys could do this, right? But then, she did the same thing the next day. I had to actually try to communicate with her at the same time goo was erupting into my drawers. And after that, I still didn't learn. She did it a third time as well.

Looking back, I guess she was hoping to catch me, dick in hand, with semen dribbling over my fingers. My only satisfaction is that she never did, the nosy bitch.

At school, I was forever in love with this girl or that girl and always too shy to be anything but friends with any of them. To me, each of these objects of my affection was a pure and wholesome angel. It shocked me how often I thought about fucking them, and worse, licking their pussies. Every night I would lie in bed, hugging and kissing the pillow, pretending that some girl from school I imagined I had in my arms was the paragon of purest womanhood. And then I'd squirt her full of my semen, pretending impossibly that I could lick her vagina at the same time I fucked it. By now I had learned that women could have orgasms too, so I could hear in my head her cries of rapture as my insides came spewing out of my peehole into her insides. Then, at once she became pure again, innocent and untouched -- just the kind of girl my mom would want me to have. And I felt like an animal for having thought of her as anything but virtuous. I had to be some undeserving filthy-minded slob, drifting off to sleep as I lay in my own love-snot.

At last, I began dating one of them. Deadre was absolutely the most gorgeous creature I had ever known. I couldn't believe my luck that she would really go steady with me. But she wasn't letting me do anything beyond necking and Frenching. She did eventually let me touch her breast from outside her clothes, but that was it. If I put my hand between her leg, she'd push it away straight off. But I didn't mind. In my sixteen year old dream world, Deadre was the girl I would marry. But was she aware of the enormous hardon I had whenever I had my arms around her? How could she still be so warm toward me when I was such a low-down slave to my dick? After our dates, I'd jump into bed alone and shoot monster loads that seemed like they'd never stop gushing. Thoughts of fucking her, or making love to her, which was the way I thought of it so I could at least live with myself, dogged me day and night. If I could only make her understand how deeply I felt for her and how deeply I wanted my physical joy to flood her deepest recesses, she would just have to open her thighs to me.

Deadre ended up moving to Colorado. I flew out to visit her once. I slept in the basement with her brother. He was a light sleeper, so there could be no jerking off here. On the last night before she broke off the relationship, I had a dream of being in a swimming pool with her. It started out that I was in there alone, swimming laps. Then I ran into her. Now you must understand that my sex dreams have always come to a waking end long before I lose control. In the past I'd just wake up hard and shaking and have to jerk off. But this dream was different. She put her arms around me. I kissed her. We were both treading water. And I slid my penis into her, all velvety and soft and warm and slippery. And she kissed back. And her sweet cavern was like a rows and rows of tiny tongues, swaying with each stroke I gave her, licking fire into my pole. And she held me tighter. Her lips kissed mine even harder. And her other lips kissed and caressed and soothed that wild appendage that ran my life. And my love for her burst out, coating her secret places. I was still squirting into my pajamas when I woke.

From Colorado, I flew out to California to visit my male cousins, whom I hadn't seen since we had lived out there. We were all in our late teens now. The eldest, who is two years my senior, gave me endless detail about what it was like to get laid. He also turned me on to reefer. The middle cousin, who was my age, informed me that the perfect life would be a continuous stoned orgasm that went on day and night.

I returned home a week later. My uncle had a sailing yacht. I had frequently gone on day sails and overnight sails with him. This summer he invited me on a three-week cruise that would takes us to all points between New York City and Gloucester, Mass. Three weeks is an eternity to go without a squirt or two. I made it through the first week, horny as hell. My prostate became so engorged that I dribbled semen every time I took a dump. It was becoming unbearable. Fortunately, I discovered some opportunities I hadn't thought of before. Sailing, you see, is hours of relaxation interrupted by moments of chaos. So, during the hours of relaxation, I'd go and lie on the foredeck and sun myself. Everybody else was aft. So I'd slip a hand into my pocket and very gently caress myself. This did backfire once. Right in the middle of sliming my shorts I heard, "Jibe-ho. Boy! Get your ass back here and take the jib." I had to jump into action and crank a winch while my dick was still jumping in my drawers.

The summer ended. My folks had decided to send me to an all boys prep school that year. I hated the idea, but I trusted they knew what was best for me. Well they didn't. That place was full of drugs, and I got into them heavily -- reefer and acid mostly. I had to share a room for the first time in a decade (except for that basement episode with Deadre's brother). I was still wracked with a need to jerk off all the time. I got good at doing it quietly so my roomie wouldn't notice. I even did it one time when we were both studying -- or at least he was studying; I was pretending to study. I sat with a book in my lap, rubbing the binding against my stiff poker as it strained against my tenting trousers. My movements were as subtle as could be, scarcely even twitching. The heat of rubbing took so wonderfully long to build up from just a spark, to an ember, to glowing coals, and bursting into sweet gooey flames only after an hour of daydreaming and tiny tickles.

Whenever I got high, I just had to find a moment of privacy. The drugs added something new to it. I'd rub and stroke. On the back of my eyelids I'd see strange cartoons of wooden dolls with wooden pussies softening into a fiery green body with hips as wide as a river and thighs made of mossy tree trunks and nipples made of flower petals and a vagina full of strawberry Jello. My whole body could slide in, and she smothered me in fruity pussy-juice and buried me in a coffin of pink slippery flesh. And that's just one of many fantasies the drugs brought on.

The drugged orgasms seemed to drift in from far away in space, growing ever so slowly deep inside, like a seed springing forth two leaves, then four, then a great many, then branching madly into an enormous tree. It drove spikes of rapture clean through my dick. The gushing shredded my urethra into tatters of ecstasy as if the semen were full of candied razor blades. On acid, it was orchids and butterflies and supernovas that exploded into my pants.

When I came home for Christmas vacation, I dated Rose, a girl I'd been friendly with before I took up with Deadre. On our first date, I took her home after dinner and a movie. We made out in her living room. I was falling for her now too, and I let her know it. She had always been shy with guys and had such a low self-image that she just fell into my arms and said, "I love you." I was torn. Here was this delicate flower, waving in the wind, trusting me to treat her the way she certainly deserved, and yet I was preoccupied with fucking her. She was a petite thing, and it was nothing for me to hold her on my lap for several hours. At last, she sat in her knee length wool skirt and straddled my left thigh. I held her. She rocked her little jelly-filled cupcake against my leg, moaning, her eyes closed and her lips protruding.

I was turned on as I had never been before. My joy-drops were soaking through my skivvies. She was actually jerking off in my arms. This was my chance to really do the act that had obsessed me for these past six years. But I was petrified. Rock hard and petrified. I knew she wasn't ready. And perhaps I could have got my dick inside her that night, but I didn't. I didn't even try. What's more, even without it, she still made me feel like more of a man that night than I ever had in my life. I didn't leave until four that morning. I drove home, I pulled off my clothes, jumped into bed and left such a puddle on one side of the mattress that it ran downhill into the depression my weight made no matter where I tried to sleep.

Rose's parents didn't trust me. After that vacation, they forbade her to see me. It's just as well. It would have been a terrible thing if I had dragged her into the drug world.

I really hated that prep school. The thing I learned there more than anything else was not to let my parents make my mistakes for me. I had believed it to be a bad idea going in, and the experience bore it out. My senior year I returned to public school. There I met Ronnie. She was a sophomore, who to everybody's knowledge had never been out with a guy before. I took her into the woods near my house one afternoon. She let me put my hand under her bra and feel her tits. She let me put my hand into her jeans and feel her pussy-hair. Then I began dry-humping her. She didn't resist. I squeezed her in my arms and kept humping against her crotch. She just lay there with this puzzled look on her face. I came in my jeans. I tried hard not to show it, but I was squirting away.

I took her home with my head full of what lay in store with Ronnie. I went to bed that night and jerked off knowing in my heart that from this girl I was going to get laid. And soon. It didn't matter that what I felt for her was to what I had felt for Deadre or Rose as a teardrop is to the sea. Getting laid was everything.

The next weekend I took her to some woods farther away, along with picnic fixings. We got high first. Then I started in again. I felt her nipples. I unbuttoned her jeans and began feeling her pubic hair again. She didn't say anything. I dipped my finger down into her ravine. This boy was about to get laid. I knew it. I fingered her and fingered her. She lay there limp and quiet. Then suddenly she said, "Do you love me?"

"Yes! Yes! I love you."

Ronnie looked right into my eyes and said, "I don't think you do."

And with those words, my whole image of myself came crashing down in ruins. I looked into her eyes and saw them filling with tears. And I began apologizing again and again, and nothing would stop those tears. "Do you want me to take you home?" I offered, hoping that would end this whole thing and I could just forget about it. She didn't want to go. She just kept crying and telling me what a schmuck I was. And she was right. I began crying too.

After what seemed like hours of this, when we were both too drained to allow our emotions to rasp us any longer, we lay down together and hugged. I did feel something in my heart for her after all. But how would I ever make her know? We just began talking, about parents and about the cruelties we suffered at school and who there were phonies and how deeply we each desired companionship. Then she took me in her arms and held me tight and encouraged me until I dry-humped her again. This time, she came as well -- or at least she says she did. After that, I felt like I could talk about anything with her.

So that is how, somehow, the conversation got around to jerking off. She was the first person to whom I admitted doing it. "I do it all the time," I told her. "Several times a day."

"So do I. I can't even remember when I started. I must have been two or something."

"Do you think it can be a good thing?"

"I sure hope so. It sure feels good -- and it doesn't hurt anybody. Why, are you ashamed of it?"

"Well yes. A little. I mean most guys would make fun of me if they knew."

"But they don't. So don't be ashamed. I'm not. Did you really mess your pants just now? Where did it go?"

"Oh, just give it a few minutes. There'll be a wet spot soon. It has a funny smell. Go ahead and sniff ..."

With that, all the shame I had felt all those years crumbled and slipped off my shoulders. We gave our genitals names that day: Wesley and Wesliette. We talked about how they both had to have their exercise. She told me that she knew I had come in her arms that first afternoon, and that she had been scared but she liked it. I said, "How could you tell? I tried to hide it."

She laughed. "It was like you were weak and strong at the same time," she said. "There was no doubt about it, even though I'd never seen any guy do it before. It was obvious."

Ronnie went with me that summer to the beach house. We ran naked together on the beach. We dry-humped or gave each other hand jobs every chance we got. A few times I rubbed my bare penis against her bare pussy hair and squirted onto her tummy. But, much to my chagrin, we didn't get down to doing the deed until we had been going together for four months. Despite all my begging, she kept saying she wasn't ready.

We gave each other our virginities one July night, just outside a cemetery that had graves dating from colonial times. We did it inside that same tent my sister and I had slept in going across the country. I was so nervous I couldn't keep my dick stiff. It wouldn't go in at first. Then when it did, she cried out in pain, and instantly I went limp. Then when I got hard again, I put it in and came instantly. It was most unsatisfying -- not what I had expected at all.

We did it as often as we could after that, which wasn't often at first. There was never any place with enough privacy. And my orgasms were always disappointing, even on those occasions when I was able to last. I couldn't believe it. I must be weird. Intercourse orgasms weren't anywhere near as intense as jerking off ones were.

Then one weekend afternoon, everybody was out at my house. I took her up to my room. I told her, "I am determined to eat your pussy today. Are you ready?" She nodded. I undressed her, then myself. I laid her down on the still-made bed. I kissed her for a while and fondled her nipples. Then I kissed around her thighs and pubic hair. I stared straight into her slit. I was dying to taste it, but at first I couldn't get over the thought that it was unclean. I stiffened my resolve. I stuck out my tongue, and for just a second touched its tip to her clit, then backed away. Then compulsion tumbled over me. I pressed my open mouth to that thing and licked deeply from one end to the other and slobbered and gobbled. It was the most savory treat I had ever tasted. Within seconds I was spewing cum onto the bedspread.

That fall I went off to college. She was now a junior in high school. We continued to go steady from a distance, she visiting me on long weekends. When we were apart we wrote each other letters about how we masturbated all the time. She once signed a letter in big clumsy unsteady letters, "Wesliette." The image that brought to mind was so overpowering I had to jerk off that instant.

She graduated early and came to the same college. We continued to go steady until my senior year. We made love all the time, but I still exercised Wesley every chance I got. She assured me that Wesliette got her workouts too.

Since then, I have given up drugs long ago. I've gone with a number of women, and married one of them. But none of them have been able to give me anything that quenches my thirst for masturbation. I still do it at least once per day, no matter how many times I make love that day. And the orgasms I give myself continue to be stronger than the ones any woman can give me. Single sex I do for the pure joy of it. Partner sex, well that's for that special tender feeling you can't get by yourself -- intimacy. So I don't feel at all guilty about jerking off. I've had some embarrassing moments, but been caught with my dick in my hand only once. That was when I was staying with my friend at his brother's house in Ontario. His brother was used to living alone. There was a stack of Playboys in the bathroom. I had gone in there to pee, but when I saw the Playboys I figured I had a private moment, so I dropped my trousers and went to work. My friend's brother burst in on me and said, "Oh -- jerking off, eh? Well just go ahead and finish." Then he left and never said another word about it.

So here I am approaching middle age. According to my estimates, I have masturbated over 11,000 times and still climbing. By now, about 15 gallons of semen have spewed in vain from my loins, and every drop has been a joy. Life is short, and I intend to fit every ejaculation I can into it. I haven't gone insane or blind, and my palms are still hairless. The only time masturbation has done me any physical harm was once when I was hiking through a California canyon. I didn't know it, but my hands had brushed over some poison oak. I stopped in a sunny clearing on a hillside and stroked myself amid the bay trees and mesquite bushes to an exquisite gush of penis-nectar. Then two days later, my misery began. I'm more careful in natural settings now.

I have to say that it is a bit frustrating that intense orgasm and tender intimacy are not wrapped in the same package for me. In a perfect world, there would be a way to get both sensations at the same time -- and often. But I live in the real world, and yes, even there, life is sweet.