As an old man, in my seventies, who has been given the nod by my doctors that my days are numbered, I spend a lot of time looking back at my life. Recalling what I have done and achieved. Regretting the things I should have done and did not do. I do not suppose for a moment this is unusual, but when it happens to you, it takes it out of you, initially at least. Do not get me wrong, I have come to accept my imminent demise and am mostly at peace with it. I think the song, Angels, sums up my feelings best – “I’m not scared of dying, I just don’t want to.”, yet.
I never planned on these thoughts going public. It was just a few scrappy notes for my own consumption. The ramblings of an old man, as it were. But one of the individuals concerned saw those notes. They thought that others may identify with some of the situations and suggested I tidy them up into a story and post them on your forum. This series, if it goes that far, is the result. My true-life story, but memories fade at my age, so some liberties may have been taken with details.
If you are expecting beginning to end, dirty, perverted sex, it’s not for you. Bug out now…no hard feelings. And I don’t profess to be a literary genius; so, if my writing style and grammar offend you, you know where the ‘close’ button is!
Part 1 – My Formative Years
As the sands of time are rapidly running out for me, I find myself reminiscing my past. Whilst my earthly life has but a brief period to run, my sex life effectively died some years ago. All I have is memories, so it is not surprising sex plays a dominant role in my thoughts.
Not that my journey was that outstanding anyway. I was not deflowering multiple virgins on a weekly basis, giving them back-to-back orgasms during their first sexual experience. No, it was a very ordinary, terribly slow journey. Like everyone’s sexual journey, it started in my formative years.
I was born during the mid 1950s, in Southeast England, the middle of three siblings. Growing up with a sister, three years my senior, I was aware from an early age of the physical differences between boys and girls. Additionally, although they did not flaunt their sexuality, my parents were not prudes, so I was no stranger to men and women’s bodies either. My mother had large, pendulous breasts and, as the era dictated, a full dark pubic bush, both of which fascinated me, though I had no idea why at the time.
Like most kids of the time, and possibly still today, first genital contact came through play; the favourite game being Hospital. Of course, being 20th century, only the boys could be doctors, the girls had to be the nurses, though both could double as the patients. Fortunately, my sister could bring several of her girlfriends to the game, and I the boys. A large wooden garden shed, designated as a playhouse, made the perfect medical facility.
Games would start quite innocently, with imaginary broken limbs and exotic diseases treated. Inevitably though, as things progressed, more clothes would need to be removed and genitals examined, palpitated, and probed. Even all these years later, I distinctly recall that one treatment involved me, as the senior doctor, inserting an erect penis into some hapless patient’s vagina or anus. Again, I had no idea why. It just seemed the natural thing to do. I do not believe full penetration occurred, but it felt good anyway.
Between games, my sister and I would take full opportunity to get naked for each other and continue our examinations and explorations. Sis, being several years older than I, matured first, which gave me much more to work with. The feel of developing breasts and moist vaginal lips now part of the repertoire. Then suddenly all this stopped. Sis’s first boyfriend had appeared on the scene, and her delights were now off limits to me, and he had exclusive rights. In retrospect, it was just as well. We had enjoyed touching and stimulating each other, perhaps a bit too much for siblings Things could easily have got out of hand and gone the whole way. Some may say not a terrible thing, I’m not so sure, but each to their own.
Despite having seen, and touched, quite a few penises and vaginas, I still had not had, what you might call, a real sexual experience. That came in an unexpected form, one hot summers day, a few months later. Although arguably too old for such antics, one of my fellow doctors, my best mate John and I, had spent the afternoon playing in a paddling pool in our garden, a welcome relief from the summer heat. At some point, my mother invited John to join us for tea and asked me to loan him some dry clothes to change into.
We retired to my bedroom and stripped of our wet clothes. Boys will be boys, and we quickly started to compare notes. Quality of pubic hair, shape of balls and of course, cock size. For a correct comparison, erections are needed, so a bit of fiddling took place. John, although the same age as I, was a bigger lad, and won the contest hands down. Even with the measurements complete, John continued to stroke his penis. I, although I did not know why, felt obliged to do likewise.
I’ve no recollection of how long this went on for, only minutes I uess. John started to stroke faster and faster, then with a grunt, ejaculated a stream of semen into the towel my mother had provided for him.
I was spellbound and stopped my own ministrations. I asked John why he had pissed all over the towel. He told me he had not pissed, but had ‘cum’, the first time I had heard that term. He was also quite mocking that I did not know this and had obviously never ‘cum’ myself yet, which was true of course. I was quite embarrassed and got quite pissed at John. I think he regretted his words and soon back tracked, assuring me it was nothing for me to be ashamed of and told me he would help me get there.
Reaching over, John took my cock, which had gone soft by then, in his hand. We had touched each others’ genitals before, during our games in the shed, so this was not new to me. But as he slowly worked me back to a full erection, new sensations started to surface. Once I was hard again, he started to stroke me firmly and after only a brief time, I felt on the verge of some, hereto, unknown release.
But that release never came. Just at the last moment, my mother shouted up the stairs that our tea was ready, and getting no reply, started to come up towards us. It was a hectic case of “hands off cocks, on socks”. We were still very disheveled and looking as guilty as sin when she entered the bedroom. She gave us a very suspicious look and admonished us to get a move on to finish dressing and come downstairs. I’m certain mum suspected that we had been ‘up to something’, but nothing was ever said. It would be many months, before my own frantic attempts at masturbation finally culminated in my own ejaculation, after which, there was no stopping me. Wanking was definitely my favourite pastime.
I would practice the art at every opportunity. Trying different grips and speeds. With lubricants or without. Dressed or naked. And with my body in different positions. I found the most common method for me was simply to rub the tip of my penis, moving my foreskin back and forth over the glans. This way could be carried out just about any time, any place, with out the need to find lubes. When more time or privacy allowed, I would roll my penis between my palms. This would allow me to continue the friction right through ejaculation, something I find hard to do with a simple five knuckle shuffle. I also found that putting myself in stress positions intensified the orgasm, and no, I’ve never been tempted by auto strangulation, too many horror stories for that.
Like most lads, I guess, I also experimented with ‘hands off’ wanking. Making artificial vaginas or using household objects to fuck. I nearly had a major incident once with a milk bottle, quite wide necked back in the day. Like the proverbial umbrella in chimney, it “went up easily down, but not down easily up”. It was a cracking orgasm, but I got stuck, with my penis getting so hard and bulbous. The more I struggled the harder and bigger (not normally an issue for me) I got. I was to frightened to break the bottle to escape, less I do major damage to my penis. And there was no way in hell I was going to my parents, dick in hand, or bottle to be precise, for help. Eventually thank goodness, after liberal applications of cold water and plenty of soap to the area, I managed to go limp enough to free myself.
Oh for a Fleshlight back then…and now really. Sadly, masturbation has been my only relief, when I can manage it that is, for many, many years. My wife, older than me, lost interest in all forms of sex some 20-years ago. I have had several opportunities to ‘play away’, but have never gone that route; nor will I pay for sex, even though I could easily afford it. There is plenty of, legal, pornography available to anyone who need that bit of incentive. Particularly like real amateur couples, simply enjoying their love for each other and expressing it to the world; and yes, it’s easy to tell real from fake.
There was no repeat performance with John. Shortly after our first and only failed attempt at intimacy, my father announced he had gained a substantial promotion at work, which required us to move to another part of the UK. In those pre-internet days, I instantly lost contact with John. Many years later, through the fledgling social media site “Friends Reunited”, I tried to reconnect with John. Eventually I managed to track down his elder brother. John had a “very troubled life”. He became “very ill” and died in the 1980s. I could elicit no further detail and out of courtesy to John’s family let it drop. But I have always since had the suspicion, reading between the lines, that poor John succumbed to AIDS, though I really hope I am wrong.
Part 2, Teenage Kicks, to follow.