Porn King

by John C. Holmes

  “He doesn’t mean to, sweetheart. It’s just that he can’t help himself.”

  “Then why doesn’t he hit David? David can do anything and I get the blame.”

  “David’s just a baby.” She replied, “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Let’s not make trouble, darling. Let’s try to be nice to David and Harold too. Harold needs all our help and prayers.”

  Pray for Harold? Be nice to Harold? I couldn’t do that. It was much easier to hide whenever Harold was around. The dining room provided the perfect hideaway. We had a huge dining table, made of oak; that Mother always kept extended with three large leaves and covered with a heavy damask cloth that reached to the floor. The table was seldom used, except for holidays and the rare times we had company. We always ate in the kitchen. Every time I’d hear Harold’s car pulling into the driveway, I’d run for cover under the table. Some of my fondest memories are of listening to the family fighting, going crazy, while I lay peacefully on my back staring at its underside. Resurfacing without being seen took some planning. I always tried to wait until dinner time, when everyone was seated in the kitchen. At that point, Harold would inevitably bellow, “Where the fuck is that kid!?” With that I’d appear as if I’d just come in from outside. My luck held out for nearly two years. Then one day, for some reason, Harold looked under the table. I knew I was in trouble even before his big paw shot forward at me. “Damn you,” he roared. “I’ve been calling for ten minutes!” I felt myself being dragged out into the open by the seat of my pants, and the pounding began.

  On Sunday mornings, I sought refuge in church. Harold attended church, too—he came from a strict religious family, Mother said—so I lingered long after the services for Sunday school. That went on for nearly twelve years. For my perfect attendance, I later received a certificate.

  I discovered the town library as well. It was small and quiet and private, seldom occupied by more than five people at once. Following the dining room table incident, I spent most of my time secluded between rows of bookshelves. I became an avid reader. Historical novels interested me most, and anything that had to do with nature and ancient civilizations. To me, the real mysteries were not by Agatha Christie and Erle Stanley Gardner, but why archaeologists explored the ruins of lost cultures.

  “Where have you been all day, John?” Someone in the family would ask when I returned home.

  “Walking in the woods,” I’d reply. Or “hunting.” I didn’t dare tell the truth. The library had become my secret hiding place where I could weave fantasies without their interference. The first really happy time in my life, thinking back, was spent sitting by myself reading a stack of books.

  The library happened to be located in what was known as Town Hall. The police department and jail were in the basement; on the top floor were administrative and mayor’s offices. The rest of the building housed the local movie theater. That was another good place to escape on the one day a week when it was open and I could afford the price of admission. We didn’t get too many big movies, mainly old Westerns and serials with Lash LaRue, Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry, and Roy Rogers. I especially liked the way Lash LaRue brought the bad guys to their knees with his whip. I wanted one like it to beat the shit out of Harold.

  The really good movies played in Columbus, but that didn’t stop me. I’d hop a bus and I was on my way to the big city. With John Wayne or Spencer Tracy waiting at the other end, I would have trekked almost anywhere. I often saw their films two and three times, if not in one sitting then on successive weekends.

  Not all of the movies that passed through town were wholesome and clean; some never even made it to Columbus. I’d recently turned twelve when I heard about a foreign film that was causing quite a furor across the country. The movie starred a young French actress, Brigitte Bardot, and from its title, And God Created Woman, it sounded rather pious. According to the paper, it definitely wasn’t. There were scenes where Bardot, who was fast becoming known as a “sex kitten,” bared her breasts while portraying a pouting child-woman who openly advocated freedom of choice in sexual partners. Members of our town council insisted on screening the film prior to scheduling it for showing in the local theatre, a practice they followed with every film. How else could they uphold the strict moral standards of the community? Silently, the council members probably enjoyed Bardot and her shameless sexual appetite (on film, anyway), but being responsible men, they blackballed the movie. The fuss they created in judging the film “dirty” undoubtedly left more of an impression on me than if I’d seen it.

  Sex was not a subject to be discussed openly. The slightest reference to anything sexual at a mixed gathering brought gasps and glares from the women present, and a certain reprisal for the offending party later on. No one fondled in public; few people touched. Men told “shady” stories and talked of lustful escapades in private or in small groups at neighborhood taverns. Boys gathered in hidden places, like behind barns, to exchange secrets meant only for young ears. As kids growing up in Farm County, we all knew what was going on. We’d have had to wear blinders not to know. Everywhere we looked, animals were mating, constantly and without inhibition. Watching them became a natural part of our lives. My first sexual experience occurred when I was eight years old. I’d fooled around some before that, playing “stinky finger” with one of the little neighborhood girls, but nothing more serious than “let me touch yours and I’ll let you touch mine.” She touched—at time stroking my “thing” as if it was a pet snake—and I probed. We both giggled.

  There were no laughs with Gloria. Every once in a while Mother and Harold liked to go into town at night. Mother hesitated leaving me alone after dark (my brothers and Ann were never home), so she lined up a baby sitter. Young girls who’d work for nothing weren’t easy to find, but Gloria didn’t mind. A few jars of Mother’s homemade preserves would be payment enough, thank you.

  Gloria was a high school sophomore and very pretty, although slightly on the chunky side. She wore tight sweaters and skirts, which tended to make her appear heavier than she really was. “I’ve found a new diet,” she’d tell me each time she came to visit. Do you think it’s doing any good?” Then she’d stand before a mirror, suck in her stomach, and rub her hands along her ample hips, thighs and breasts.

  One night, Gloria put me to bed and went directly into the adjoining bathroom, leaving the door partially open. I didn’t think anything about it; in fact, I tried to sleep, but Gloria had other plans for me. It wasn’t the light that bothered me, nor the sound of water running into the wash basin. It was Gloria herself. Gloria in action! From my bed I could see not only Gloria’s reflection in one of the full-length bathroom mirrors, but also Gloria peeling off her clothes. She liked to disrobe and admire herself. She was good at it, too. She performed one of the most erotic stripteases I’ve ever seen. The only thing missing was bump-and-grind music.

  Standing before the mirror, as if in a spotlight, she unbuttoned her blouse and slowly let it fall from her shoulders to the floor. Then she unhooked her bra, shaking the straps loose one by one until her huge breasts were fully exposed. Unzipping her skirt, she stepped out it and pulled down her panties. Fully naked, she stood basking in her own reflection, caressing her body with smooth, tender strokes. Except for the photos in the nudist magazine, which I hardly remembered, I’d never seen a woman naked before. I knew I liked it.

  Gloria could see me in the mirror just as I could see her. I pretended to be asleep, but she wasn’t fooled; she knew I wasn’t lying under a tent pole. It pleased her to know that her body excited me, even though I wouldn’t let on. “What do you think you’re looking at?” She shrieked, as if suddenly stunned to discover she was being watched. She held a towel primly against her breasts, even though she knew full well that I could see her breasts, even though she knew full well that I could see her exposed backside in the mirror. “I know what you’re thinking, you bad boy.” I was certain that God w
ould strike me dead!

  Once Gloria had her say she returned to the mirror for more self-examination and adoring caresses. When she tired of that, she moved to the bathroom sink, filled it with warm water, and began washing herself with a dampened cloth. This process took a good half-hour, most of which was spent on her breasts. Gloria worshiped her breasts, and they were magnificent, large and firm with dollar-sized pink disks surrounding the nipples. She washed over them, and around them, and under them, the repeated the cycle before moving down her stomach and between her legs. Finished at last, she disappeared momentarily. The next thing I knew, she was standing over me wearing only a towel, sarong-style. “Did you take a bath before you went to bed?” she barked. I had, but I didn’t want her to know. More than anything, I wanted to get in the bathroom with her. “No,” I fibbed.

  “Well, you have to take one,” she ordered. Gloria marched out of the room and started filling the tub. I followed in my underwear and watched as the water began to rise. She squirted something under the faucet that brought forth a wave of bubbles. “OK, get in,” she said, “and make sure you wash everything.”

  As I pulled off my underwear and stepped into the foamy tub, Gloria returned to the basin, dropped her towel, and began cleansing herself all over again. With her back to me, my view was obstructed, but from the position of her hands I could tell she was working around her genitalia. “What are you staring at?” she snapped, looking over her shoulder. “Nothing,” I gulped.

  She glared momentarily before darting toward me to grab my ear. Tugging at it, she said angrily, “Don’t you ever wash these things?” Without waiting for an answer, she took the wash rag, the one she’d been using on herself, soaped it and stuck it in my ear—hard (Gloria had the strength of a bull). I started to yell, but she ran the soapy rag across my mouth, muffling my cries. “Now for the rest of you,” she said.

  She lathered my head, than dunked it underwater. Then she ran the cloth down my back and around my buttocks, lingering around the cleavage, fingering it deeply. Her breasts grazed my arm. The nipples were swollen and taut. “Stand up,” she barked.

  I hesitated. I was not in any condition to stand; part of me was already up, anyway.

  “Get on your feet!” Gloria said, with a strange look on her face. As she grabbed under my arms and pulled me out of the water, her eyes suddenly grew wide. “What’s that for?” she asked, stepping back a bit to get a better view of my stiffened appendage.

  “I don’t know,” I said naively.

  Gloria looked at me savagely. “You play with yourself, don’t you?”

  “No,” I answered emphatically. “That’s a sin.”

  “Have you ever touched a girl before?”

  “No,” I said, discounting my earlier ‘stinky finger’ experience. She looked at me sternly while soaping her hand, then wrapping it around the hardened rod.

  Then she began stroking it. I had my first orgasm that night.

  As Gloria was tucking me back in bed, she asked, “Are you going to tell your mother I gave you a bath?”

  “No,” I replied, definitely.

  “Did you like the bath I gave you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, whenever you have to have a babysitter, make sure you ask for me.”

  “I will,” I replied. I had no say in the matter, but I promised anyway.

  “And never tell anybody what we did. Swear?”

  “I swear.”

  A few months later, shortly after my ninth birthday, I discovered what it was really like to be with a girl. Mary Kay was the daughter of a neighbor, and we often walked to school together. I hadn’t seen her in weeks, but we met one hot, steamy afternoon on a county road. She was wearing a little cotton sun dress, and looked terrific. “Want to take a walk?” I asked. “We could let our feet dangle in the creek.”

  She brushed a wisp of blond hair out of her face and smiled. “Sure, that would feel good.” We made it as far as the bridge that crossed the creek— actually, into the cool shadows beneath the bridge. There, nothing grew except the softest, greenest moss; it felt like a carpet of velour under our bare feet. I had known Mary Kay ever since we’d moved to the country. She was a good friend, nothing more, but suddenly I felt a stirring between my legs. I turned on my side to face her as she lay on her stomach, and ran my hand along the gentle curve of her back. Her body quivered, and she rolled over. I placed my hand on her stomach, making broad, sweeping, circular motions until my fingers rested in the damp folds between her thighs. I’d never played “stinky finger” with Mary Kay before, and she did not seem to mind my starting now, although she kept her legs firmly together. I was leaning over to kiss her cheek when she came up with the oddest remark. Looking up, she said, “I was watching my sister kiss her boyfriend the other night and they were sticking their tongues in each other’s mouths.” “You mean she stuck her tongue in his mouth?”

  “No, he stuck his tongue in her mouth.” I looked at Mary Kay and made a face.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged, “but do you want to see what it feels like?” I wasn’t quite sure, but I nodded anyway. To kiss, seriously, we had to get close, and when we did my penis brushed against the softness of her leg. The feel of her body against mine brought on a feeling I’d never known before, and I thought: There cannot be anything better in the world than being this close to another human being.

  Mary Kay pressed her lips to mine and we touched tongues. It felt and I backed away. “No,” she said, “you’re supposed to suck on my tongue.” “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she said, impatiently.

  Again, we kissed and once again I felt her tongue in my mouth. “That’s awful,” I said, wiping my open mouth with the back of my hand. “No it isn’t! It’s OK—my sister does it.”

  My interest in Mary Kay was slowly fading, but I didn’t want her mad at me. “All right,” I said, “we’ll do it.”

  At that point I noticed a strange thing happening. As I worked on Mary Kay’s tongue, she began to spread her legs—like the unfolding of flower petals. Now my fingers could freely explore the soft, resilient flesh of her uncharted depths. Then I felt her hand. She had a death grip on my rod. “You’re squeezing too hard,” I said. It felt dead, but I still had an erection.

  “Well, how do you want me to touch it?”

  “Just hold it,” I said “but not so tight.”

  “I saw my brother play with himself once,” Mary Kay whispered, “so I know how boys do it.” She loosened her grip slightly and began moving her hand slowly up and down. After only a few strokes, she stopped. Her eyes grew wide as she said, “I know an even better way. Want to try?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mary Kay pushed my probing fingers away and spread her legs farther apart, lifting her knees into the air. “Closer,” she coaxed, “move closer.”

  She pointed the object in her hand, guiding me inside. Then I was on top of her. And we kissed—with our tongues. I thought I’d gone to Heaven.

  Our bodies locked tightly together for several moments, squirming unexpectedly at the wild and totally new sensation that gripped us. Then, suddenly and without warning, Mary Kay shoved me away. She was on her feet in an instant, reaching for her panties and sun dress and tugging awkwardly at the skimpy pieces in an almost desperate attempt to cover herself. She dressed with her back to me, without saying a word, and without so much as a parting glance she hastily departed the shadowy “scene of the crime” for the open spaces and sunlight.

  Mary Kay’s quick departure didn’t bother me. In fact, I felt relieved to have her break away, and was grateful for her silence. Had she said anything, even in passing, I probably wouldn’t have answered; my mind was too filled with ugly, horrifying thoughts. The overwhelming joy that had raced through me at the height of our intimacy had turned to fear and shame. It was as if a dense, black cloud had rolled over me, smothering me with guilt. I had tasted Heaven. Now I was cert
ain the Devil had taken me by the hand and was leading me straight to Hell. It was difficult for me to understand how something that felt so good could be considered so wrong, even evil. I needed desperately to talk to someone, anyone, but that was impossible. I couldn’t confide in my brothers or sister, and certainly not in my Mother or Harold. We were not allowed to think about sex, let alone discuss it. To admit that I had actually experienced sex would have been intolerable.

  My feelings toward Mary Kay swayed from one extreme to the other. One moment, I wanted to see her again to try and make peace with her, and myself. The next moment, I blamed her for causing me so much pain, and pledged never to even mention her name. If it hadn’t been for that afternoon under the bridge, I kept telling myself, we’d still be best friends. Instead, we had become strangers. My guilt was so complete that I began to doubt whether I’d ever look at another girl (I was certain I’d never touch one). But, for reasons that were unknown to me at the time, whenever I thought of Mary Kay, which was almost constantly, I’d relive our few moments of innocent discovery and my body would throb with sexual tension. Once again, I’d be lifted sky-high with pleasure, only to come crashing down in despair that lingered long after the all-too-fleeting pleasure.

  How could I ever be forgiven my sin? To my young mind, I had committed the greatest sin of all; one twenty times more deadly than masturbation. Mostly, I wanted to avoid Mary Kay. That was easy for a time, especially on week days. Because of summer vacation, there were no morning walks together to school, no sitting within glancing distance of each other in the same classroom.

  Once school started in the fall, I purposely left the house earlier than necessary so that our paths would not cross. For safe measure I took short cuts, racing through the woods and across cornfields and meadows. In the classroom, Mary Kay sat behind me, several rows away. By getting to my seat first, and leaving last, I could go for days without seeing her.