by Kevin Keck
I don't think I'd been as confused about the logistics of sex since I lost my virginity. We debated for some time the merits of me being face down, ass up; me on my back (because it's more romantic that way); both of us on our sides, spooning; or her lying back and me riding her. We settled with me being on my back.
I put a pillow under my ass and spread my legs. Alice was between them, the black dick dangling menacingly. She worked it over with K-Y and then pressed the head against my rear.
There are certain things that you forget while fantasizing, most notably that you are in complete control of a fantasy. When it comes down to things being "realized," you aren't in control at all, which is why when Alice pushed into me at what she felt was an acceptable rate, my eyes nearly shot out of my head. My own forays into my most forbidden of places had always been slow and gentle, and when I had relaxed a bit then I would speed things up. Years of exposure to overeager high school boys and drunken fraternity pledges (perhaps even exposure to me) had left Alice with the idea that one entered another with all the gusto of The Light Brigade galloping into the Valley of Death.
I began a hasty retreat up the bed but she stayed with me, and the rubber cock, which had appeared only slightly larger than my own member, was now an impossibly massive object lodged in my ass.
"Stop! Slow down!" I breathed.
Alice, who never spoke during our lovemaking, said, "You like it like this? You like this cock?"
I was mortified, if not because it felt like I had a softball in my butt, then because I felt things had turned ugly, and that any second now I would be compelled to put on my best Ned Beatty impersonation. I managed to say, "No!"
I wanted to say more, but Alice was going after me with rape-like intensity. I remember thinking something to the effect of, But she's a woman! Doesn't she understand that no means no?
Apparently she did not, which is why I drew my left leg back and kicked her in the head.
I did not offer an explanation, but instead fled once again to the shower, where all of these things seem to end up. I sat on the fiberglass floor of the shower and let the water cruise between my sore cheeks. I considered checking to see if I was bleeding, but I didn't really want to know. I didn't want this to finally be the time that my interest in the forbidden zone landed me in the emergency room.
Alice drew back the shower curtain with unrestrained authority.
"Do you want it or not?"
The cock waggled in my face as she spoke.
Before I could answer she said, "I mean, Jesus, Keck. It wasn't even all the way in yet."
My voice rose two octaves. "Not all the way in? What are you talking about?"
"I don't know," she said. "It felt like I was hitting something."
I said nothing. I drew the shower curtain back and waited until the water went cold.
Hard Evidence
I started masturbating when I was ten. I didn't get anything out of it, not so far as that divine nectar of the gods goes; mostly I just ended up with an irritated penis. I had devised a method of carving a hole in the center of a bar of soap and sliding my dick through it over and over. I had a much smaller penis then. After a few weeks of this my mother asked me why I was putting holes in the soap. I didn't touch myself again for two years.
After my rape of the Ivory (was it the soap’s boastful claims to purity that I felt the instinctive need to sully?) and my recommencement of onanistic activity, I started feeling the need to enhance my “alone time” with a bit of theatrics. (It is a terrible curse to have been born on the cusp of that first generation lacking any shred of an attention span.) Things started out simply enough: a Victoria’s Secret catalogue that I “borrowed” from the home of a neighbor, various sex manuals with helpful line drawings that my parents had closeted away from my curious adolescent eyes, the rare High Society magazine that I acquired in a trade for a Wade Boggs rookie card. I would close my eyes as my fist blazed a trail of passion up and down the shaft of my penis, imagining that those mute, two-dimensional beauties were right in front of me, begging for me to give them my hot load, and give it to them I did: I must have spilled my seed across the pages of thousands of centerfolds and lingerie models, sealing them shut forever, then burying them in the woods next to my parents’ house so that my misdeeds would go undetected and I could avoid my mother’s cross-examination: Kevin, what are all these magazines doing under your mattress, and why do none of them open? The humiliation of the “soap-hole inquisition” had stung me good, and I was resolved to avoid my mother’s Gestapo-like pryings into my penile affairs.
Of course, things escalated from the innocence of printed images. It wasn’t long before I had discovered my father’s stash of silent 8mm porn films (every young boy should have to try and load a reel of film with an insistent hard-on and fingers slick from Vaseline to develop a true appreciation for the internet). Moving from still photos to actual footage of people fucking was a personal victory that I equate with launching a dog into space: it was a small step in the right direction, but hardly the giant leap that my manhood had a hankering for. I wanted sound with my porn, heavy breathing and the Oh Gods! that I had read so much about in the plastered pages of the Penthouse Forum. Also, I wanted to dispense with the heavy machinery of 8mm erotica: nothing arouses as much curiosity in the ever-attuned ears of a mother as the sound of film projection equipment whirring away in her son’s room at two in the morning.
I was eventually liberated by a copy of Inside Seka that my parents had borrowed on video from the next door neighbors. Watching it was pure rapture: Seka was a blonde goddess, and after dealing with silent porn for so long, her orgasmic voice was a delight beyond compare. In one scene which was mildly moving, she phoned her husband and let him listen as she was entwined in a threesome. I watched that scene over and over, and at night when I couldn’t risk the light from the television flickering in the dark house, I adjusted the controls so that the screen went black, and I lowered the volume and pressed my ear to the speaker as I roughed up my rod. Eventually the tape mysteriously vanished, most likely back to the neighbor’s house, and I can only guess that it was the repeated viewing and listening of that scene in my youth which lead my in later years to turn to phone sex.
At first I called the pay services, but when I grew weary of party lines and bored operators, I knew I had to seek other answers. I turned to America Online, the best place in the world to go to find hot and willing girls who also have a fetish for auditory pleasures. A lot of the women I talked to just enjoyed listening as I stroked myself, but there was one girl I spoke to on a regular basis that had a mouth and mind like no other. She said she wanted me to fuck her in the ass, then come on her face. I wish to hell I knew what it is in a man's childhood that turns him on to facial shots. I don't remember Freud covering that one.
After one particularly memorable phone encounter, during which she implored me to take on the role of her father and punish her for doing bad things with her poodle (I never clarified if this was a euphemism or an actual dog), she said, "You know, I have a video of me playing with my pussy. Would you like to see it sometime?" I was overcome with such a sudden state of delirium that I felt the room begin to sway and pitch, and I panted an eager, “YES!” She said, "Ok, but you have to make me a tape of yourself and send it first."
I wasn't too keen on this. For one, I didn't have access to a camera on a convenient basis. Also, I didn't know if I could pull it off—it’s bad enough when someone can see how foolishly maniacal you look during sex. I imagine most people look like village idiots while working themselves pretty good. With some hesitation I told her I would see what I could do, which was a complete fabrication. I had no intention of going through with it. Ever. Maybe at some point if I met this particular girl I would film myself with her, but that was the extent to which I was willing to document my flushed and naked body.
However, I have never really been a man of conviction, which is why shortly after her request, while on a
visit to my parents' house, I decided to borrow their camcorder.
I set it up on the tripod, figured out where to aim it, and stripped down to nothing. As I prepared the little hog for the camera, shaking him from his flaccid slumber, I found myself without lubrication of any sort. Some men will swear by the comfort of their own pre-ejaculation and sweaty palm, but having rubbed myself to the point of drawing blood on more than one occasion, I had learned a little something about my own limits regarding friction. Besides, I have sensitive skin, and I regard my use of Vitamin E enriched lubricants as a way of not only protecting myself from the weathering agents of masturbation, but also as my way of “keeping it smooth for the ladies.”
Unfortunately, on this trip home, I didn’t bring my own lotion, and the only lotion I knew of was in my parents’ room. I had tried too many times in my youth to steal into the folks’ bed-chamber after they were asleep to plunder their supply of K-Y jelly, only to be thwarted by my mother’s uncanny ability to sense when anyone was in her room. After some contemplation I visited the kitchen and spooned out a half-cup of butter flavored Crisco. I wondered for a moment if using such a cooking substance might alter the taste of my penis in some way, but I imagined this could only be for the better. I went back downstairs, greased my meat with vegetable shortening, and went to town on myself.
I was putting on a stellar performance, with some obligatory moaning going on (my off-camera moments of personal pleasure take place in relative silence, as I see no need to voice my satisfaction to myself). I was rubbing my balls with one hand, trying to take advantage of the full range of my skills. I contemplated fingering my asshole, but I thought that might be a bit much on my first tape. You have to save something for an encore. (My father taught me that, though I suppose my execution of his wisdom was pretty far from what he had in mind.) I made eye contact with the camera: I tried my best to look sexy, or at the very least not completely stupid. However, something had gone awry; the light that indicated the camera was recording had gone out.
I ceased with my endeavors and checked the machine. I decided the tape was screwed up and so I began to look for another one. My major problem with this whole affair was that since I was doing it on the fly I hadn't had time to buy a tape beforehand. The folks were all out of blanks and so I had merely grabbed one off of the top of the television. If there was something important on it, they would just have to deal with it. I found another tape marked Perry Mason T.V. Movie and quickly decided my dad would not miss Raymond Burr’s later work.
The new tape worked fine. I got back in front of the camera and went to it. What the camera couldn't see was that I had dialed in the Spice channel. Some up-and-coming porn starlet was giving her all to Peter North. It was getting me in a very serious mindset about my task at hand, and I could feel the impending orgasm building in my balls. I scooted a little closer to the camera to let it go with my patented cry of, "I'm fucking coming!" I cleaned myself off, stopped the tape, and put it in for review. It was brilliant. I couldn't wait to send it out. I packed the camera back up and put the tape in my bag for my return trip to New York the next day.
Actually, it wasn't so brilliant. I mean, it was good, and I looked good. A lot better than I thought I would. But I was facing the camera. If you're a guy on film and you want your penis to look even remotely large, never face the camera: it doesn't capture the length. I shot a good load, and that looked hot— don't get me wrong. It's just that I was left feeling like I really hadn't captured the real me. Under the circumstances, though, it was good enough.
Still, after a few days, something was eating at me about the tape. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I watched it a few more times, critiqued it a little more, and realized I bite my lower lip when I masturbate. Some women might actually find this attractive, but I thought I looked silly. Also, I had always felt a little insecure about the fact that when I masturbate I do it on my knees, and I've gotten nothing but grief about this when I share it with people. It's just how I feel most comfortable doing it. On tape it was rather charming. I guess you really have to see it for yourself to understand the mysterious beauty of my pose.
But I could never figure out what it was that kept popping up in my head like an ambiguous Mentos theme. Then my mom called.
What I had forgotten about was the first tape that I had put into the video camera. I left it on top of the television. I never even glanced at what I had been recording over: How to Use Your New IBM Computer. Actually, had I taken a second to look at, I probably wouldn't have thought twice about using it. My parents had owned their computer for over a year. My grandfather, however, was a completely different story.
My mom and dad had gone to visit my grandparents to help them set up their new IBM computer. They took the tape. As I understand it, it didn't help my grandparents at all with using their computer. In fact, it left them rather puzzled.
When my mom told me all of this—over the phone, sparing me the embarrassment of having to face her while evidence of my perversions was presented to me—I could feel my face turning red. Then, when she was done explaining how my father had nearly shit out his kidneys during the ordeal of trying to shut the tape off before my grandparents both succumbed to strokes, she said, "So, what do you have to say for yourself?"
What could I say? I had spent fifteen years of my life by this point trying to conceal a portion of my life that had suddenly been exposed in the most literal sense. I cleared my throat and said:
"I think I had the wrong camera angle. Did my wang look small?"
My mother paused, and then with nothing but supportive matriarchal affection said:
"Why, no honey, not at all."
I was a Teenage Homosexual
So there I was, sixteen years old, with a fondness for The Cure and show tunes, not to mention the fact that I was regularly masturbating while prodding my rectum with a vast assemblage of household objects. On top of this, I had recently been exposed to The Rocky Horror Picture Show and had borrowed some of my mother's lipstick on a number of occasions to find just the right color for me. Of course, I told no one about these things. They were the dark secrets that I kept in my closet, and it was from this closet that I cleverly interpreted the obvious signs: I was what the other guys at school referred to as a "fucking faggot." I was not entirely happy with this terminology, and opted instead to quietly admit to myself that I was simply gay.
Granted, I was not terribly popular with the ladies at that age, which may have contributed to my assumption. When all of my friends were regaling me with tales of their experiments with girlfriends (wonderful stories that usually involved some type of fruit or public place), I simply nodded and tried to forget that most of my evenings were spent explaining my lengthy shower time to my parents. As if this weren't enough, I noticed a distinct lack of cock in late-night cable erotica. Too many times I caught myself thinking, This is all well and good, but I want to see a cock penetrating that woman and then coming on her. What truly heterosexual man longs to see a veritable chorus line of cocks ejaculating on a woman?
Then again, I never fantasized about having sex with a man, and I never watched gay porn (although I didn't have access to it even if I had wanted it — thanks to the Internet, the struggling gay adolescent has things much easier these days). But I did, quite by accident, end up masturbating in the dark with my friend Jeremy while we listened to Pink Floyd's "Several Small Species of Furry Creatures Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict," from the album Ummagumma.
We had been watching some ridiculous soft core porn that we rented from the local video store-- the basic plot seemed to involve competitive skiing-- I don't recall much more than that because we weren't interested in the plot and thus kept fast-forwarding from one lame sex scene to the next. When it was over, and our eager hormones had been sufficiently teased, I said something like, "Damn. I need to jack off."
How things proceeded from there is unclear, but I remember there was a small debate ab
out whether or not I would really do it, then Jeremy said he would do it, then the lights were off, the music was on, and we moved to opposite sides of the room to begin our business.
To his credit, Jeremy was done almost immediately. And then he started again. This kind of pressure made it all the more difficult for me. Plus, because there was only one bottle of lotion between us, there was the constant interruption of passing it back and forth. And then there was the sound: in the dark, with Pink Floyd droning in the background, the sound of a greased fist vigorously working a cock could not be more absurd. When I finally got past that, Jeremy completely psyched me out by saying:
"Why do you hold your breath when you jerk off? You'll have a heart attack someday."
I had not been aware of my tendency to hold my breath while masturbating; still, there could have been few occasions more ill-suited for pointing this out. I was already feeling inadequate when faced with Jeremy's rapid fire ejaculation and recovery, and now I was being marked as a cardiac risk. It made me nervous that someone was paying such close attention to me as I masturbated. I told Jeremy to be quiet, and I turned up the music to drown out the sound of his activities and my respiration.
Forty-five minutes later, I finally finished. Jeremy was capping off his third of the evening. The next day, I told my mom that I wanted to get a perm.
The perm had a logic of its own. I had a terrible crush on the gay-and-permed fellow who choreographed the color guard for the marching band. Which, come to think of it, was another thing: I was in the color guard. I rarely admit to this detail of my life — to look someone in the eye and shamefully tell them that, instead of playing sports in high school, I chose to twirl a flag, is still a struggle.
Why I was attracted to this guy I can only venture to guess. He was charming and funny, as so many gay men seem to be. I was also charming and funny, and together we were a riot. Thus, our mutual charm and humor seemed yet another indicator of the fact that I was destined to suck cock.