by Kevin Keck
Nothing ever came of my attraction to the color-guard choreographer, but secretly I started to reveal my sexual awakening to a few people, always women, because I felt they would be the least judgmental. Also, I was on the lookout for my requisite “fag hag.” How could I be a bona fide homosexual without one? My confession would often happen late at night, toward the end of a party when I was alone with a girl on a porch, smoking a Virginia Slim and drinking the last of my wine cooler. I would sigh and say:
"You know, I think I'm gay."
Whatever girl I was with would go:
"Yeah, I knew that."
And that, more or less, was the end of it.
In the months following the initial self-abuse session between Jeremy and me, there were a few other instances that imitated the first one and Jeremy was always the champ during these marathon sessions. I surmised that this was why he did so well with the girls at school: he was never at a lack for a date, and his tales of sexual prowess were no secret. I personally bore witness to him having sex with a girl on the fire escape of a hotel fifteen minutes after meeting her, and then was dumbfounded with amazement as he nailed the prom queen less than an hour later.
As for me, my progress toward becoming a homosexual had reached a plateau. Although I was certainly the picture of a dandy as I fluffed out my perm at school every morning, I had yet to really be intimate with another man. Of course, I didn't give the matter much thought. I spent my hours in the shower thinking about women, but I knew this was just out of habit and that I would get over it soon.
By some good fortune I landed a copy of some really raunchy porn: lots of cocks, lots of cocks coming on women. I was delighted. Naturally, I extended an invitation to Jeremy to stop by that night. We took a ride out by the mall and picked up the new Cher album as a starter, after which we retired to the basement for a private screening.
Up until this point, Jeremy and I had always been shrouded in darkness when whacking ourselves. For the first time, in the light of the television, I saw his cock: it was a little misshapen, with an acute bend to the left at the tip. Jeremy had really launched into it once the porn got going, but I was having trouble keeping it up. We were sitting next to each other on the couch, and Jeremy reached over and took my cock in his hand and started stroking me. I was shocked; I had never felt another hand on my cock, and what was even more surprising was when I wrapped my hand around Jeremy's throbbing member: it was absolutely the strangest sensation, feeling this thing that was so familiar and yet completely alien. If this had been a woman, I would have been at a loss for what to do precisely, but I was certainly well-acquainted with the equipment, and so I began to move my hand up and down. Jeremy came in a matter of seconds. My own dong mustered a half-salute, then hunkered down and looked sullen. I remember feeling somewhat put off by the sensation of Jeremy's spunk on my hand.
I tried getting off on my own for about half an hour, during which time Jeremy jerked himself again. Finally I gave up, citing fatigue. That was the last time anything ever happened between Jeremy and me— or any other man. When my hair finally straightened out, I left it that way. I quit the color guard at some point, too. (It was a decision which prompted my father to give me $100 and remark, "Well, you've finally got your head on straight." There was not a hint of irony in his voice.) And in some fluke of fate I'll never understand, I ended up taking the homecoming queen to the prom and fucking her in the front seat of a friend's Dodge Daytona at a party later that night. I became incredibly drunk afterward and announced to those gathered around the keg, "Man, do I ever love that sweet, sweet pussy!" The homecoming queen never went out with me again.
Wet, Hot Presbyterian Summer
The day after I turned seventeen I was busted, along with some of my friends, for vandalizing a golf course in celebration of my existence. We had been under the influence of Milwaukee’s Best Light, and while the damage to the course itself was relatively small, perhaps what was most embarrassing was having my parents informed of the theft of several back issues of Penthouse from the office of the greens keeper (my co-conspirators were quick to implicate me solely in that matter).
Instead of realizing that I was merely drunk, my parents concluded that wanton lust had bewitched me to the point that I needed serious help, and the only person capable of curing me was The Lord. (I might have tried to dispute this point more vigorously, but when I had returned home in the dismal hours of the early morning, my first act official act of being seventeen was to jack off over the pages of those Penthouses while I leaned back on a broom handle that I had greased with Oil of Olay.) Since it was summer, my parents arranged to have me shipped to the mountains of North Carolina where I would be stationed at Camp Green, a retreat for the youth that needed to put themselves right with God.
When I arrived at the camp (on a Friday—the same day of the week as Jesus’ crucifixion, let us not forget) I was more than shocked to find out that it was run by evangelical Presbyterians. At the time I was unaware such a hybrid of Southern bible thumping and New England restraint existed, and even more dismayed that my parents would turn me loose in their care for a month. After all, my parents were not entirely prudish people, and I suppose they were more upset by the public nature of my criminal activities than the crimes themselves.
During the orientation with all of the other campers and their parents, I noticed that there were a tremendous number of girls present who seemed to hint at the existence of a benevolent deity. I'd been primed with stories by friends of mine who had taken part in summer camp sexual experiments more heavenly than I could even begin to fathom, and their tales of pornographic archetypes—games of spin the bottle and truth or dare that tumbled madly into massive orgies, watching budding young girls shower together, soaping each other—suddenly filled me with a desire to stand in praise of God, which was unfortunate since I was wearing shorts with a propensity to “tent” excessively. This would not have been a problem had I been able to remain seated; as soon as my penis raised its head like a prairie dog scouting the grassy plains for predators, everyone was asked to stand and greet and get to know the people around him or her. I sat still for as long as possible until my father yanked me to my feet, then spun me around to face the most exquisite creature I had witnessed up until that point in my misguided life. She smiled, extended her hand, and when I reached out to take it she looked at my crotch, then twisted up her face in a way that suggested I had just presented her with a turd on a silver platter. I had just enough time to glimpse her name tag, which read “Lindsay Kapps” (the “i” was dotted with a heart) before she turned coldly away.
This event only added to my distaste for being squirreled away in the forest with people far more immersed in their faith than I, especially when Lindsay’s retelling of our meeting made a rapid circulation of the camp gossip circuit. The sound of woodland creatures was often drowned out by the giggle of my Christian cohorts who were clearly not well versed in that whole “judge not lest ye be judged” bit. To make matters worse, one was never left alone—even traffic in the bathroom was constant—and before I knew it I had a gone a week without masturbating.
Perhaps this sounds like nothing more than a minor inconvenience, but as I was in the thick of my sexual prime it was more than just a setback: it felt as though the ripe sap of my loins was backing up into my brain and that very soon I would go mad. And as if it wasn’t bad enough being under constant surveillance (because idle hands are indeed the devil’s workshop), the boys and girls were separated throughout the day, so that the absence of the female form became a great weight that seemed clamped to my already weighty testicles. I longed so much to catch a glimpse of a tanned thigh with that light, downy hair settling upon it that my evening prayers developed a singular focus that I do not believe they were intended to have. I prayed for a woman's touch so intensely that I began to buy into all the camp propaganda: I really wanted to believe that God would answer my tortured cries for emancipation from the bondage of forced
chastity.
For reasons I am unable to fully explain, at the outset of my second week I was given the chore of cleaning the bathhouses for the camp. It is my assumption that the camp counselor noticed my well-maintained bunk area and knew immediately that someone with my sanitary skills could be trusted to make the tile and porcelain sparkle. Or perhaps more accurately, my liberal use of the word “cocksucker” had placed me on someone’s shit list.
I confess that the workings of my bowels are of great interest to me, and pondering the size and frequency of my stools has helped me pass numerous hours in a pleasing manner. However, I have never cared for knowing what other people’s bodies are capable of producing, let alone having to clean up after the production process.. My co-campers appeared to be youth of good breeding, but the amusement that they gained from not flushing the toilet, or stopping it up altogether with wads of toilet paper, told a different story: these people were filthy vermin. And it wasn’t just the men. I had been sentenced to cleaning the women’s restrooms as well, during the girls' lunch hour when their side of the camp was deserted.
My first day in their bathrooms was my first exposure to the hidden world or girls. I didn’t like it, because I didn’t like coming to terms with the fact that women crap. Or even the fact that women, too, seem to have difficulty flushing the toilet. And yet, despite all this, I was in heaven: I was finally alone.
In addition to toilets and showers, the bathhouses contained lockers (which didn’t lock) in which we all stored our shower items. Each locker had a name on it, and I immediately found the one that belonged to Lindsay, the angelic beauty. Despite the fact that she had exposed me and given me the moniker “Rocket Man” (a title which was less flattering than it might sound), I still longed for her, and my cock pressed hard into my bunk at night as I lay there thinking about her.
I opened her locker, not exactly sure what I was looking for. Perhaps I thought some delicate of hers might have been left in there, or some sign of her own desires, but it was merely some soap, and some Pert shampoo. Without thinking, I unscrewed the shampoo bottle’s lid and dumped a handful of Pert onto my cock and began stroking with magnum force. Had I been able to keep up my regime of masturbating a few times a day my experience might have lasted longer, but even before I could begin to summon up a suitable fantasy I felt myself coming, and before I could stop myself I placed the open end of the shampoo bottle against the head of my dick and let loose.
Many girlfriends have told me that when I ejaculate it’s quite a bit more than most other men they’ve been with. Whether this is accurate or not I can’t say, because I really haven’t invested a great deal of time exploring the matter, but after ten days of not having an orgasm it felt like I unloaded a gallon of jism into that shampoo bottle, and after I came the odor of semen was more than apparent. Naturally, I felt satisfied at first, and as I finished my cleaning duties I felt rather smug. But I did feel a slight twinge of guilt. After all, I had heard the urban legends of vacationers who, having returned from their getaway to paradise, find a few shots amongst their photos of hotel clerks penetrating their rectums with the guests’ toothbrushes. Naturally, I had developed a healthy distrust of housekeepers, and I always kept my toothbrush under lock and key when I was away from home. And now, in my moment of weakness, hadn’t I become as deplorable as those deranged individuals? Hadn’t I committed some vile sin, made all the worse by the fact that I was among God’s people, learning to do God’s good work?
I went through the rest of the day wracked with guilt, but I was distracted later that night by some very intensive square dancing (an activity that becomes surprisingly erotic in the absence of any other sexual outlet), and by the time I went to sleep I had forgotten all about my handy-work in the girls’ lavatory. When I woke up, and my penis was shedding its skin like a serpent, I had no trouble recalling what act had visited this pestilence upon me. I have never been so terrorized upon awakening as I was that morning: in the space of a few hours my prick had gone from a silky whiteness to a rough and leathery brown; the head was puffy and red—it looked angry, and very much like a polish sausage that had been forgotten under the heat lamps for a fortnight. It was clear to me that God was pissed, and that this was the burden I would have to bear for my sins. I was like Job, but my pox was of a more private nature.
All that day my cock was terribly painful to touch, and each time I peed it felt as though the very fires of hell with licking at the tip of my penis. In addition to this, it itched more fiercely than the chigger bites which I had suffered on my inner thighs my first week in camp, so now was I not only the boy who popped wood at the mere prospect of a handshake, I was also the boy who couldn’t cease tugging at his crotch. When I was afforded the luxury of being alone during my cleaning duties, I peeled huge strips of skin off of my penis, leaving it red and raw. After two days of this I couldn’t take it anymore. My prayers miraculously lost their theme of camper copulation and moved instead toward genuine begging forgiveness. When I woke on the third day, I was healed: my cock was more smooth to the touch than ever. It looked amazingly purified; it practically glowed.
I turned over a new leaf. I became the model camper, and I didn’t touch myself again until I had returned home. In fact, in those remaining weeks at camp I became somewhat of a role model, even earning the award at the end of the month for the “Most Improved Attitude,” an award about which I was disturbingly prideful.
On the last night at camp we had a rather moving service, during which I expounded to my peers about my sinful past, and how in this month away from the world I had been touched by the holy spirit (leaving out the specifics, of course). After the service, when we were finally allowed to freely mingle, I found myself down at the dock, alone with Lindsay, the object of my undying affection. In the moonlight, her hair had a healthy sheen to it, and I silently took credit for that. When she leaned into kiss me, I turned away: I told her I wasn’t the man she thought I was, and that I was following God’s path now. She nodded in understanding, and we walked quietly back to where the other were.
When I returned home, I avoided my friends—I just didn’t think there was a place for them in my new life, my life of service to The Lord. I finally did break down and go to party with them, but only so that I could act as the designated driver—I explained it was only my concern for their well being which allowed me to cavort with such sinners. While at the party I became involved in a conversation with a rather flamboyant Malaysian fellow who was narrating his recent experience of being gay bashed. I expressed sympathy and shock, which he casually dismissed with a wave of his limp wrist:
“Oh, honey,” he said, “don’t sweat it. All those meaty white jocks pounding me got me so hot that when I finally got up off the street I went in the bushes and jacked off. It’s just a damn shame it hurt so much.”
“Did they rack your balls that badly?” I asked, stunned that any man, gay or straight, would ever inflict that kind of harm on another man.
“Oh, no. They didn’t touch me there,” he said, sounding vaguely disappointed. “I'd beat off with some Pert shampoo two nights before, and that stuff had peeled the skin right off my dick. Shit. You talk about raw.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, and it became more than evident that there was a God, and that not even he was on my side.
Delicates
The Summer I was thirteen, my neighbors paid me twenty bucks to feed their dog and collect the mail while they were away for a week. They gave me a key to their house, and they hadn't been out of the driveway for five minutes before I was in the master bedroom, rummaging through the wife's underwear drawer.
The precise neurological impulse that caused me to do this remains a mystery, although I'm pretty sure it was connected to the fairly recent discovery that I could masturbate happily for hours. I was constantly on alert for all things sexual, and even though I was young, I understood that for most people, sexuality was something kept hidden in drawers, in the tops of
closets, and under the bathroom cabinet.
This was where my parents hid their own variety of Freudian interests, which included a cock ring nestled in a brown bag, along with some clothespins and a feather boa. Before my penis began pressuring me into mildly criminal behavior (North Carolina has a viciously strict series of sex laws, and I am certain they forbid the soiling of undergarments belonging to another man's wife), I spent hours covertly going through my parents' stuff, combing their bedroom for clues to the mystery of mating.
Had my mother and father actually been as boring as they appeared, my life might have taken a different route. As it stands, they apparently liked to fuck as much as the next couple, so I unearthed a wealth of porn films, magazines and instructional pamphlets. I never confronted my parents with my findings, but I grew increasingly skeptical about whatever "truths" they had to tell me. They had burned me once with the whole Santa Claus debacle, and I wasn't going to allow myself to be duped like that again. I was convinced that my parents, along with every other adult in my neighborhood, were keeping something from me.
Excavating my neighbors' bedroom only substantiated my hypothesis. The husband had a treasure trove of Playboys — every issue going back ten years. So for the length of their vacation, my sole interest in life was to be in their house, masturbating to whatever beauty that Hugh Hefner had crowned for a month's reign.
However thrilling as the naked pictures were, I kept being lured back to the underwear drawer of the wife, Gina. She was a young mother, in her late twenties, and she had a way of interacting with people that hinted she was a sensual creature. Whenever she touched me, I felt a mixture of discomfort and excitement.