Saturday, September 23, 2006

Ushering in Manhood and Catering to The Muse.

It was during my first year in Junior High, or "Middle School" as they started calling it. My teacher was a rotund woman with reddish cheeks and dresses that were borderline muumuu, but she was still amiable. This was near the beginning of my Junior High years, so the hellish aspects didn't start happening just then. Not only was I adjusting to a change in schools, which was pretty big since the last one went on for what seemed like forever, but I was also adjusting to the changes going on with my body. I was not yet flying into my weird, cracked-out Casanova hormone-driven love proclamations, but I knew that something big was going on.

In my last year of Elementary School we were divided up into different classes, one for boys, one for girls, and then shown a Sex Ed video. I learned about things that were going to be happening to me, but I didn't know how they would feel. I was also fully aware of what jerking off was, but at the time I wasn't all that into touching my own member, and further more, I was mostly in love with girls but didn't have the desire to fuck any of them. I talked about fucking, and knew about it, but the urge wasn't there.

That was about to change.

One day in one of my classes I was sitting at a desk that seats four. I was on the right hand side, front desk. I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt that didn't match. This was near the end of the day, and I believe we were all working on some kind of project. All of a sudden my right leg started shaking, making weird convulsions up and down. This usually happened, but now I felt something different. My shorts felt funny, and I moved my hand down to "adjust" things. I scratched myself and there was this bizarre sensation that followed. It felt nice, so naturally I did it again. The combination of a bouncing leg, the cool breeze flying up the opening in my shorts, and my finger dragging along the side to relieve an itch triggered something off. I pissed something into my pants, only it wasn't piss. It was a weird, thick blob of something that I knew I learned about, but didn't know what it was at the moment. When it happened I remember my heart dropped, as if the flow of whatever was coming out was dragging my heart along with it, and my eyes slammed shut. I think I may have even gasped.

I sat there in a daze for a few minutes, but was then slapped back into reality when a cute girl who sat next to me asked for my thoughts on what we were working on. When I got home I went to the bathroom and looked in my underpants and saw that indeed something came out, but it wasn't piss. I didn't know what it was I did, but it felt so different, so new, that I tried to replicate it during the following days. I would sit in class and my leg would start bouncing, and my hand would move down. It happened again, but this time took longer. It dawned on me that the way to get this to happen was to shake the living hell out of my prick, so for a while that's exactly what I did.

One of the things that stands out to me about my Junior High years was how shameless I was with the girls I had an interest in. I made it known to everyone how much I liked certain girls, and would embarrass myself a thousand times over with each of them. I had crushes before, but after that incident in class, there was a new kind of urgency about it, I think. I couldn't afford subtlety, not with what was going on down there. Needless to say I remained a virgin for several more years, but my sexual frustration kicked off this weird prolific writing streak that wouldn't let up until a couple years after starting college. I wrote and wrote about love, depression, and all of those end-of-the-world things that teenagers place so much importance on. I didn't write as much before, but after my hormones started acting freakishly, I wasn't able to stop. I had found my muse...and it was in my pants.

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