Blue Balls

I'm maybe fifteen. Us "important" "Christian Youth Leaders" are invited to Denton Lake for a weekend conference. We weren't leading anything: we were following whatever the adults had concocted for us. But I went. Friday night we get together to discuss "Why We're Presbyterian." (I've already related elsewhere how the girl from New Rochelle upset the young minister by answering the obvious: "Because our parents are." (In my case it was because it was the only church close enough for my sister and me to walk to for Sunday School while our parents stayed home and slept.) After the meeting I linger in the road asking the minister something or being asked something by him. I don't remember what it was, but the whole time this girl who'd been silent at the meeting was standing there, not quite at my elbow. My conversation with the minister went on and one. The girl stood still. Finally the minister says good night and walks off. The girl positions herself smack in front of me. Hi, I say. She says nothing, just looks at me. At least I don't remember her saying anything. I just see that pretty face and those eyes, staring at me. She must have said something: at least her name. Bonnie. Fourteen years old. Short blond hair, fresh open features, flatteringly shorter than I, a great compact bod. We go for a walk. Hold hands. Find a spot in the woods. Lie down. Neck.

Next morning we sit together at breakfast. Throughout the day, we're together. Bible study, more meetings, meditations. lunch, more meetings, more meditations. I was meditating on her foot sneaking up my pants leg.

My class mate--I'll say her name was Darla, cute, petite blond girl, was there that weekend, and I ran into a friend from other Denton Lake camps: Fred (Fred's real name): trombonist, founder of the Mineola Ray Bradbury Fan Club. Fred and Darla get together. The four of us go off into the woods every chance we get: between meetings, after dinner ... After Vespers we can stay in the woods, or, now that it's dark, down by the lake, till ten o'clock curfew.

Bonnie and I are scrunched against a rock (while we scrunch against each other) when we hear steps. It's only Fred and Darla but Bonnie gets her blouse half buttoned back up anyway. We have a powwow. They're the ones who'd wanted to talk but it's still not clear to me who came up with the suggestion: it sort of came mutually from all four of us. We decided to pet each other till the very last second before curfew. Then we'd get into bed but still dressed, sneak back out and meet here by the lake the second we heard the counselors breathing regularly.

We did. Fred and Darla go wherever. Bonnie and I changed spots half a dozen times, trying to find someplace half-way comfortable. We finally settled in the chapel at the lake side: a few wooden benches amid the dew. Now: throughout the night I had Bonnie pressed against me. She could feel my rod poking her here, there, and elsewhere. I had her breasts in my mouth, in my eyes, in my ears. I had my fingers in her pussy, in her butt. Sometimes I lay on top of her and searched her gullet with my tongue. Sometimes she lay on top of me: and her saliva dripping down into my mouth was ambrosia. But I never took my pants off. I never unzipped my fly. I never took her pants off: just explored within her pants. (She had intriguing holes in her undies making my job both easy and fascinating. Lot of kids in her family: not a lot of money for underwear. First girl I ever met whose father was a laborer: that is, he drove a bulldozer. Nobody connected with South Side ever heard of labor except in the papers.)

We felt the dawn coming, found Fred and Darla, crept back to our beds. Re-entwined ourselves with our lovers the second we were back up and off to breakfast.

I don't remember how far north of New York City Denton Lake was, but the drive back to Long Island was going to be several hours. So the conference was Friday night, all day Saturday, and pack up by mid-morning Sunday. Bonnie and I were still knotted when our rides started calling for their passengers. Bonnie begged her driver to fit me in with her in the back seat--everybody else could ride up front--drop me off in Rockville Centre. Now Bonnie came from way out on the Island, toward the Hamptons. Her driver was adamant. No. They're going the Northern Parkway. Fine, then go south, says Bonnie. Bonnie finally won. I tell my ride to go without me: Bonnie's ride will take me to my door.

The one detail Bonnie didn't get was the whole back seat for the two of us alone. Some other kid was back there with no way to keep out of our way as we necked in every position but a sixty-nine. The positions possible for me were rapidly and inexplicably narrowing. I felt very weird. I had to stretch my legs apart with no room to stretch them. Something very strange, very frightening was happening to me. My body had developed its own will: a will at war with mine. My face stayed glued to Bonnie while my crotch tried to spread itself out the back seat window. It was a long ride to Rockville Centre. Finally I'm home. I try to get out. I can't walk. I'm on my feet, but nothing works properly. Bonnie's fretting but her driver wanted to be rid of me. Off she drives, Bonnie leaning out the window and blowing kisses.

I "stand" there in my walkway. I waddle toward the house. I'm as bowlegged as any bull rider ever was. I get one foot up onto the first step. Now how do I join the other one to it? Then the next. I fumble for my key. My pocket wouldn't cooperate. My mother hears me coming, calls to wonder what's taking me so long. Never mind. I'm coming. I have to squeeze through the front door sideways. I wobble across the front room which had been a porch, was closed in, and now was a home office on one side and a couch and chairs on the other. I squeeze sideways into the living room. My mother is sitting on the couch with her boyfriend, Don: the nebbish gynecologist. She sees me. She starts up, horror and fear in her voice: "SybaRight! What's wrong with you?" "Nothing. Leave me alone." I waddle to the stairs. My mother is ready to come after me. Don holds her back. My mother yields, sobbing. I can't climb the stairs. I can't ascend sideways. I turn around, sit on the step, spread my legs as wide apart as I can. I use my hand to raise my can to the next step. And on up to my room. I close the door and spread-eagle out on the bed on my back.

Knock, knock. "Go away." Don comes in. "All right. Let me examine you." He gets me to stand up, drop my drawers. He's poking around in my balls. I'm afraid to look. He's muttering "No rupture. No hernia. ..." Finally I force myself to look. Oh God. I start to quake.

Don has never seen me naked. I later learned, thanks to the mass examination at the Army's induction station that balls, like penises, come in all sizes. One guy looked like he was wearing a soccer ball with a double yolk. That's what I now looked like: but triple-yolked!

There's an alien protuberance low down on my belly, just above the top of my right thigh. It's breathing. It's swelling. Like aliens growing their vile vegetable young in an earth greenhouse. Don notices it too. He goes to touch it. I flinch. Very gently, he presses the top of the mound. It flinched from him as much as I did. My left ball instantly inflated to basketball size. I'm whimpering. I helplessly watch my three balloons exchange inflations.

Don goes to my door, calls down the stairs. "he's fine. He'll be fine. He's right. Just leave him alone." My mother is wailing, only slightly assured. "OK," he turns back to me. "I want to know only one thing: Did you keep it in your pants?" "Yes," I mourn. "Good boy," he says.

"You've got what we used to call 'honeymoon cystosis' on the Navy carrier. In the lower decks they called it 'blue balls'. But I've never heard of a case as bad as yours seems to be. Son, you may be making medical history."

I don't want to get dressed again. But I certainly don't want him standing there. He seemed to understand. (Maybe he wasn't as bad a doctor as I'd assumed, this clown, trying to get in my mother's pants, maybe, for all I knew, getting there. "Take it easy," he says. "Take hot baths. Don't go out for a couple of days. It will go away." And he leaves me to my misery.

All this time later, committing the story to writing now, it occurs to me to speculate further on my third lump. The bladder collects urine: everybody knows that. The testes produce sperm: almost everybody knows that. The prostate produces the seminal fluid. That is not uncommon knowledge. Everybody knows more or less where dicks and balls are. But where's this prostate? That's like asking where Vietnam is in 1961. It's in there somewhere: hidden, safe inside. Where are the testes before they descend to the scrotum? In there somewhere. The vas connects all this stuff. I presume that the mixing of sperm and semenal fluid takes place in the vas. I now presume that it was my vas that was all inflated, like the Mississippi flooding. But I also know that I've got a short stalk. Sometimes my little right ball pops back up into me. Scares me witless but it's painless. Then it always comes back. All by itself. Maybe my prostate wanders around too. Or maybe it was just the vas. In college some clown of a chem student would take plastic tubing, tie one end off, force the other end around the tap and force water into the tube. the tube would swell like a balloon. He'd hold the other end twisted. Once he released the twist, a terrific force of water would jet out: shoot twenty or thirty feet. That's what had happened to my vas. I presume. The testes must have been pumping out phenomenal ammounts of sperm, but I believe it was the prostate that was responsible for the bulk of the pressure. What I was most full of I believe was liquid; not just the augmented zoo flailing and thrashing within the liquid.

I did what Don said: took a bath. Mom brought supper to my room. Breakfast the next day. I think Don must have told her what it was by then. She was much calmer in any case.

Now. I may have had a "harem" very young, but I was very slow to start masturbating: just as I would be very slow to actually lose my virginity: meaning actually come inside the vagina. The other kids were talking about wacking themselves long before I touched myself that way. Nevertheless, by fifteen I had learned it. Now I couldn't wait. But I
couldn't touch myself. That gentle press on my belly had scared the wits out of me. But after several days I dared try it. A first orgasm may be a remarkable thing to anybody. I can't really know, but I suspect that I gave myself something extra special by waiting so long for my first such experiment. I was so sensitive it was amazing. I've had great orgasms since but the exquisite tingling in the dick itself from first touch to eruption and beyond is long extinct. The orgasm is great, but the used dick is just a piece of meat: barely sensitive. Curses on Christian circumcision. But neither extreme applies to my touching myself that time. There was no sensation at all. I came "buckets" but had no orgasm, no sensation whatsoever. It was unbelievable. I was swamped with myself. It was an enormous relief: relief from the ubiquitous aching pressure. A few minutes later I was ready again. Then again. And again. Now those orgasms were far and away the best since the very first.

Once I was sixteen and had my license, I drove east to see Bonnie. I continued to see her till I started college. I visited her one more time: age thirty-eight or so. She had lost a husband, remarried: kids added up to a dozen: the oldest a girl then sixteen. Bonnie looked as cute as ever and her daughter looked just like her.

The other teenaged times I saw her again, we always took right back up where we had left off: her saliva dripping into me, my fingers finding holes in her panties. Never did I take it out. Never asked her to suck it or whip it. I'll never forget her. I have only two regrets. I never found a way to tell her about my blue balls, never explained my contortions on the ride back. And I never got my face in her pussy. I don't mind never coming in her. Kids shouldn't come inside girls: at least not inside their vaginas. We'd be better off if married adults used a lot more mouth and hand. Squirt it in her face, in her hair, over her tits, over her buttocks. Come between her toes. Limit conception. Don't wait till there's a billion USians the way the Chinese waited till there were a billion Chinese.

Man, if Bonnie's saliva tasted that great dripping into me, imagine what her lubricants, her come, would have tasted like, me lying on my back, her humping my face. The hell with virtual reality: just hook me up to an IV that drips female body fluids. I wanted so to describe that fantasy of Bonnie's come fluids seeping into my mouth to her even all those decades later. I'd like to right now. But when I saw her amid her children I thought better of it. And her daughter that looked just like her I'd better not think about.

2001 07 21 I'm back today, scanning for typos after adding the Mad pic a story or two above. I realize that I left out a detail. First time I drove out toward the Hamptons to see this Bonnie, probably just turned sixteen, just licensed up, I suggest we go for a drive. Sure, she says, but first just park in the driveway: the kids are anxious to get a look at you. I cooperate, but sit there seething as her tribe climbs over the hood, roof, and trunk of the Chevvie. Go ahead, she says, do what ever you want. They won't notice. I do. That wonderful tit is back in my mouth in no time. Bonnie throws her bra into the back seat and puts her arms back into the sleeves of the blouse, the blouse now just hanging about her, her breasts completely free. I hear the front door slam. I look up. Her mother is walking toward the car. I panic. Nevermind, she says. Mom's cool. She likes you.

Mrs. Bonnie opens the back door, smiling and Howdy'ing, pushes her daughter's bra to the far corner, and sidles her bulk onto the back seat. Eleven kids or so, I guess she already knew about sex.

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I've enjoyed this writer's vacation emormously: just breeze it out: the hell with style. Nothing to think of: only to remember. But I still haven't make the comments I'd hinted at. Other comments came, but not the ones I planned. I'll extend my vacation a few more hours and start another file. (2001 10 22 Except that from here on I don't remember the order of composition. The rest just string.)

Note:
The above note is dated from 2001. Most of these entries were written in November of 2000, most of them on the 21st.