It must have been the seventh grade. Some kid I hardly knew invited me to his house after school. But he didn't live in a house; he took me to an apartment complex: also a first: one first after another. It was fascinating. There was a living room. Nicely furnished, luxurious couches, richly carpeted. There was a bowl of hard candies. I'd never seen treats out on permanent display like that. The place had a funny smell: different kind of living, different culture. Had my host then told me that he was Jewish, he would have been only the second Jew I was aware of ever meeting. I don't think the odor had anything to do with a different kind of kitchen: different cooking; it was different materials, different fabrics. I think I was smelling domestic synthetics for the first time.
It was all very bewildering. The guy took me into a series of rooms inside a building larger than a house. The series of rooms were I suppose almost as big as a house. The furnishings were richer than I was yet accustomed to. The living room was "sunken." It didn't seem right. I don't know how I knew - the movies, I suppose - but didn't poor people live in "apartments"?
"Have a candy," the guy says.
"Uh, no, thank you." Hard candy? In pastels? Wearing a cellophane wrapper? It was all too weird.
"Watch this."
The kid's name was Lenny. Not the Lenny I was close to that year. Neither was it the Lenny I'd so admired in grade school, never guessing that the reason he seemed so developed, so strong, so mature was that he was probably fourteen years old (the guy's biceps were articulated, for Crisake! hard as iron!): in the second grade! This Lenny unzips himself and produces his dick. Displayed in his hand.
I was flabbergasted. No one, male or female, child or adult, had ever suddenly produced their genitalia for my viewing. I was also a little startled because he was so big, so ferocious looking. His glans was a swollen purple bulb. The vein where the shaft swells just before the glans was purple and angry. Lenny began to stroke it. Polyphemus' Cyclops eye winked at me as it was yanked this way and that by his massaging.
Very disconcerting. Lenny's dick was almost as big as mine. I knew dicks. I knew erections: normal, and SybaRight's: from standing them on display in cub scout overnights. But mine, even if it stretched to a half an inch longer than Lenny's (though perhaps it was a fraction less stout), had never looked like Lenny's looked: ready for anything, ready to jump through the roof, ready to invade Poland.
Lenny got all red faced. This whole experience was all colors: all revolting colors: the head of his cock was a purple bulb, something on a baboon. He huffed. And he puffed. And he chuffed. "Aw ... Guh, guh, guh ..." And my first view of creamy jissom came spurting out of Polyphemus's pink little eye. "Guh." And Lenny had this stupid lopsided smile on his face.
"Uh ... Bye, now." And I got out of there.
Now. I'll never forget my own first orgasm: but that was years later. I remember it with pleasure little diminished. And I remember Lenny's orgasm: with shock and disgust not that much diminished. How long did Lenny wait before he invited some female classmate over to squirt in front of her? What would a girl's reaction to his rut have been?
Before I ever came in a girl's face, in a girl's mouth, throbbing within her fingers, geysering all over a girl's breasts, or her belly, or her butt ... in her hair, on the wall, dripping from the bedpost, I knew that the girl knew what was going on: and wanted it.
Only now in my old age do I fantasize what must be common enough among others: Here little girl, I got something to show you.
Men are famous for wanting virgins. Men assume that their gods want virgins too. When I was a virgin I was indifferent about virginity. Once I wanted to play, I wanted a partner who knew how. I've fucked women who said they were virgins: but though I can't prove that they weren't, I doubt it. Only one case comes to mind where I'm as sure as sure that my partner in lust was a virgin when she first said so and was still a virgin when she last said so: that is, when she invited me over finally to put an end to it.
I'd had thousands of orgasms with her by that time (certainly hundreds): she'd I presume had none with me. Pleasure, excitement, yes; orgasm, no. Once we were at it in the fully normal adult way, that is, with me coming inside her cunt, she came: quite matter-of-factly. Nothing torrential. I don't think we were trying for any watershed records. Not yet.
Now I regret my casualness. In those days I had no urge to put my face there. I made no such offers: I got no such requests. She said she was a virgin. I took her to mean that that, for the time being, was her preferred state. Since she said it while she was gawking at my rod, was stroking and caressing my balls, was moaning in anticipation of my eruption ... I, like her, concentrated on my orgasms. Now I wish I'd taken a closer look between her eighteen year old legs. OK, Honey: I'll jissom you aplenty. But first let me get down there with a flashlight. Show me this famous hymen of yours. Is it good to eat? You can be as virgin as you want and still squirt in the female fashion: odoriferous honey running like a river.
Not even the rain has such Small Hands
Nobody
Not even the rain
Has such small hands.
ee cummings
Not even the rain
Has such small hands.
ee cummings
This file is in my Sex/Kids folder but some of the contents applies to Sex/Puberty, to Sex/College, to Sex/Adult ... I'll add another story from puberty: one which also relates to characters mentioned in passing: namely the other Lenny: the one I was close to around the sixth or seventh grade. I mentioned my college girl friend raptly caressing my balls while moaning for me to come: she a deliberate virgin through many such episodes. Elsewhere I've mentioned how much the first girl to ever want to strip for me was devoted to her "turkey skin" as she called my scrotal flesh. That virgin in college was not the first to make me shiver by touching my testes, but she was the first never not to have hold of my balls from the first moment we were alone till I'd come all over her. But I'd thought about it. Beginning when: I can tell you exactly.
(Bicycle Bar) [that's a tip to insert anotehr story later]
When Bonnie played with my turkey skin, no testes were present. Nothing had descended. My scrotum was flat. By the time I and my fellow cub scouts had wands waving in the pup tent's air, my childhood girl friends had made themselves scarce: or, mutually, I was holding myself aloof. I can't say exactly when my testes announced their descended presence but it was around in there somewhere: sixth-gradish. They announced themselves in a strangled scream at my sudden contact with my bicycle bar. Don't ever ever ever do that again, my body told me. All those years: I'd probably been jumping down, my crotch on the bar without problem. I'll certainly never forget that moment.
Neither will I ever forget the other moment: the moment when I first imagined post-puberty erotic contact.
It was Lenny. Lenny, my good friend. The one from South America, his father having moved the family to Peru to get his oil company's maximum pay for American engineers. Lenny was talking about a girl in our class. We might have been in the eighth grade by then. Come to think of it, we must have been, because this girl had gone to a grade school that hadn't blended its products into the high school until the eighth grade. I'm not remembering her name. Debbie, maybe. And until the moment of Lenny mentioning her, I'd been indifferent about her. The girl in question was petite. Far and away she was the most petite girl in the class. John was making us roar imagining fucking her by holding her by the waist and hoisting her up and down on his staff. Ha, ha, ha. That's how tiny she was! John was imagining that he could lift her. He was imagining that she'd cooperate. Imagining fucking. But that wasn't an erotic thought. The thought was mechanical. I doubt that the thought was erotic to John either, the one whose image it was. We had erections, but our erections had no urgency. We weren't like the other Lenny. At least I wasn't. If my friends had been exuding juices yet, I think I'd know it. No. I never felt anything erotic until Lenny said, "All I know is that when I put my balls on Debbie's hand, they'd spill over the sides of her fingers." Notice: he said it as a fact and a fantasy at the same time. Fantasy I'm sure it was (or Lenny wouldn't have tried to bugger me around that same time: I don't think so): good rhetoric for a kid.
Every one of us stopped, sober-faced.
Lenny's thought got me where I lived. Then, slowly, over the years, I'd imagine this girl friend or that touching just ever so the wrinkled skin where my teste rounds with just the tip of her finger as she tastes with her tongue the liquid pearl standing in my penis' tip.
I never imagined that by the time I was twice that age girls would grab hold of me as I came through their apartment door, yank at my pants, shove the door shut, have both of my balls firmly in their fist, and gobble my wang till my pubes were in their teeth before they'd gotten my briefs as far down as my knees. (How extraordinary to see the same woman decades later being interviewed for DC TV as one of our capital's more creative art impresarios. Wouldn't you know the two art dealers got together again!)
It must have been around that age - early teens - that I read for the first time some clinical writing on sex. The book was talking about how some men like their balls to be handled, some vigorously, while others don't want anybody anywhere near them. It's that latter attitude that I imagined for myself at the time of reading. Ooo - too delicate, too vulnerable, too dangerous. And that reading could have occurred after Lenny's image. But I know Lenny's image got to me. I just may not yet have imagined it as really possible.
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