What I Learned In High School

There are coming of age stories. This is a cumming of age story.

(If you have any sort of brains – and I give my readers credit for having the biggest brains on the planet, which means you’ll all be in deep doo-doo when the zombies arrive – then you’ll be on your toes for a quick getaway. Some of you will find the following deeply disturbing, radically gross, and entirely too much information. On the other hand, some of you will just find it revolting.)

This is the story of my first orgasm. Last chance to bail!

Okay, you’ve been warned. If you feel the need to make some sort of comment like "Ew! Ick! Yuck!" then I can only assume you have no reading comprehension skills whatsoever.

A boy’s favorite toy resides between his legs. Yes, it’s a bicycle! No, it’s not. It’s his wiener, of course. Even when the only thing it’s good for is peeing, a boy will still spend an inordinate amount of time pulling at it, twirling it, shaking it, and whatever else can be done with a stretchy thing and two hands. It is his crotch taffy.

(I owe that expression to a woman. To her everlasting relief, I won’t name her. However, she has a spot in The Male Euphemism Hall Of Fame, one of the few female inductees. Crotch Taffy. Hee!)

I was your normal sort of a boy, which means I spent as much time playing with my dick as a Buddhist monk spends in meditation. And, really, it is a sort of meditation, just a more hands-on type. I have no idea what girls do with all that extra time. You’d think, as a result of having that extra time to study, they’d be the ones who were statistically better at math and science, but, then again, many of them have been trained to believe that 6 inches is actually 7 inches, so most of their calculations are off.

Of course, boys have the advantage of having all of their junk easily visible. Girls have to use a mirror, or be contortionists, or otherwise employ unnatural aids. Boys do that, too, but we don’t need to do so. We do it because we’re naturally curious. Also, we’ve seen what dogs can do and we figure why not us, too? Most of us end up sorely disappointed in that regard, of course, but it’s not for lack of trying.

Anyway, when I wasn’t playing baseball, I was finding out what my bat and balls were capable of.

(Testicles are… well, unless a boy is privy to early health classes, all he knows about them is that they’re there and they hurt like hell if you get kicked in them. Otherwise, they seem to serve no useful purpose. Being as obsessed as we are with our dicks, though, we don’t really care. We just chalk it up to life being strange and then get back to the business of inspecting the meat.)

I’m of the firmly held belief…

(Hah! Firmly held!)

(Okay, you’re right. If I stop this thing to comment on every double entendre, we’ll be here for a week. Let’s just plow ahead. I’ll leave it to you to make up whatever obscene asides you might find entertaining.)

I’m of the firmly held belief that all guys - outside of those destined to be Buddhist monks, perhaps – play with themselves about as often as I did. Of course, there are precious few of them getting up on a soapbox and shouting about it like I am. Nevertheless, here you are reading me, so maybe they should have thought of it first.

Before puberty, of course, all of that playing leads to nothing much. Boys get hard-ons, but they’re just a curiosity and serve no real useful purpose. While going from, say, one inch to two inches is an impressive parlor trick – unless you actually do it in the parlor, in which case you should expect a beating – the only real joy exists in giving you a bit more toy to play with. There is no true ultimate goal.

I knew that a goal existed. I had read about it. My father had a somewhat steamy paperback hidden (poorly) in his sock drawer. The more lurid passages of that work of art described, in great detail, the emission of some sort of fluid. It was variously described as spunk, goo, jizz, and cum. I had no idea whatsoever concerning the composition of these liquids, but I gathered that they were supposed to explode, gush, shoot, or otherwise violently exit from a penis (although THAT word certainly never made an appearance and, as a result, I never cultivated a fondness for that descriptive, it seeming much less robust than it’s more earthy cousins.)

The idea of explosions from my dickhead seemed slightly troubling, but I experimented nevertheless. No luck. All of the yanking and tugging resulted in no more than a slight bit of soreness, an accompanying minor friction rash, and perhaps a heightened need to take a pee. I persisted as the opportunity presented itself, since I am nothing if not a hard worker, but no resultant fireworks accompanied my amateur rendition of the 1812 overture played upon my organ.

Then, puberty happened. And, to the best of my recollection, it all happened overnight. I don’t recall much of a chance to wonder at just what in hell was going on. All I knew was one day I went to bed smooth-cheeked and small, the next I woke up needing a shave and bigger underwear.

This was not without it’s gratifications. I had always wanted to shave. And, yeah, the other thing was pretty cool, too.

Still nothing in the explosion department, though. I know some guys have their first in a wet dream, but I didn’t. With my hands-on approach to the situation, the odds were good that I’d be wide-awake to experience my first orgasm, and so I was. It was where I experienced it that I didn’t expect.

Boston Latin School is the most prestigious high school in Boston, perhaps in the entire country. It was founded a year before Harvard. Its graduates include four Massachusetts governors and five signers of The Declaration Of Independence. Its most famous dropouts include William Lloyd Garrison, Benjamin Franklin, and Louis Farrakhan (which puts me in pretty good company, and them in worse company than they might have imagined once this gets read by anyone of import.) Letting me in was the biggest mistake they ever made. The only thing I ever did of note there was to have my very first orgasm in the boy's bathroom.

Before I go on, I feel that some plumbing lessons might be in order. Some women may not be aware of how a man takes a piss. Sure, you know we stand there and it all seems mighty easy, but there is a technique involved. Or, really, a few different techniques, with some or all being used at any one time depending upon how artistic a mind a man was born with. There is shaking, pulling, sliding, contracting of muscles, DE-contracting of muscles... well, basically, just about anything that might be considered masturbatory in a different setting is used as an aide to getting the last of the urine to exit your body. These gyrations are expected and normal in the mens room, as long as you aren’t too flamboyant about it.

Well, one day, between History and English, I had to take a whiz. I went into the lav, waited my turn at a urinal, and then took care of business. While I was finishing up, the bell rang for the next class. I squeezed and pulled, getting that last drop out, and was just about to flop my guy back into my pants, zip up, and go learn the difference between adjectives and adverbs, when I noticed that the squeezing was feeling mighty pleasurable. I was getting an erection. I decided that finding out the cause of this pleasure might be more worthwhile than attending a class about gerunds.

The bathroom emptied out. Everybody else (that is, those interested more in an education than playing with their willies) had gone to class. With the coast clear, I resumed the manipulations that had brought me such recent joy. It kept feeling better and better. And then...

Well, if I go into great detail at this point, it will become raunch rather than reminiscence. Lord knows I’ve been teetering on that brink since the beginning of this piece, but I’m adamant about not going over the edge. Suffice to say that one of those explosions I had been reading about occurred. And quite an explosion it was, too! All things considered, I’d have to say it was THE most gratifying moment of my entire academic career.

Unfortunately, I learned rather quickly about what is called the refractory period. There comes a point (comes a... never mind) when the entire process switches from being a supreme manifestation of all that is right with the universe to an endeavor that, if not painful, is certainly not a great pleasure. I was rather disappointed. I was hoping I could just keep going and make a career of it. I thought I had found my true calling.

I could tell you about my second and third and fourth orgasms, but I don’t suppose there’s any need for that. The first one was important for you to know about. It was responsible for my missing English class that day, so every dangling participle, mixed metaphor, awkward construction, and otherwise unfit-for-human-consumption phrasing you may have been subjected to, by me, can be blamed on that day, including the fact that I use such an obvious illiteracy as my sign off.

Soon, with more better stuff.