Diary of a Mad Masturbator (2)

It hardly seemed possible when I reached puberty that the raging hormones could make me hornier than I already was, but my steady masturbation habits enlarged. My middle school years were a time of changes in my body and in my ways of masturbating.

I became shy about my autoerotic hobby, being more careful that I had as a small child to ensure privacy.

I was twelve when I first noticed a small amount of fluid seeping from the tip of my penis after I climaxed; I realised that this was the 'sperm' I had been hearing about. At first, it was in sufficiently small amounts that there was no clean up to speak of, but by the time I was in eighth grade I was starting to produce enough semen to require the 'Cum Rag.' Like countless other young masturbators, I adopted an increasingly crusty towel to soak up my emissions; my mother found it under the bed one day and replaced it with a box of tissues and an admonition not to 'shoot your load into the linens' anymore.

I became for a time quite fascinated by my ejaculations. I got a thrill out of keeping my eyes open during orgasm and watching the jizz squirt out of my twitching cock. Sometimes I would twirl my fingertips through the white puddles on my stomach and feel that strange mixture of slickness and stickiness, or ejaculate into a glass to examine and even taste it.

I had received an inexpensive microscope for my twelfth birthday, and of course I examined slides of my semen, as well as recording figures on distance and quantity. I developed the habit of dealing with my cum by simply rubbing it into the skin; it felt wicked to fall asleep with my own semen drying on my belly and thighs.

Another wicked moment happened when I tried (as boys will at some point do) to get my own cock into my mouth. Where I got such an idea, I can't remember. But I do remember being nude in the middle of my room, hips up over my head and straining to reach. I never got close to actual contact, but the effort did bring me off, and I ended up giving myself what would now be called a 'facial.' I felt deliciously perverted to feel my own hot semen splashing onto my face and into my mouth. I repeated the act a few times.

During this time I experienced another developmental phase when I got into nudie pictures of women to enhance my masturbation experiences. Nude women have always turned me on, but by seventh grade I was an avid (if secretive) collector of men's magazines. Through various sneaky means (I was still too young to buy them outright) I compiled a small collection to jerk off to. At that age I couldn't see myself having sex with the (to me) older models in the magazines, so my fantasies tended to concern voyeurism, spying on the models and masturbating in secret...

Another important masturbation event of those years was seeing my father masturbate. I had come home early from school and he had arrived to what he thought was an empty house. He was well into it when I entered the living room to find him on a towel on the sofa, nude and stroking his oil-slick erection. I was basically looking over his shoulders, so he didn't see me as I watched him stroke off.

I can't say I found it the most erotic sight, but it was stirring. I'd regarded myself as an experienced Onanist, but my father was a true master. He took his time, a slow buildup, with different strokes and positions. He would speed up and slow down, change hands, all the tricks which are old hat to us now but were new to my young eyes. He must have taken fully a half an hour before finally blowing his wad, an impressive blast all over himself and the towel on which he lay.

I sneaked back to my room before he could spot me, and as far as I know he never knew I saw him jack off. Inspired by his example, I put more imagination and creativity into my selflove sessions, a process which continues to this day.

Like many teenage boys, I also had the occasional dilemma of inconvenient and unwanted erections. Pitching a tent in one's trousers during chemistry class is always potentially embarrassing, and one way to deal with it is to rub one out. The boys' rest room was the obvious place to take care of myself in these situations, and a number of times I found myself in a stall with my pants down and my hand on my cock.

I think I was a sophomore when I accidentally discovered that I was not the only campus masturbator. I had developed one of my in-class hard-ons and, with teacher's permission, I had gone to the bathroom to relieve myself. The room was otherwise unoccupied, and I was starting to get into it when I heard the door open. Some instinct made me freeze and lift my feet up from the floor, pretending I wasn't there. The other boy entered the stall two doors down from mine. I heard the sound of trousers being lowered, and then what after a moment I could clearly identify as the sounds of frantic masturbation.

Careful not to make any sound that might give me away, I peeked under the partition to examine the shoes of the masturbator who'd interrupted my own self-pleasure. I studied the shoes so that I might identify the fellow later. Before long, his grunts announced his climax, and shortly afterward he had zipped up and made his exit. The incident had distracted me from my own masturbation, and I returned to class without finishing myself off.

At lunch that day, I checked each boy's shoes as they entered the cafeteria, looking for the ones I'd seen in the restroom earlier. No result at lunch time, but between classes I ID'ed the Onanist: Kevin J., a varsity basketball player and considered one of the cooler people at our school. Though I had been raised without shame regarding sex and masturbation, I still knew that the subject was one of ridicule amongst my friends and fellow students; to know beyond all doubt that one of the cool guys on campus was, like me, a jack-off artist was liberating.