I've posted a couple of items about growing up in a little town that looked like a set for a Disney movie but felt like Salem, MA in 1630. (At least it seems that way in retrospect. ) It was a place where 'jacking off' was a joke and a guy who did it was a loser. So how did I become addicted? There's always a way.
My earliest memory of something sexual was at about age 5, with a neighbor boy, hiding under the big canvas that covered the garden furniture when it rained. My grandmother must have had incredible hearing. She found us, sent the neighbor home, and gave me the royal-what-for.'You better never play with that thing again. The cat used to play with his, and we had to cut it off!'
Well, I'll tell you, I could put 1+2 together. (1) the cat obviously did not have one, (2) I must have cut myself sometime because I knew it hurt, so (3) it would probably really, really hurt if she cut my thing clear off! I kept it zipped in my pants for about the next seven years except when I really had to pee.
But not all the time. A few years later I learned that after going to bed, I could lay on my back, take out my pee-pee, and rub it up and down against the sheet. Never worked really very well, because the stimulation was wrong. Never an orgasm.
There were words that I'd heard, however. Finally I encountered one of them in my Boy Scout Handbook (I hadn't really recognized the irony of the title until just now!) It had a little paragraph under the heading
It warned that it was important to avoid it, if we wanted to grow up physically strong, mentally awake, and all that stuff. It said (some words stay with you forever) '...if it gets too tough (resisting, that is) try taking a cold shower!'
Fine. But it didn't say what it was that I was supposed to resist! Naturally, me being an intellectual sort, I looked it up in the dictionary. There was a two word definition...
Self-abuse? What's that? I knew about the medieval monks that whipped themselves and slept on cold, lumpy, stone floors to 'mortify the flesh' and punish themselves for evil thoughts, but how was that supposed to be so tempting that I'd need a cold shower to resist? Twelve years old and still bone-ignorant of all the good stuff!
Then one day I found THE BOOKS! My mother had sometime ordered a set of seven thin books on how to tell her kids about sex. One for preschool, one each for girls and boys for each 3 years thereafter. I went right for the junior hi ones, and set out to memorize them. Blah-blah-penis, blah-blah-vagina. Then the sentence I have remembered for 50 years. Ah, the power of words! It described foreplay, then said '... the male penis is inserted into the female vagina and a series of in and out motions produces a sensation equally delightful to both husband and wife.' Aha! My circumcision consisted of just a snip down the side of the foreskin, so there is a loose prepuce left. I was hard enough by then to go out for the pole-vault event without an artificial pole, so I grabbed it and started imitating that 'series of in and out motions'. Ohhhh, man-alive,'delightful' didn't begin to describe that sensation! I was on my way.
But, as I said, words have power. Every time I looked at a girl, I thought '...inserted in the female vagina.' I couldn't speak the word 'insert' if the presence of a girl for four years without stammering and turning red. I wonder if anyone wondered why, if I couldn't avoid saying it, it always came out 'ins-s-s-s-sert'. It was probably harder for me to say then, than it is for this generation to say another common word that refers to the same thing.
Oh, man. The glories of growing up in the good old days! (He says, ironically. ) May the good old days be gone forever!