Amazing how some events in life become a lasting, fond memory. Here's another one from my mental archives!
Early in my senior year of high school I and several buddies whom I had known since grade school were talking one day after school, and we all agreed to get together that Friday night after the football game. None of us was going steady at the time, so we figured, why not join up and find something interesting to do?
After the game ended, the five of us joined up and, in one of my friends' cars, we agreed to take a drive up to the mountains, about 30 miles from the valley town where we all lived at the time. For some strange reason the 'gang' seemed to think I looked and acted the most mature, and they prevailed on me to go into one of our local liquor stores to procure a couple of six-packs.
We headed up the mountain drive, and after 45 minutes or so, found our way to a deserted camping ground. This was October, at an elevation of 6,000 feet plus, so there were no 'summer tourists' to contend with. Nor, in those days, did we need worry about officers of the law lurking about at odd hours. We could find ourselves a completely secluded spot and be comfortable knowing that the five of us could 'drink and be merry' without concern.
On the way up the mountain drive we talked of the game that night, of girls we'd seen, of our teachers, and of sex-and not necessarily in that order. After we arrived at the campground we found a place to park, got out of the car, and each of us opened a beer. We stood around for a while but-since two of my buddies had failed to bring a jacket-they said they were starting to get cold and wanted to head back for the car. A few others of us stayed on for a while, simply chatting and walking around the campground, checking out the scenery as it were.
Finally we were all back in the car together, popping a Coors now and then, and talking about whatever any of us thought might be of topical importance. By this time I had been 'into' my private dream world for a year or more and knew that-in some general sense-this whole business of masturbation was no big secret. And, given that I was feeling horny at all odd (and even) hours of the day, I said something like, 'I don't know about you guys, but I've got a penis here that feels like it wants a little action! Hope you don't mind, but I think it's time!' At which point I opened my zipper, pulled out my penis, and started going at it. For maybe five seconds my buddies looked at me as if I was crazy, as if to say, 'You, Pat? The straight-laced academic who's always working and studying?' Whatever their opinion, they happily joined in, and within a minute we were all doin' it...and what still amuses me to this day, my four buddies included two sets of brothers and, as far as I could tell, what each of them was seeing that night was a first...like they didn't know their bros were 'doin' it' too. How incredible is that? And it's amazing what one remembers. Being the jack rabbit I seemed to be at that point, I ejaculated first. I was followed by my buddy in the driver's seat, Lance, and not long after by one or another of the three in the back seat. We've never spoken of our mountain excursion since, with one exception, but I'm sure we'd have a good laugh about our one and only circle jack if all of us were to meet and talk about it today. I should hasten to add that it's the one and only that I've been a part of. Who knows whether it built a tradition!
That one exception occurred just a couple of days later when I was on a study session with Lance. Rather awkwardly, he brought up our mountain drive of the previous weekend, and of our masturbation session. After beating around the bush for a minute he suddenly burst out with a sort of half question-half statement: 'Pat, I couldn't help but notice your penis. I mean, with you being six feet four and all, I figured you for at least a seven-incher! But, as nearly as I could tell-and you remember I was in the front seat with you, well, yours looked about as average as mine. Like, ya know, five or six inches.'
I looked at Lance with about as incredulous look as I probably had ever had up to that point and said, 'Well, whaddaya think I would have? Just 'cause I'm 6 feet-four doesn't mean I've got a penis to match, ya know. I mean, what if everyone's prick was proportional to his height? Wouldn't that be a scientific giveaway, right? You could walk around and, well, pretty much gauge what a guy's full-bore erection would measure based on his height. Well, from what I've seen in the locker room to date, and from our biology class, it just doesn't work out that way. Jeff, for example (another buddy we both knew), is only five feet ten but has a hard-on that probably measures seven inches at the least. He even showed it to me when we were up on a farm job he and I were assigned to at the end of the summer.' Well, okay, so much for the measurements, we both concluded. Apparently neither he nor I could discern with any finality a clear relationship between one's physical build and the size of our penises. That was the end of it from my point of view, and I thought little of the 'size issue' for perhaps another 40 years. And, that's another story!