First masturbation by my highschool girlfriend
She was cute, plump,a cheerleader, and as hot for me as a little red wagon.
THE FIRST ONE
Part Three
I can't remember how the first dates with Cynthia went. Hell, I can't even rememer how I led up to the first one; this in contrast with my vivid memories of my first conscious jerk-off, if you read Part One of this teen memoir.
My father had given me his large black two-year old Buick sedan when he bought his post-war Studebaker. It probably never crossed his mind that this would not be the ideal gift for his oldest son, who was already defending himself as an outsider in a small group of classmates, about 39, as I recall (I could find my Yearbook, but I won't) and was learning to hit out with his tongue as he never had learned to hit with his fists.
Half the kids in my class were sons and daughters of guys who drove snowplows for the Town, and the other half felt like losers because they weren't going to Exeter or Andover or someplace else in the St. Grottlesex galaxy of expensive private schools. You might say that there was a division along class lines, but they could get together like everyone else with a grudge can, against a stranger in the rookery, who would rather fight than join. ( still have dreams about walking determinedly west in a crowd of men walking east; the shrink said it was latent homosexuality. So what?)
Years later I was talking with the only teacher in the school who could finish a sentence grammatically, about a runaway classmate whom he had gone to New York, on his own money, to bring back, and I said, "Yeah, he was a real rebel."
Mr. Brewer said, "No, he really wasn't, he was just a very mixed up, unhappy young man." And then he said, "Don't you know who the real rebels were when you were in high school?"
I drew a blank. I had no idea who he was talking about.
"Your family," he said. "You and your sister and brother."
The Director of Admissions at Harvard had been his roommate. I had never connected that with my acceptance, despite spectacularly inadequate marks. Mr. Brewer was a bit of a rebel too, and he knew one when he saw one.
I didn't take it too seriously then: now I keep it in a drawer in my memory like a Medal of Honor and take it out every once in a while and polish it on my sleeve and read the words again.
Later, my parents told me that Mr. Brewer had come to the housed to tell them that Cynthia was not good for me. At least they had the sense not to say that while I was in high school; I probably would have married her.
Anyway...
We made it down "by the ducks" in a normal length of time for the '40s. I used to wonder about the "sexual revolution" when the media discovered itt; I still wonder how long it takes for a healthy 16-year old girl and boy to get "down by the ducks", a destination that was called that because there was a sign "Duck Feeding and Parking Area" at the entrance to the parking lot. Many ducks were certainly fed there during the day (the parking lot bordered on the Charles River) but another kind of beak got its favorite food at night. The cops patrolled it regularly. Total nudity was therefore not practical, but there are lots of things two kids can do fully clothed, or nearly so.
I do remember putting my arm around Cynthia for the first time. (How English kids ever get laid in a car using their left hand puzzles me, but I'm sure they manage.)
Cynthia was an only child, mother and father both alky, and she needed body warmth as bad as I did, although her aims were more socially acceptable than mine. So there we were, me with my arm around Cynthia, my right hand hanging casually over her shoulder, casually tracing the neckline of her blouse with my index finger and a stiff cock full of hope.
It took several evenings of duck feeding to get any further, but biology won out (doesn't it always? Depends on the circumstances, I guess, but certainly that's the way to bet) and I slid my finger down until I could touch her nipple, little for her tit size but firm as a pencil eraser.
She gasped and wiggled, but didn't really pull away, so I got another finger down there and started to squeeze, not too hard (it took me many years to find out how hard was too hard on a tit or a clit, the answer is "less", unless she's into pain) and she just squirmed and panted and that was, delightfully, that.
The next move was to get a little more room around her tit, and that meant unsnapping her bra. I was lucky the first time: I just squeezed the hook-and-eye fastener together, it popped open, and loosened over those lovely large teenage tits. For the first time, I held a girl's heavy, warm, quivering breast and its outhrust nipple in my hand.
We went on from there. Next time I got the bra open early and pulled it down. It was getting cooler, and Cynthia was wearing a light sweater, which I managed to get up under her armpits so her glorious breasts were free.
For the first time, at least the first time I remember, I suckled a woman's nipple, like a baby trying to get the milk. I used my tongue, then my lips, then as much of Cynthia's whole tit as I could pull into my mouth. It seemed strange that no milk came out of her nipple. But there seems to be a direct connection between a woman's nipples and her cunt, and I was sending messages that Cynthia's new womanhood could not reject.
At last her hand dropped into my lap and found the hardon under my clothes.
Masturbation is wonderful, but having a hot young girl do it for you is sublime.
The year went on. I suppose I had classes during the day, but all I remember is my progress towards Cynthia's cunt. It must have taken two weeks for me to slip my fingers over her baby-fat little belly, under the elastic of her pantiesand grope through hair to that blessed welcoming slit we all come from.
I was learning the thrill of poetry in those days: Yeats said, "The crime of being born/ Blackens all our lot/ But where the crime's committed/ The crime can be forgot."
He was right on, as usual. "St. Joseph thought his heart would melt/ But liked the way his finger smelt." By now I was licking Cynthia's copious cunt juice off my fingers to lubricate them for further invasion. The first night she smelled rather strong, and I wondered if all girls did. Perhaps she knew, because the next time my finger probed her woman's wet hole, she was as sweet as daisies. She had probably smelled herself on me, and started to douche.
I know I was cleaning cheese from under my foreskin during each shower.
Every night that I could, perhaps two or three times a week, I drove Cynthia to "feed the ducks", coming away with a raging hardon that I took care of at home.
We had progressed to Cynthia's having me on my knees, licking her clitoris. She never came hard, but after a cunt-lapping session she would finally give a little shudder.
Now I'm in the classic 1940s fuck-in-the car position, with Cynthia's plump thighs around my waist and my erection tenting my shorts and trying to get in. (Rember the old C&W song ? "I woke up the next morning/and both my knees were sore/Front of Happy Harry's Honkytonk and Package Liquor Store."
Now Cynthia began to panic. "No, darling, dearest, I can't get pregnant, I can't, please, my darling, don't do it..."
There are times, as any man knows and the feminists flatly deny, when "No" just means "Please keep trying, please make me let you do it." Rape? Not bloody likely. Or if it's rape, the race won't continue without it. And fuck you, you nice ladies who feel so sorry for Cynthia right now: she knows what she is doing just as surely as her wet cunt knows how to flow and why, and the egg moving down her ovulation channel knows, and the teenage boy struggling between her legs knows that they are performing a mystic act whose beginnings are lost in mist but programmed just as surely as heartbeat and breath in those hormone-flooded teen brains and bodies, dizzy with puberty, trying their ancient, forever new discoveries of how to replace themselves with children.
By now I have learned to come in my shorts, and bring Kleenexes to every encounter to muffle my excploding cock.
Then one day the moon was right. I had been telling Cynthia, between groans of ecstacy, aboout the mythical "blue balls". She bought the story,like so many of her sisters back over time, and worrying about my mythical medical problem, asked, "Darling, what can I do for you?"
Glad you asked: I was cautious, but now I was King.
"Well, if you could... kinda rub me..."
"Until the white stuff comes out?"
"Yeah. Do you mind?"
"I'd love to."
Back in the driver's seat, I unzip my slacks and pull my stiff cock out through the Y-front. It stands up there, pale and furious red at the tip, under the lights from the dash.
"How do I do it?"
Blessed angel, Saint Cynthia! "I'll show you."
I wrapped her little hand around my stalk and began to move it up and down, saying "Not too far down, it pulls." She was a good student. "Give me your hand," I said, and licked her palm with a tongueful of collected spit, leaving it dripping. She went back to my cock, now lubricated with saliva, which is the best jerk-off liquid of all if there's enough of it. Every half-dozen strokes I stopped her to lick her wet palm again, and delay coming. But that was a foredoomed effort. A giant charge of cum surged up from my balls, I want to say, up from my asshole and the base of my spine, driving up through the perineum and up my cock channel like hot wire and out the hole in the tip, arching about a foot in the air and splattering everywhere, because I had forgotten to get the Kleenex ready.
No wonder there are so many teen pregnancies.
Cynthia caught some of my cum on her face, in her hair, on her naked tits, and I soaked the fly of my slacks. I think she was a little in awe of what she had accomplished, and didn't complain of the mess but just kept wiping (I had found the Kleenexes, nine or ten explosive spurts too late.)
I leaned back, half-heartedly pulling up my shorts and slacks but mostly wallowing in the luxury of having come. Cynthia may or may not have come, I didn't worry about it too much with her, but she sat there like a teen madonna waiting for the Holy Ghost's voice in her ear, which I guess she was.
Instead, a flashlight shone through the window onto our (clothed) genital areas, and the cops went on to the next car.
That's my first jerk-off in a girl's hand, and I am grateful to her to this day.
This story has a sad ending which doesn't make me look good, if anybody's interested. It's all true, by the way, to the best of my 73-year old memory, and I'm having a wonderful time reliving it more than half a century later. Regular doses of Cialis (2X a week) are giving me solid morning hardons again, and the men reading will know how good that feels.
(more to come, if anybody wants to read it.)
///1,889 wds/11.2.04/8 am
THE FIRST ONE
Part Three
I can't remember how the first dates with Cynthia went. Hell, I can't even rememer how I led up to the first one; this in contrast with my vivid memories of my first conscious jerk-off, if you read Part One of this teen memoir.
My father had given me his large black two-year old Buick sedan when he bought his post-war Studebaker. It probably never crossed his mind that this would not be the ideal gift for his oldest son, who was already defending himself as an outsider in a small group of classmates, about 39, as I recall (I could find my Yearbook, but I won't) and was learning to hit out with his tongue as he never had learned to hit with his fists.
Half the kids in my class were sons and daughters of guys who drove snowplows for the Town, and the other half felt like losers because they weren't going to Exeter or Andover or someplace else in the St. Grottlesex galaxy of expensive private schools. You might say that there was a division along class lines, but they could get together like everyone else with a grudge can, against a stranger in the rookery, who would rather fight than join. ( still have dreams about walking determinedly west in a crowd of men walking east; the shrink said it was latent homosexuality. So what?)
Years later I was talking with the only teacher in the school who could finish a sentence grammatically, about a runaway classmate whom he had gone to New York, on his own money, to bring back, and I said, "Yeah, he was a real rebel."
Mr. Brewer said, "No, he really wasn't, he was just a very mixed up, unhappy young man." And then he said, "Don't you know who the real rebels were when you were in high school?"
I drew a blank. I had no idea who he was talking about.
"Your family," he said. "You and your sister and brother."
The Director of Admissions at Harvard had been his roommate. I had never connected that with my acceptance, despite spectacularly inadequate marks. Mr. Brewer was a bit of a rebel too, and he knew one when he saw one.
I didn't take it too seriously then: now I keep it in a drawer in my memory like a Medal of Honor and take it out every once in a while and polish it on my sleeve and read the words again.
Later, my parents told me that Mr. Brewer had come to the housed to tell them that Cynthia was not good for me. At least they had the sense not to say that while I was in high school; I probably would have married her.
Anyway...
We made it down "by the ducks" in a normal length of time for the '40s. I used to wonder about the "sexual revolution" when the media discovered itt; I still wonder how long it takes for a healthy 16-year old girl and boy to get "down by the ducks", a destination that was called that because there was a sign "Duck Feeding and Parking Area" at the entrance to the parking lot. Many ducks were certainly fed there during the day (the parking lot bordered on the Charles River) but another kind of beak got its favorite food at night. The cops patrolled it regularly. Total nudity was therefore not practical, but there are lots of things two kids can do fully clothed, or nearly so.
I do remember putting my arm around Cynthia for the first time. (How English kids ever get laid in a car using their left hand puzzles me, but I'm sure they manage.)
Cynthia was an only child, mother and father both alky, and she needed body warmth as bad as I did, although her aims were more socially acceptable than mine. So there we were, me with my arm around Cynthia, my right hand hanging casually over her shoulder, casually tracing the neckline of her blouse with my index finger and a stiff cock full of hope.
It took several evenings of duck feeding to get any further, but biology won out (doesn't it always? Depends on the circumstances, I guess, but certainly that's the way to bet) and I slid my finger down until I could touch her nipple, little for her tit size but firm as a pencil eraser.
She gasped and wiggled, but didn't really pull away, so I got another finger down there and started to squeeze, not too hard (it took me many years to find out how hard was too hard on a tit or a clit, the answer is "less", unless she's into pain) and she just squirmed and panted and that was, delightfully, that.
The next move was to get a little more room around her tit, and that meant unsnapping her bra. I was lucky the first time: I just squeezed the hook-and-eye fastener together, it popped open, and loosened over those lovely large teenage tits. For the first time, I held a girl's heavy, warm, quivering breast and its outhrust nipple in my hand.
We went on from there. Next time I got the bra open early and pulled it down. It was getting cooler, and Cynthia was wearing a light sweater, which I managed to get up under her armpits so her glorious breasts were free.
For the first time, at least the first time I remember, I suckled a woman's nipple, like a baby trying to get the milk. I used my tongue, then my lips, then as much of Cynthia's whole tit as I could pull into my mouth. It seemed strange that no milk came out of her nipple. But there seems to be a direct connection between a woman's nipples and her cunt, and I was sending messages that Cynthia's new womanhood could not reject.
At last her hand dropped into my lap and found the hardon under my clothes.
Masturbation is wonderful, but having a hot young girl do it for you is sublime.
The year went on. I suppose I had classes during the day, but all I remember is my progress towards Cynthia's cunt. It must have taken two weeks for me to slip my fingers over her baby-fat little belly, under the elastic of her pantiesand grope through hair to that blessed welcoming slit we all come from.
I was learning the thrill of poetry in those days: Yeats said, "The crime of being born/ Blackens all our lot/ But where the crime's committed/ The crime can be forgot."
He was right on, as usual. "St. Joseph thought his heart would melt/ But liked the way his finger smelt." By now I was licking Cynthia's copious cunt juice off my fingers to lubricate them for further invasion. The first night she smelled rather strong, and I wondered if all girls did. Perhaps she knew, because the next time my finger probed her woman's wet hole, she was as sweet as daisies. She had probably smelled herself on me, and started to douche.
I know I was cleaning cheese from under my foreskin during each shower.
Every night that I could, perhaps two or three times a week, I drove Cynthia to "feed the ducks", coming away with a raging hardon that I took care of at home.
We had progressed to Cynthia's having me on my knees, licking her clitoris. She never came hard, but after a cunt-lapping session she would finally give a little shudder.
Now I'm in the classic 1940s fuck-in-the car position, with Cynthia's plump thighs around my waist and my erection tenting my shorts and trying to get in. (Rember the old C&W song ? "I woke up the next morning/and both my knees were sore/Front of Happy Harry's Honkytonk and Package Liquor Store."
Now Cynthia began to panic. "No, darling, dearest, I can't get pregnant, I can't, please, my darling, don't do it..."
There are times, as any man knows and the feminists flatly deny, when "No" just means "Please keep trying, please make me let you do it." Rape? Not bloody likely. Or if it's rape, the race won't continue without it. And fuck you, you nice ladies who feel so sorry for Cynthia right now: she knows what she is doing just as surely as her wet cunt knows how to flow and why, and the egg moving down her ovulation channel knows, and the teenage boy struggling between her legs knows that they are performing a mystic act whose beginnings are lost in mist but programmed just as surely as heartbeat and breath in those hormone-flooded teen brains and bodies, dizzy with puberty, trying their ancient, forever new discoveries of how to replace themselves with children.
By now I have learned to come in my shorts, and bring Kleenexes to every encounter to muffle my excploding cock.
Then one day the moon was right. I had been telling Cynthia, between groans of ecstacy, aboout the mythical "blue balls". She bought the story,like so many of her sisters back over time, and worrying about my mythical medical problem, asked, "Darling, what can I do for you?"
Glad you asked: I was cautious, but now I was King.
"Well, if you could... kinda rub me..."
"Until the white stuff comes out?"
"Yeah. Do you mind?"
"I'd love to."
Back in the driver's seat, I unzip my slacks and pull my stiff cock out through the Y-front. It stands up there, pale and furious red at the tip, under the lights from the dash.
"How do I do it?"
Blessed angel, Saint Cynthia! "I'll show you."
I wrapped her little hand around my stalk and began to move it up and down, saying "Not too far down, it pulls." She was a good student. "Give me your hand," I said, and licked her palm with a tongueful of collected spit, leaving it dripping. She went back to my cock, now lubricated with saliva, which is the best jerk-off liquid of all if there's enough of it. Every half-dozen strokes I stopped her to lick her wet palm again, and delay coming. But that was a foredoomed effort. A giant charge of cum surged up from my balls, I want to say, up from my asshole and the base of my spine, driving up through the perineum and up my cock channel like hot wire and out the hole in the tip, arching about a foot in the air and splattering everywhere, because I had forgotten to get the Kleenex ready.
No wonder there are so many teen pregnancies.
Cynthia caught some of my cum on her face, in her hair, on her naked tits, and I soaked the fly of my slacks. I think she was a little in awe of what she had accomplished, and didn't complain of the mess but just kept wiping (I had found the Kleenexes, nine or ten explosive spurts too late.)
I leaned back, half-heartedly pulling up my shorts and slacks but mostly wallowing in the luxury of having come. Cynthia may or may not have come, I didn't worry about it too much with her, but she sat there like a teen madonna waiting for the Holy Ghost's voice in her ear, which I guess she was.
Instead, a flashlight shone through the window onto our (clothed) genital areas, and the cops went on to the next car.
That's my first jerk-off in a girl's hand, and I am grateful to her to this day.
This story has a sad ending which doesn't make me look good, if anybody's interested. It's all true, by the way, to the best of my 73-year old memory, and I'm having a wonderful time reliving it more than half a century later. Regular doses of Cialis (2X a week) are giving me solid morning hardons again, and the men reading will know how good that feels.
(more to come, if anybody wants to read it.)
///1,889 wds/11.2.04/8 am
Posted on: 2004-11-01 08:52:18 |
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