13 Was My Lucky Number, Pt. 1

 I was 13 and this all took place between the start of that year and entering my first year of high school.  I'd been masturbating for awhile using the penis-between-my-thighs method I described (maybe not so well?) in a Technique I've posted before. Memory fades a bit after 40 years or so.  I guess there's not really a great deal to say about that itself, doing it that way, other than it felt fucking awesome and I did it most every day. Sometimes in the morning on the weekends, but usually I'd wait until I was in bed at night and I'd do myself before I went to sleep. Sometimes I'd masturbate after school, but I didn't often have the house to myself and somehow, going into my room to "do it" when my mother or sister were home and could walk by my door while I was "playing with myself" - I'll explain shortly - just didn't let me get in the mood. And of course, there were generally plenty of other kid things to do after school. So a little solo afternoon delight was a pretty rare occurrence back then.

 Looking back on it now, of course, this waiting until bedtime didn't really make complete sense if I didn't want them to know I what I was up to since my room shared a wall with my sister's room and my parents' room was just across the hall. Yet I had no qualms about masturbating at night when my little sister was maybe 10 feet away (or only 2) in her room and my parents not much farther off in their own room. But everyone closed their doors at night before going to sleep and 'your room' was 'your space' so it just seemed OK to masturbate then. My parents were having sex in their room, weren't they? And I never heard them, so I doubted they'd hear me. My sister was five years younger than me, I didn't consider her as a sexual anything and whether she heard me "doing it" didn't even enter into my evaluation of the situation.*

The idea that I wouldn't masturbate because my parents & sister were near by never occurred to me. It's not like I even considered it and rejected it. The thought just never actually crossed my mind. And hasn't at any time in all the decades since.

It's not that I didn't think they knew I masturbated. I thought they must since I was a 13 year old boy and that's simply what teenaged boys did. At that time my belief about the "way things worked" regarding sex was:

1. you had sex with your wife when you were married;

2. when you were older and had a girlfriend, you 'fooled around' but weren't supposed to have sex (but, yes people did); and

3. when you were young,  or older but didn't have a girlfriend or wife, it was OK, even expected,  for you to have the need to "play with yourself."

I don't know if all this was ever explicitly explained to me that way, at least not ever all at once, but there had been some commentary and direction provided in that regard, here & there, at times and in situations that I can't discuss here. So, by age 13, that was my clear (to me, it seemed) understanding of the situation.  And masturbating was normal & healthy.  That's what the sex-ed classes in school had said. In like 2 sentences, if I recall. They defined it, said it felt good, that both boys and girls (and grown ups did it) and that was all. It's what all the "sex books" in the library said, Kinsay, Hite, etc. (I did say I was a bit of a geek, right? I tried to skim them for "the good bits" but there really weren't any. They had been interesting nonetheless.) That's what my parents' copy of "Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid To Ask" (I thought the movie was more fun than the book, though) said.  Now, yes, I had gotten the "talk" earlier that year by both my parents (surprisingly not very awkward at all) before but that had only touched on pregnancy, respect, safe-sex (not that I was supposed to be having any sex until I was married, of course). I do recall wondering, though why? I was getting "the talk" other than it must be like some mandatory thing parents did. I was a geeky 13 year-old junior-high school kid. Sure, I had crushes on a couple of girls (to their dismay, no doubt.) But actually dating or having a girlfriend? (Uh... yeah, right. Not in my foreseeable future, but OK, thanks anyway. Whatever....)

Masturbation wasn't mentioned, so I just thought they knew that I must have, by then, pretty much had it, or would have it, figured out. And suffice to say I knew they knew that I knew what it was. They had never said anything negative about it. No "don't do it," no "don't do it too much," nothing. I was spared that little bit of Catholicism. 'No sex before marriage' seemed to have been the extent of the Church's influence on my parents' attitudes. And really, what was there to say about masturbation, unless you had something against it for religious reasons, which apparently did not hold much sway in our household?  Or, your kid was doing it in the middle of dinner at the dining room table?  Besides, I knew my Dad had had a few Playboys and my Mom had a vibrator, so I thought masturbation wasn't something they had a problem with. Truth be told I never did it in their dining room at any time,ever.

But that is exactly what I did, in my room, pretty much every day. By myself. In my bed, in the dark. Happily and with great enthusiasm. That's one thing that I think  is pretty significant about masturbating as a young teen and with which many here can probably identify: as a teenager, masturbating just made me so happy. For that five, ten, maybe fifteen minutes once a little older, lying naked in the dark and working my erection, nothing else mattered but that increasing feeling of pleasure, then the ecstasy of my release, and those few minutes of complete, dreamy relaxation after. No matter how sucky my day was (and I don't care who you were, how cool you were, how great your life was, I'm sure that just because you were 13-17, there were days that just sucked, sometimes for no apparent reason, but they just DID) I knew I'd be able to "do it" at some point, that I'd always be able to have that time to just make myself feel so good.

Had I understood then the practice of edging, or about the refractory period, I expect I'd have been both sleep deprived and somewhat poorly socialized, because had I known of these things, I doubt I'd ever have gone to sleep before midnight or left my bedroom after school most days! That lack of awareness, wasn't so much me being an ignorant boob, sexually, but more to that fact that I was doing it at night in bed before going to sleep when I'd lie so relaxed and happy after climaxing that all I could manage to do was wipe up a bit then fall alseep. Or I'd try to get one in before school in the morning, strip under my covers, go at it frantically and  quickly climax,  then have to immediately get on with the business of getting ready for school.

I guess at this point, actually, there were a couple of things about my somewhat unorthodox mode of self gratification that are worthy of comment. One, I didn't have to worry about where my ejaculate went (something which I discovered was definitely an issue after I'd switched over to stroking, doing it the "right way" like everyone else). Well, doing the same way every time, working it between my slicked-up thighs there in my bed I hadn't realized that I should have been, if not worrying about it, at least a bit more aware of it.  I knew where it was going, every time: usually, when I came, I'd just shoot all over the insides of my legs. But if my erection was all the way down between them, where I could feel my glans poking out beneath from beneath and hitting the bed, just before I knew I was going to start to orgasm, I'd catch it there, clenching it between my thighs, really tight so it couldn't slip back up as it usually would and then, legs tight together, hands clutching at the sheet and mattress pad or the bedspread beneath me, I'd arch my back and thrust my hips, sort of humping on my own penis as my head started to get all swimmy and then oh buy, would I be cumming! I'd writhe and shake through my orgasm, enjoying two or three distinct, glorious spasms within that 5-10 or seconds (which always seems so much longer, right?) of body and mind enveloping bliss, as I'd ejaculate in distinct, separate "shots":  once, then twice, maybe a third time, if I was lucky, each time feeling that little stream of warm liquid course through my erection just before being blasted onto the sheet or bedspread below me as I spasmed sweetly.  Ahhhh, to be lost in the moment.... (And I mean that literally. The pleasure of these orgasms was so intense that I apparently never noticed that when I climaxed this way, I was moaning out loud and that my bed was moving along with my frantically thrusting hips.)

Of course, I didn't worry at all about where I was shooting off, because of course I knew right where it went. The same place, every time. And I'd always take tissues and clean up my little puddles, after. But at that time I'd had a white bedspread and, poor, poor me, rather later than sooner, one morning I noticed that in one spot, right in the middle, it was very definitely no longer quite so white. In fact, it looked a bit... yellowed. (What was... Oh... OH NO!)  Panic time. 

 Because that just looked, no, not just looked; it was:  NASTY. It didn't bother me that my mother must have known what it was and what I'd been doing to have put it there, but simply that it was there. I'd been so careless and indiscrete about my masturbating, over and over and over, that I'd actually left A STAIN. Who does that? An imbecile? A pervert? A loser? Because that's just... gross!  I might as well have whipped it out and done myself on the couch while we were all watching TV together. I'd worried about it at school that day. When I got home, I could barely look at my mother. But at dinner, and after, nothing was said, and nothing seemed out-of-the-ordinary. I'd even almost been afraid to masturbate later that night, but then quicky thought to put a bunch of tissues down on the sheets underneath my thighs and a few minutes later, into it and anxiety free for the moment, I'd orgasmed as usual and sighing and shaking a little, gleefully shot my load all in between my thighs. And then after laying there in the dark for a few minutes just enjoying that period of total relaxation after my release, I'd been able to reach down and promptly clean up, rather than twisting around all wet and sticky reaching for the tissues on the headboard and having to rummage around back under the covers. Right after, though, the realization of my plight promptly came rushing back in: (Why, oh why, had I not thought of this before, instead of putting myself in the position I was in?)

 The next morning I had to look at that sad, soiled spread as I finished making my bed and again glumly went off to school, dreading the fate that might meet me on my return home. This routine continued uneventfully but stressfully for a few days after I'd noticed that stain was there: angst each morning, that nagging fear during the day, then coming back into the house then making it through dinner without a word being said about it. Then, at night, after making it through another day of school, and not being called out for what I'd done, I'd crawl into bed and immediately work myself into a quiet frenzy under the covers, blow my load between my thighs or right into the tissues beneath me, and in the morning look again at that yellowish blemish right in the center of my bedspread.  And my little anxiety cycle started again. So, yes, I was feeling very self-conscious about it. But since nothing had happened after a few days, maybe, I thought, I was OK. (Maybe nobody noticed? No-way, Maybe my mom didn't care? Oh, no-way no-way!.)

Then I came home from school one afternoon and on my bed there was a bright white bedspread. Virginally white. Everywhere. No, she hadn't washed it successfully.  It was a different bedspread.  (Oh, yeah: she knew.)

 I started at the new, bright, clean bedspread, confident that at least I knew how to keep if from suffering the same ignominious fate of its predecessor and wondered just how many of my orgasms, how many shot's of semen I'd made my poor old bedspread endure before my mom decided that she had to put it out of its misery. Then I heard her coming up the stairs as I took off my backpack, and she'd leaned in through my door a little, asked me how my day was, and very casually informed me that she'd given me new bedspread and that "if you're not going to be playing with yourself under the covers," I needed to put the old towel (and there it was, neatly folded!) on top of my bedspread because she hadn't been able to get the semen stains out of the other one, and this was the only one we had left. She sounded a bit, well, irked. 

It's one thing to know, as a young teen, without having to be told, that your parents knew you were masturbating. C'mon. We all knew then that they knew we were "doing it." And they knew that we knew that they knew. And they also knew that we knew that they were fucking. And they were cool knowing that you were making yourself orgasm  and you were cool knowing that they were making each other orgasm.  But you didn't talk about it. In fact, you may have gone out of your way to make sure there wasn't any sign that you even acknowledge that any of it was happening. Sometimes, maybe it was a little awkward for you (for them too?) Probably so. But... so worth it.  

It's quite another thing, however, to be admonished, not about the fact that you've been masturbating but rather about the collateral damage your repeated orgasms have caused to the furnishings. One piece of which your mother has just had to replace. (Because you've shot your cum all over it so many times.)  I just stared at the bed for a few moments.  (I guess my sheets, though, must have cleaned up fine? )

I'd started out doing it while under the covers, and had continued even after I'd started ejaculating until I'd quicly gotten tired of having to sleep with wet spots, everywhere. So, she must have known for quite a while. Still leaning on the doorjamb but not yet in my room, she then told me without any hint of awkwardness that she'd gotten me my own bottle of hand-lotion (right there in the cubby hole in the headboard!) "to use when you need to play with yourself" because, she said, I'd been using hers up too fast.  And that she'd get me another bottle whenever I was running out, I just had to let her know ahead of time. (She'd known about the lotion, too! Well...Duh! What, you thought she wouldn't?) 

 She was very matter-of-fact about it all and seemed so unflustered that I didn't quite know how to respond. (Look what you did to the bedspread!  Yuck!  What were you thinking?  Oh, and here's more lotion to masturbate with. Have fun!)

 "I'm sorry about the bedspread," I said, turning back towards her. (OK, I think I did get it. She doesn't mind at all that I'm masturbating but she is PISSED about what I did to that bedspread!) I was certainly more embarrassed about THAT than about her knowing I was masturbating.  "You can't be leaving those kind of stains for anyone to see," she said, sounding a bit put-out. 

She walked into my room and sat down on my bed, looked up at me with that I need to talk to you look. I sat down on the bed.

(Here it comes, the 'masturbation is normal' reassuring talk, just like the book said...) "I know it's not something you can really control when you're all excited,, but you need to be aware of where your penis is pointing and your semen is going to go when you ejaculate because it stains.  So, maybe that's something you can think about before your start playing." (Uhhhh.... OK. But you just gave me the towel, so...) "OK." "I don't know if you've been playing with yourself anywhere else in the house, but from now on, could you please just do it in your bedroom?" she said.  "Even when there is no one else home." (What did she...?  Oh, right: If I left a stain on the couch or the carpet or something, yeah, that would NOT be good.)  I hadn't gotten to the point yet where I'd even thought of doing it anywhere else. And why would I? I had a perfectly comfortable bed and a bedroom door I could close."OK." "Am I going to find stains like this anywhere else?" "No." "You're sure?" "Yeah, I'm sure."  "It's OK to play with yourself," she said, as she got up. "Just do it in here, in private."  And then she left.  My mind had gone blank the moment she'd started speaking to me, out of surprise or embarrassment, but then once we'd started talking,  it wasn't any big deal at all.  My only worry as she'd headed back down the stairs had been that I was sure she was actually pretty pissed-off that I'd ruined the bedspread.  So, later that night I sure did have that old towel underneath me as I lay naked on my bed very gently and slowly working myself between my legs, getting intensely excited and then cumming  unusually hard before my parents had even gone into their room for the evening, figuring the noise they were making walking up and down the stairs and in and out of the bathroom as they did every night in the hallway between our rooms would be  covering up my increasingly heavy breathing and the slight squishing sounds my slicked-up erection made as it slid up and down between my thighs and then splashed them with my semen as I spasmed and shuddered through my orgasm, secure in the belief that while they knew I masturbated they surely didn't know that I had just "done it" with them right outside my door!

And this was the other thing about my way of doing it back then, going between my legs, that I thought was worth mentioning was that all those years I did it, 13-17, and that night right then, I thought it, and I, were being quiet. Really quiet. I'd thought so more later, after I'd adopted stroking, first with the hand lotion and later with purpose made lube, because doing this way then I was quite aware of the squish-squish sound my lubed hand and erection made as I pumped myself, not to mention the squeaking my bed start to make when I'd get really into it and be pumping my hips, too. Yeah, far less stealthy than my earlier method, or so I thought. I was still quite sure of this years later as I was whacking myself regularly all through college, on the one hand very mindful of the unavoidable slurpy noises my lube-slick fist would be making as I worked on myself in anything but the slowest, gentlest manner, while at the same time very grateful that the spartan platform beds with which we were provided didn't squeak or shake or bump the wall no matter how vigorously I went at it. No, I had no reason to question my belief that my former go-to method while still at home as a teen had been much more stealthy. And compared to f--king my bed back then, or nailing my pillow in my college dorm room (only when there was NO ONE around!) forget about it. Yeah, I was sure I had been sooooo discrete around my parents and sister. As, of course, I should have been.

Alas, as you have probably already surmised, that was not at all the case. Sometime, years later, both then in our 20s, my sister and I were talking about our living arrangements and the topic of overhearing our roommates or the people in the next apartment having sex, came up.  She'd said she always tried to be so quiet. I said I didn't have to worry, I was only having sex with my hand, and that I'd had plenty of practice doing that quietly when we lived at home. Whether I was still a virgin (I was) or that I was just without a girlfriend at the time was something she didn't ask about. But she rather enjoyed, I think, letting me know that I had not, actually, been particularly quiet, and that it had been, sometimes, often in fact, quite obvious to her at least, whose bed shared a common wall with mine, when I was masturbating and particularly when I was having orgasms. She'd heard my bed start creaking, maybe just a little. Then sometimes, suddenly it would get really loud then stop. And sometimes she hear me moan or groan. She'd asked our mother about it early on, if that was what I was doing, and that our Mom had said yes, and that she should let me know if I was keeping her awake, which she said I hadn't been. I said I hoped it hadn't made her uncomfortable and she said it hadn't, she'd known all guys did it, and didn't want to say anything because she didn't want to spoil it for me. She said that when we were both a little older, sometimes, after she'd heard me do it, then she'd want to do it too. I'd said she must have been really quiet when she did it, because I'd never heard a thing. She said she didn't know. She'd just wait awhile until she thought I'd gone to sleep before she'd masturbate.  

Back to 13 year old me. I masturbated pretty happily, and mostly, innocently at that age. Oh, I had crushes on girls, but I wasn't dating any. I wasn't one of the "cool" kids and was a bit of a geek. Basically, I didn't even talk to any girls at school.  But at 13, I really kinda thought that doing myself was what I, and guys my age, were supposed to be doing, that dating was a high-school thing. And it's not like I thought it would ever be one or the other: girlfriend or masturbating. I could have orgasms with myself every day, and saw no reason not to. During my eight-grade school year, all sorts of little things happened. First, a neighbor girl up the street, the older sister (my age, actually) of a boy one year younger who was part of the neighborhood 'gang' I hung out with, gave me a couple of Playboy magazines her older (17 year old) brother was going to throw away, or so she'd said. Actually, of course, she was my friend, too, but we went to different schools and hung with different crowds and her being a girl and me being a boy we never really hung out other than with all the other kids playing baseball or air-hockey, riding mini-bikes or just goofing around. I never went over to her house to hang out with her, nor did she come to mine to hang out with me. I didn't have any romantic interest in her so she was to me just part of that neighborhood 'gang.' I just happened to be by her house that day and her younger brother hadn't been there so we'd played some air hockey and then she'd told me to come up to her room and when I got there she'd asked me if I'd like to have the two magazines "to beat-off to." I thought it was a rather nice offer, and said yes, I would. Then she told me to hurry up and put them under my shirt so no one could see them and get them out of there and home before her mother got back. Literally, that was how it happened. No awkwardness. No shame. Nothing. It was like "here's a comic book you might like." But I didn't read comic books. I did, however, "beat-off" most enthusiastically, though I'd never mentioned it to her or her younger brother. So I just thanked her and split with my new and first "porn stash." Actually, I was quite excited about the Playboys.  When I got home I slipped the magazines between my mattresses and didn't have a chance to look at them until I had the house to myself for a couple of hours after school a few day later. Funny that while I'd masturbate naked in my room with the door closed but not locked (you did not do that) without fear of being walked in on or overheard (young and dumb and ... here I cum!) I wouldn't have dreamed of looking at a Playboy when my parents or sister were home. Not that I needed that couple hours. I was naked and propped up against my headboard on several pillows, on my old towel, thighs snugged together, ankles crossed, tissues strategically positioned beneath me, all lotioned up down there. I pressed my already stiffened penis down between my clenched legs and flipped to the first photo spread of a very pretty brunette (I wish I'd taken note of the models' names then, or even years later when I had access to a friend's extensive softcore porn collection but I never thought to. I was just never that "into" the whole porn scene. But It would be nice, now, to sort of "relive" those simpler happy moments.) I just enjoyed looking at the pictures of the beautiful women while I was "doing it" and that was that. 

I'd seen a few naked Playboy pictures, at a friend's house, and even when looking once at the magazine I'd found in my parents' nightstand. But I'd never DONE anything while looking at those pictures: I'd never had the chance. My friends were there, and that time at home,  my parents were downstairs. This day I didn't do anything until I'd gotten to the second page of the spread and OMG! there she was naked as the day she was born, all of her. I felt my penis stiffen even more as  I took in her pretty face and the curves of her hips and her breasts and the place between her legs that Playboy never showed too explicitly and then, keeping hold of the mag with my left hand, placed my fingers on top of the shaft of my penis near the base to guide its movement and began to gently work it in my well-practiced rhythm between my thighs with my right as I started, transfixed by the naked body of this beautiful woman. This was usually a good five minute process for me. Maybe ten minutes or even longer when I'd gotten a little older and into the habit of taking breaks before "going for" my orgasm. But this time I was already excited, apparently more than I'd realized, when I first pressed it down into that warm slick crevice, my thighs parting just enough to allow it to slip down easily, the underside of my shaft and my frenulum (though I didn't know then what that was or how concentrating on its stimulation could so heighten my pleasure) both sliding deliciously against the soft lubed skin of my inner thighs, so very different from the feel of the the tougher, calloused inside of my lubed fist as I'd later learn. Then I closed my thighs on it as I felt my head hit the towel beneath me, and sliding my fingers back off of it just enough so that it's stiffness and "default" position at erection would cause it to withdraw back up and out from between them by itself, again sliding smooth and slick against my skin on its way up, I felt the soft wetness of skin against skin and lotion on my glans and the sides of my shaft. Just as it emerged, ready to spring up straight, my right hand slid forward just barely and I pushed it down again, thighs just slightly opening to receive it then gently pressing shut around it as it passed between them. Down and up, in and out, over and over, each from entry to escape taking only a couple seconds, I'd repeat it again and again and again, the stimulation getting greater and greater, my arousal increasing with each cycle. Press, release, press, release, press release. I could usually go a few minutes then, at 13, maybe five I like to think but often it was probably less. I never thought, really to drag it out, just got lost immediately in the way the feelings I was able to give myself kept getting better and better and better as my erection traversed its familiar track between my thighs, wishing it could go on and on wondering how much better I could male it feel before... then suddenly I knew I was about to have an orgasm and I'd be thrilled and sad that it was just about over at the same time, and I'd push it down between my thighs again and ...  oooohhhhh!  there's that feeling - the best feeling ever! - when I'd be almost there, just about to cum, before losing it and then spasming, gasping as I started shooting down along my legs while I frantically pressed myself down once again, to get those feelings I'd just had, or these new ones to keep going! If I'd already bottomed out, my dick about to give that poor bedspread another point-blank shot, I clenched my legs, trapping my erection between them and hunched on myself in a desperate attempt to work my way into that orgasm that I'd known I'd have no matter what and always did but before I go there I had to do all I could to keep moving my penis between my thighs, slower or faster, do I squeeze it tighter, I didn't know, I could never tell! to get as much of that feeling as I could before I actually started to orgasm, and when that ecstasy and anticipation of being on the edge suddenly just switched BAM! to the ecstasy of my orgasm and my release, inevitable and thrilling, if I was alone, oh yeah, I'd cry out some of those times it felt so wonderful. This time though after all my anticipation I realized I was already about to cum just as I'd started and with only a couple more plunges down between my thighs I was having my orgasm, no build up, no brief ride just on the edge of climax, just my orgasm hard and fast, grunting, a gasp, holding my penis there pointing down, shooting onto the towel in one long, hard spurt and I was alone and I did cry out briefly but then, wait, whaaaat...?  It had been about one minute maybe of working my erection into the cleft between my legs and and my orgasm just hit me before I knew it and then it was over. 

* For the record, and I hate to disappoint any of you, my story about me and my sister, Christmas Break, was the only fictional story I've posted here. Thought I'd try my hand at it. I hadn't realized then that there was a "fiction" box that I could have checked. My sister and I actually never so much as mentioned sex or masturbation in each other's presence when I was a teenager. And we were too far apart in age for me to have ever done anything with her back then.