Jack Off Journals

[zipoid67 (imported)]

Discovery

New hair had sprouted along with the other pubertal changes, but nothing truly earthshaking happened until the day I went with Dad to have a flat tire fixed.

The tire machine was in the back room and there was a pin-up calendar on the wall that showed a naked gal kneeling on a bed with her legs spread wide. Hands concealed what I really wanted to see but my dick got stiff anyway. That sometimes happened but I didn’t know why. “You like her?” The tire guy asked, eying the tent in my pants. I got all flustered and went outside while Dad and the tire guy chuckled. That evening I thought again of the pin up gal and the parts I could and couldn’t see and got hard, and for some reason I started messing with my balls, tapping and squeezing, and suddenly erupted. I didn’t know much back then but it was obvious where the white stuff had originated and what it was and a few days later I figured out that stroking my cock was a lot faster way to summon it than abusing my nuts.

I was ashamed of my solitary perversion until another eighth grader broke the taboo by pointing at an unpopular teacher and pumping his fist in front of his pants. About half the guys broke out in embarrassed tittering laughter and I suddenly realized that I wasn’t the only addict.

Consequences of Sharing the Secret

The summer I turned fourteen we moved into a house next to a dairy farm. The farmer had three sons: the older two boys were eighteen and nineteen and standoffish towards me and gave their eleven year old brother a lot of crap, but I liked the little guy. He showed me all around the farm, including the pond in the creek where they swam. It was hot that day and he stripped down just like he did with his brothers and waded in, and after some cajoling I joined him. He was still a prepubescent kid but I was a fully feathered Man and he had some Man questions he wasn’t comfortable asking his dad or brothers. I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much, but just talking about that stuff gave me a boner, which prompted another question. He’d heard his brothers talking about beating off and he knew it had something to do with sex but didn’t know what and they wouldn’t tell him, so I gave him a demonstration by tossing one off into the grass.

He must have professed some of his new education to his brothers, because the next time we went to the pond they followed us. They had the elastrator tool used to castrate calves with them and they held me down while their little brother, threatened with a beating, put the band around my nuts. I couldn’t get it off with my fingers and by the time I got home and found the nail clippers my nuts had turned dark red and were growing cold and I hurt like a bitch and was sure that I’d been castrated.

Later that year other freshmen would joke about turning each other into steers and I’d laugh along with them, not willing to fess up to the near miss that had scared the crap out of me.

A Lowdown Sneaky Trick

The summer I turned fifteen I went to a music camp at the university and stayed in a men’s’ dorm and was assigned a jerk for a roomie. He slept commando and paraded naked down the hall with his towel draped over his shoulder, and he bragged constantly about what a stud he was. He came in late one night, just before bed check, claiming that he’d sneaked into the women’s dorm and gotten it on with two chicks. I was still “sleeping” when he left for the showers the next morning, and as soon as he was gone I got up and cranked one out in his bed. I “woke up” right after he got back and I mentioned that the room smelled funny and made a big deal of checking my shirt and shorts and sheets before throwing back his covers to reveal the wet stain. The implication was obvious: either he’d shot off in his sleep, which wouldn’t have happened if he’d just got laid, or he’d jacked off in a shared room. He got red and didn’t even try to defend himself.

I didn’t have any real talent for music and the camp was a waste of my parents’ money, but the look on the jerk’s face when he saw my mess in his sheets was priceless.

Bond, James Bond

Just before I turned sixteen I had a one day fantasy about James Bond. I had just seen Goldfinger and had decided to read Ian Fleming’s entire Bond series, starting at the beginning with Casino Royale. The torture part, where Bond had his dangling nuts pummeled by a carpet beater and was about to be castrated, got me hot and I remembered that a previous renter had abandoned some chairs like that in the basement, one of which already had the caning broken out. I stripped down and sat in the rickety thing and started playing with myself, re-reading the paragraphs over and over, imagining someone working my balls over.

Mom had her sewing machine set up in the corner and her wooden yardstick caught my eye. I clamped it to the bottom of another chair and put it behind the one I sat in so the end of the yardstick stuck out between my thighs. I experimented with pushing the end of the stick down and letting it snap back up, but I my balls were up tight against my boner and nothing much happened until I popped my cork. Suddenly light headed, I dropped the book. The hardbound copy of Casino Royale hit the protruding end of the yardstick and took it almost to the floor before slipping off. The vicious snap into my now dangling balls put me curled up on the floor clutching my belly for the next ten minutes. I still get a little queasy just looking at a yardstick.

My Dirty Little Secret

The shop where I worked had a project one summer involving the repair and rehab of lockers in a junior high, now called a middle school. The lockers were supposed to have been cleaned out by the vacating students but quite a few still had stuff in them. It was the typical crap that kids’ lockers collect: school books, discarded clothing, and forgotten lunches. We turned in the books and took home whatever we wanted and shit canned the rest.

One locker held a kid’s P.E. clothes, which I intended to use as shop rags, and an empty three pack of Trojans. The kid must have been huge for an eighth grader because the clothes fit me fine, all except for the jock strap, the pouch of which was stretched out enough to be useless on a normal person.

I was in my mid-twenties at the time and in a relationship and no longer had a compelling need to jack off, but just putting on the blown out jock strap got me worked up and I spent many hours lounging around in the thirteen year old kid’s P.E. clothes, playing with myself and contemplating what the kid might look like naked and wondering how and where and with whom he’d used the condoms.

That was over forty years ago so the kid now probably has grandkids, and I wonder what they look like, too.