provided so temptingly by nature.
It was only now as I imagined the pleasure that it gave both parties that the “why” part of my question—why boys became homosexual—was answered. It was to indulge in this nasty little delight, something which decent people tried to suppress from their minds. No wonder the book in the library couldn’t go into details about the “child-like” activities of homosexuals.
I was disgusted, but simultaneously felt a sort of relief…because the things I’d done last summer with Bobby, which had tormented me so much, were nothing—less than nothing!—compared to what real faggots did with each other.
I got up from my bed now and listened at my bedroom door. The whole house was quiet. Stealthily, I slid the lock into place and crept back to my bed. Earlier in the day, I’d secreted my mother’s small hand-held mirror in my bureau drawer. I got it out now. I noticed my hands trembling slightly as I held it.
Feeling like a criminal (and stimulated by the excitement of doing something absolutely forbidden) I slipped out of my pajama bottoms and lay back on my bed. By bending my head and angling the mirror, I could see my own anus for the first time in my life. I spread apart my butt cheeks and exposed to plain view the creasy pink pucker of every boy’s most secret spot. No wonder I’d never paid any attention to it before: it was in such an out-of-the-way place that it was invisible except as a reflection in a mirror. I ran a finger gently over it and winced at the unexpected surge of pleasure which swept through me.
That delicate tickle revealed its extraordinary sensitivity. Again I brushed it softly. A tiny, clear pearl quivered on the tip of my sudden erection. Because I was doing something so forbidden, I felt an exciting mixture of fascination, disgust, and guilt.
I dropped the mirror to the floor and closed my eyes the better to concentrate upon my sensations. Delicately I tested with my finger to see if I could probe inside. The feel of my finger pushing against the barrier was delicious beyond words. That finger was like a saucy tongue kissing, teasing, and tickling me to madness.
I realized that I’d stumbled upon another mysterious little world which had lain hidden until now. Just as when I’d first discovered masturbation, I felt like an explorer. I wondered how it would feel if my finger were to penetrate it…I wanted it…. Perhaps a lubricant of some kind would ease entry.
I thought of the jar of cold cream I’d borrowed from my mother for my chapped skin. It was sitting on top of the dresser, just within reach from where I was. I unscrewed the cap and dipped a finger into it…and winced at the cool kiss as I dabbed it gently onto my hole. It made a crackling sound as I applied it more liberally, spreading it around and around. Gingerly, delicately, I probed with a finger, my closed eyes giving a detached objectivity to my actions.
My heart leaped when I felt the first tight bite which signaled that the tip of my pinky had finally edged inside. But for a while, pain forbid any further exploration.
I brought my finger up to my nose and caught a bouquet, not the one I expected, but a new, sharp, musky tang which made my stomach trembly and weak with its promise of forbidden pleasures.
Night by night, I found I could manage to get further and further inside with each new try. Instinctively I learned how to relax, to get into the lazy, sensual frame of mind I assumed whenever I sat on the toilet. At first I was worried because the feeling was so much like the other thing—with its heavy, delicious feel in the pit of the stomach. And sometimes I had to wipe away dirty streaks from my finger. But soon I became inured to the sensation, knowing that what I feared wouldn’t happen, and just concentrated on enjoying the deceptive—but absolutely safe—sensation of imminent disaster.
As soon as I learned how to slide in quite easily, I used two fingers, then
It was only now as I imagined the pleasure that it gave both parties that the “why” part of my question—why boys became homosexual—was answered. It was to indulge in this nasty little delight, something which decent people tried to suppress from their minds. No wonder the book in the library couldn’t go into details about the “child-like” activities of homosexuals.
I was disgusted, but simultaneously felt a sort of relief…because the things I’d done last summer with Bobby, which had tormented me so much, were nothing—less than nothing!—compared to what real faggots did with each other.
I got up from my bed now and listened at my bedroom door. The whole house was quiet. Stealthily, I slid the lock into place and crept back to my bed. Earlier in the day, I’d secreted my mother’s small hand-held mirror in my bureau drawer. I got it out now. I noticed my hands trembling slightly as I held it.
Feeling like a criminal (and stimulated by the excitement of doing something absolutely forbidden) I slipped out of my pajama bottoms and lay back on my bed. By bending my head and angling the mirror, I could see my own anus for the first time in my life. I spread apart my butt cheeks and exposed to plain view the creasy pink pucker of every boy’s most secret spot. No wonder I’d never paid any attention to it before: it was in such an out-of-the-way place that it was invisible except as a reflection in a mirror. I ran a finger gently over it and winced at the unexpected surge of pleasure which swept through me.
That delicate tickle revealed its extraordinary sensitivity. Again I brushed it softly. A tiny, clear pearl quivered on the tip of my sudden erection. Because I was doing something so forbidden, I felt an exciting mixture of fascination, disgust, and guilt.
I dropped the mirror to the floor and closed my eyes the better to concentrate upon my sensations. Delicately I tested with my finger to see if I could probe inside. The feel of my finger pushing against the barrier was delicious beyond words. That finger was like a saucy tongue kissing, teasing, and tickling me to madness.
I realized that I’d stumbled upon another mysterious little world which had lain hidden until now. Just as when I’d first discovered masturbation, I felt like an explorer. I wondered how it would feel if my finger were to penetrate it…I wanted it…. Perhaps a lubricant of some kind would ease entry.
I thought of the jar of cold cream I’d borrowed from my mother for my chapped skin. It was sitting on top of the dresser, just within reach from where I was. I unscrewed the cap and dipped a finger into it…and winced at the cool kiss as I dabbed it gently onto my hole. It made a crackling sound as I applied it more liberally, spreading it around and around. Gingerly, delicately, I probed with a finger, my closed eyes giving a detached objectivity to my actions.
My heart leaped when I felt the first tight bite which signaled that the tip of my pinky had finally edged inside. But for a while, pain forbid any further exploration.
I brought my finger up to my nose and caught a bouquet, not the one I expected, but a new, sharp, musky tang which made my stomach trembly and weak with its promise of forbidden pleasures.
Night by night, I found I could manage to get further and further inside with each new try. Instinctively I learned how to relax, to get into the lazy, sensual frame of mind I assumed whenever I sat on the toilet. At first I was worried because the feeling was so much like the other thing—with its heavy, delicious feel in the pit of the stomach. And sometimes I had to wipe away dirty streaks from my finger. But soon I became inured to the sensation, knowing that what I feared wouldn’t happen, and just concentrated on enjoying the deceptive—but absolutely safe—sensation of imminent disaster.
As soon as I learned how to slide in quite easily, I used two fingers, then
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