There’s no way to skip through this period without a swift but tasteful tribute to the delicious joy of discovering I owned a functioning reproductive system. A time when the impulse to take an evening bath peaked, and has never again been so urgent. Plenty of hot water to try and fool parents into thinking that you are seriously into cleanliness. The radio blaring away. The commitment to pleasure was soon total.
I can still remember the first time. Probably aged 13. Nobody had told me how this worked. So a number of gradual experiments were necessary, to be sure that these new feelings – to which I could give no name – were to be seen through to the end. I didn’t know what would happen, but it felt like the odds were in favour of a fine outcome. It felt brave to finish it off, and find out.
After that, no stopping me. I moved operations to the bedroom. Surprising in retrospect that I didn’t have to take days off school with RSI. My eyesight did worsen around this time. My parents tactfully decided that I needed a bedroom of my own shortly afterwards. Sooner or later, notes were compared with other lads. Some were more open than others. Howard Studd reported the need to bash his bishop as many as four times some nights, which was far beyond any appetite I possessed.
The discussions soon faded as most school companions seemed to incorporate masturbation into their own nightly routine. Not distorted by online porn, for which I am grateful. As normal as brushing your teeth, with little further need of comment. All girding our loins for the next step down the road. Girls.
The Biscuit Factory 