When I was growing up, I knew this guy named Jerry. He had shoulder-length, curly brown hair; a wide eager grin; incredibly broad shoulders; and a gigantic dick. Jerry was utterly clueless about how handsome and well-endowed he was. He thought he was too skinny, and that girls didn't like him. My sense was that girls were afraid to approach him, because he was so good looking and blatantly sexy. Jerry also seemed immature; certainly, he never flirted or tried to appear sexy or sensual or romantic or anything. He never gave off the slightest hint that he was interested in sex. He was happy-go-lucky Jerry, simple and slightly dumb and over-eager and somewhat goofy.
But I'd watch him walk through the lockerroom after gym class, his towel dangling ignorantly by his thigh, his six-inch monster dick flopping side by side, the head half-concealed by his foreskin, his dense pubic bush concealing his balls, his muscular thighs acting as backstops for the baseball bat between his legs.
In small groups, Jerry could immaturely talk about sex. He'd giggle quietly at the word "penis" or "breast" or "testes", and he'd blush if someone used explicit language. If he felt comfortable and let his guard down, he might mention how he jacked off as often as he could, or how he was uncontrollably horny. Once, during lunch in the cafeteria, he deep-throated his banana repeatedly. When he realized that he'd done something "gay", he turned deep red and didn't talk for the rest of the afternoon.
I slept over at a friend's house once with Jerry in attendance. The friend was a guy whose family was well off, whose family had a wet bar and whose parents were known for "swinging" at times. (Think of Kevin Costner in The Ice Storm
.) His father unabashedly subscribed to Playboy
and discussed the articles in them. He also subscribed to Penthouse
, but kept these in a locked cupboard in the den. My friend knew where the key was kept, and it was common at his sleepover parties for 10 or 15 copies of the raunchier magazines to come out and for all the boys to masturbate, sometimes in groups, while looking at them.
Although Jerry got a raging erection, he never took off his briefs.
Everyone crashed at about 2 AM or so. About an hour later, I woke to go to the bathroom. I stood up -- and there, sitting on the leather couch, was Jerry. Naked. His legs up, and splayed wide. His left hand pinching his nipple, his right hand furiously pounding away at his nine-inch cock, Penthouse
propped against one hairy knee and the wall. He moaned very sotto-voce
, "Oh yeah... oh yeah..."
His upper body was drenched in semen. It was very obvious that Jerry had climaxed several times already. As I stood there, I his cock spurted again. Eight or nine gigantic streams of jism, splattering on his taut, sculpted pectorals and his rigid, clenched abs. His body trembled, but he made no noise.
His fist never slowed. He continued to furiously stroke his huge cock, moaning those words like a mantra over and over again. He turned the page, and continued to fantasize about fucking the centerfold. I stood there for many minutes, until I realized he might turn around and see me. I laid down on the floor again, not daring to get into my sleeping bag lest Jerry hear me. He continued to abuse his genitals for more than an hour. I could hear his low moans, and about every 10 minutes the silence as he'd ejaculate powerfully all over himself. At last, about 4:30 AM, he stopped. I hear the magazine fold, I heard the leather of the couch creak. I saw Jerry get up, and walk to the bathroom. His firm, muscular body was like watching a panther move. I heard the water in the sink, and I guess he washed his torso clean. He padded back into the main room, pulled his briefs on, and climbed into his sleeping bag.
I've never forgotten this memory. It is as clear to me today as if it had happened last night.