Hariboner

I've never been much of a fan of candy, but there really isn't anything sexier than a gummy bear. When you first pop one into your mouth and your saliva mixes with its sugary skin, it gains a sticky moistness, like when the lube on a cock begins to dry out. You roll the little bear around in your mouth, a blueberry in a bowl, a french kiss. Its stumpy little arms and legs dissolving, you can't help but explore them with the tip of your tongue, like little nipples. I like to bite the head off with my front teeth and before the whole bear starts to disappear chew on everything with my back molars. Then, its fruity gristle, its too sweet, it slides down the back of your throat like the drop of precum oozing off a stiff dick that you never notice.

Candied perfection. Especially when jacking off quietly in a dark theater, and the stiff denim of your jeans pull on your aching nuts. Especially when the movie also happens to be about the dangers of youth. That's a gummy bear. The dirty, spoiled rotten and sticky sweet flavor of childhood.

The Mouse & the Maven

There were very few classes in high school that I actually enjoyed, especially that first awkward year. I always loved my English classes, and developed a strangely protective connection with all of my English teachers. They were often the subject of derision by my peers, and I would go out of my way to let them know that I appreciated them and understood their efforts.

The best though? It had to be last period: Art 1. This was the kind of class where every day was a free-for-all. But in the organized way that I preferred, unlike the terrifying daily ordeal known as lunch. The "teacher" was a burnt out pothead named Ms. Su who nodded serenely whenever presented with any student's work. We had vague ideas that certain assignments were due by a certain time, but the truth was that you could slap anything together the day that it was due and it would be accepted.

My freshman year I was placed at a table with a fellow freshman, Mike Macias, and a junior girl. Her name was Jenny Hasa and I found her fascinating. She always wore long black skirts and Led Zeppelin tees. She never smiled, and would often ditch class to makeout with her senior boyfriend, an artistic guy with long hair and reportedly, a long penis. I was enthralled by her drawings of skulls and slit wrists. I wanted her. I wanted to be her. I loved her. I was jealous of her. I wanted her acceptance.

What made this situation mortifying was that little Mike Macias (who was fond of the nickname, Mouse Mike) was the worst kind of irrepressible horndog. He would pester me the entirety of the hour and a half with demands to talk about which chicks I wanted to bone and requests to draw girls with big tits and open vaginas (somehow I was discovered to be the best at this in the class, and a paradoxical theory was developed by Mike that it was because "fags know women's bodies"). Mouse Mike loved teasing me about being gay too, even though I wasn't even close to coming out yet, and would sneak up behind me try to give me wedgies.

I was desperate to make Jenny Hasa impressed by me but the most I ever got was a quiet laugh. More often than not she never even looked at us once, and on the rare days that she did it was usually a look of scorn. I gave up after awhile.

One day Mike dared me to draw a picture of two guys fucking. He convinced me that if I didn't do it, that would be enough to prove my gayness. So I did it. I drew a blond guy bent over in profile, his mouth open with pleasure, a stream of spit pouring from his protruding tongue. His hand was penciled on one of his ass cheeks, to ease the entrance of the huge veiny cock penetrating him. I drew it as I had imagined it a million times. The guy fucking my blond bottom boy had dark stubble and big hairy arms and pecs and had one hand resting on his fuck's back. The other hand pushed through the receiver boy's charcoal strands of hair, pulled just a tiny bit. I drew every detail I could imagine.

I lost track of time. I was both top and bottom. I became lost in the sexual fantasy of the paper, each erasing and re-erasing an attempt at further verisimilitude. I drew closed eyes, taut stomachs, tensed asses, spread fingers and toes, hanging hairy balls, the drip of precum from an erect cock. It did not occur to me to draw a condom.

I should not have been surprised when Mouse Mike snatched the paper from the shadow of my tensed shoulders. I should not have tried so hard not to cry when he started showing all the kids in the class what I had done. People turned and looked at me in disgust or outright laughter. When he showed Jenny Hasa I flushed with shame and buried my head in my arms and wished for the swift release of death. Finally, unable to resist even this, he ran over to the stoned Ms. Su and brought down on me 2 saturday detentions, which had to be awkwardly explained to my parents.

But in the short moment between showing Jenny Hasa and running over to our teacher, the quiet girl who was too cool to ever look me in the face put her hand on my shoulder and said loudly, "Dude. You drew that? Fucking hot."

It was, hands down, the coolest moment of 9th grade.

Slipping a Mickey

On the last day of 8th grade I took my best friend Aaron aside and told him: "We can't be friends anymore." He looked at me for a shocked second and started to laugh. I smiled at him and walked away, turning back on the crabbed lawn to bark out a mean chuckle.

When his father called my house a week later and asked to talk to my mother I pretended I wasn't thrilled. I tried not to smile when I told my mom that everything was fine and that I definitely did not want to talk to Aaron. This was my first breakup, this was how I learned how to protect myself.

His father used to go for green swims at night and would return while the two of us giggled over veiny episodes of Ren & Stimpy. He would take off his black speedos in front of us and I would sit up a little and ignore the panicked look in my best friend's eyes when he noticed me looking at his father's hairy ass and crotch.

Aaron Senior would shower with the door open and I would ogle him soaping his toned body, yearning to look closer, to gently push on the door, to touch him. When Aaron would sleep I would take his father's damp speedos into the bathroom and smell them while I jerked wildly. His father used to wink at me; I found his father irresistible.

So sometimes when Aaron and I would lay on the floor together, in our makeshift mystery piles of blankets we would touch each other. I would slide my hand under the elastic band of his cheap white underwear, under the brown blanket, under the crisp vinyl of the sleeping bag. He had pubic hair different from mine, straight and wispy and soft. I would grab his growing penis in my hand and squeeze it while he journeyed between the dark and faintly curly mass of my youth.

We would just hold each other, and talk about girls. Or masturbating. I was proud of the fact that I had started cumming, he was jealous. I thought of his father while my dick hardened. Maybe he thought about the calendar of Cindy Crawford he had recently received as a gift. I found her softly curving tits a betrayal. We never did anything else.

When my brother and Aaron went to DisneyWorld the year after I stopped talking to him, they returned with a cartoonish zoo of souvenirs. I would often laugh when I looked at them, the same hard laugh I used every time I saw Aaron in high school years later. I thought of how we had always talked about going to DisneyWorld and ditching his father. We would run into the manicured avenues, our voices breaking in the highs and lows of our secret language. We would disappear in the lurid safety of a false world. We would disappear with our hands down each others' pants.

Secret Exhibition

I can cum quietly, like a finger brushing an eyelash off a face.

I must have learned how to when my family had been poor and jammed into a 2 bedroom apartment. There were many times I beat off in the bathroom, running my fingers over my smooth adolescent chest, or the soft curve of my ass cheeks. But more often than not it was in my bed, just a few feet from my hopefully sleeping brother and stepsisters. And when I would cum I would shudder imperceptibly, roll to my side and fall asleep.

I began to feel the need to push this boundary, and often found myself getting turned on by the possibility of cumming on someone without their knowledge, or to be spurting in my shorts while someone spoke to me unawares.

The challenge: to cum in the middle of class. To cum while its quiet, when even the slightest moan would be heard.

It was 8th grade in Mrs. Cooper's class, 4th period. Right before lunch. She would give us "quiet time" when she was nursing her southern hangover, and during this time we could do whatever we wanted as long as it was quiet. Some of the jocks would sleep, girls would doodle or write notes, and nerds like myself often read.

I did not plan this, but it occurred to me to write a dirty story. I remember little of what turned me on at 13, but I have the vague recollection that it had something to do with a supposed girlfriend of mine exposing her breasts to me and having sex with someone else while I watched.

As the pencil's scratchings became louder and more frenzied I felt the heat of my hardon pressing on my white briefs, the tension increasing with each t-crossing, each dotting of an i.

I was wearing a blue hoodie at the time. One of those articles of clothing that I chose as part of my eternal wardrobe, as if I was a character on the Simpsons. I stuck my hand in the front pocket so that I could shift my dick into a more comfortable position, and did so quietly and without an obvious movement. As I did I felt the wetness of my precum and somehow my awareness of this fact gave me the unavoidable premonition that I was going to cum.

I began to squeeze the tip of my cock with the fingers of my left hand while I wrote with my right hand. It didn't take long. My writing got sloppier, unable to hold itself on the lines of the college ruled paper, but I never stopped. In my mind's eye, I see the pencil grinding a thick charcoal line on the white paper that I am unable to quit, it just goes on.

I feel the cum shooting out of my cock into the pocket of the hoodie. I wipe my fingers inside and sit up a little. I make a tiny cough. I become paranoid that someone is smelling my semen. I look down at the paper and it somehow seems to prove my guilt and I quickly crumble it up and throw it in my bag. The bell rings and I sit up looking for a challenging eye. No one is looking at me.

I go to lunch, my erection subsiding. The cum dries in my kangaroo pocket.

Looking back, I wonder if the whole class knew what I was doing and couldn't say a thing. As if I was performing for all 30 plus kids. As if it was turning them on too. In that amorphous age where even a toothbrush can arouse you, maybe we all needed that release in English.

Mrs. Cooper yelled at me the next day for yawning. She said, "If class is that boring for you, why don't you take it outside in the hall." So I went into the bathroom and jacked off into the urinal. The only sound, the oil and vinegar drip of my semen into the pale urinal water.

Helping Hand

It started when I went to the public pool with my aunt and cousins, I must have been 8 or 9. I saw some men showering and was completely in awe of their penises. One man in general, who spoke loudly (as I am sure is often the case with those well hung and exposed) had the thickest and longest cock. The soapy water was collecting in his pubes and dripping off his low-hanging balls. I became instantly hard and went into one of the stalls.

Pulling down my wet swimming trunks I stared down at my small erection. I felt overwhelmed at the sight of someone's father's dick and disappointed in my own. I felt nauseous and dizzy and I needed something to hold onto. I put my hand on the underside of my young cock and grabbed my balls, rubbing the ball of my hand into me. It felt good. It at least made me feel less like I was in a whirlwind. It gave me somewhere to focus. Still wishing I could look at the men's cocks, but much too afraid, I continued rubbing myself on the toilet. And afterward.

Underwater through my vinyl trunks. Lying in bed at night, sometimes through my underwear, sometimes bare. Against a pillow, a blanket, a sheet. I would look at something and wait for a chance to rub it against my cock, to see how it would feel. The jets of a jacuzzi. Stuffed animals, shirts, balloons. I often did it in front of people without their realizing, with my hand in my pocket. I shared my room with my brother and, every other weekend, with my stepsisters. There were many nights that I rubbed myself in the bunkbed right next to them. I never felt like it was wrong, but I felt like it was private.

Perhaps because I could not cum yet it became something I did purely for the pleasure of it. There was never any release, so sometimes it would drive me a little crazy. Like a huge buildup of emotion with nowhere to go with it. But childhood is one long buildup of emotion anyway. When I was anxious about getting older, when I was anxious about death, when I was anxious about feeling attracted to boys, when I was anxious about my stepfather hitting me... it was always there, this little pleasure, and it made everything just a little easier.

butt pirate