I started masturbating when I was ten. I didn't get anything out of it, insofar as that divine nectar of the gods goes. Mostly, I just ended up with an irritated penis. I had devised a method that involved carving a hole in the center of a bar of soap, then sliding my dick through it over and over. I had a much smaller penis then. After a few weeks of this, my mother asked me why I was putting holes in the soap. I didn't touch myself again for two years.
After my rape of the Ivory (was it the soap's boastful claims to purity that I felt the instinctive need to sully?) and my recommencement of onanistic activity, I started feeling the need to enhance my "alone time" with a bit of theatrics. (It's a terrible curse to have been born on the cusp of that first generation lacking any shred of an attention span.) Things started out simply enough: a Victoria's Secret catalog that I "borrowed" from the home of a neighbor, various sex manuals with helpful line drawings that my parents had closeted away from my curious adolescent eyes, the rare High Society magazine that I acquired by trading my Wade Boggs rookie card. I would close my eyes as my fist blazed a trail up and down the shaft of my penis, imagining that those mute, two-dimensional beauties were right in front of me, begging for me to give them my hot load. And give it to them I did: I must have spilled my seed across the pages of thousands of centerfolds and lingerie models, sealing them shut forever, then burying them in the woods next to our house so that I could avoid my mother's cross-examination: Kevin, what are all these magazines doing under your mattress, and why do none of them open? The humiliation of the soap-hole inquisition had stung me well. I was resolved to avoid my mother's Gestapo-like pryings into my penile affairs.
Of course, the innocence of printed images became boring. It wasn't long before I discovered my father's stash of silent eight-millimeter porn films. (To develop a true appreciation for the internet, I think that every teenage male should have to try and load a reel of film with an insistent hard-on and fingers slick from Vaseline.) Moving from still photos to actual footage of people fucking was a personal victory that I equate with launching a dog into space: it was a small step in the right direction, but hardly the giant leap my manhood was hankering for. I wanted sound with my porn, heavy breathing and the Oh Gods I had read so much about in the plastered pages of Penthouse Forum. Also, I wanted to dispense with the heavy machinery of eight-millimeter erotica: nothing arouses as much curiosity in a mother's ever-attuned ears as the sound of film projection equipment whirring away in her son's room at two in the morning.
I was eventually liberated by a VHS copy of Inside Seka that my parents had borrowed from the next-door neighbors. Watching it was pure rapture: Seka was a blonde goddess, and because I had dealt with silent porn for so long, her orgasmic voice was a delight beyond compare. In one scene which was mildly moving, she phoned her husband and let him listen as she became entwined in a threesome. I watched that scene again and again.
At night, when I couldn't risk the light from the television flickering in the dark house, I adjusted the controls so that the screen went black, then lowered the volume and pressed my ear to the speaker as I roughed up my rod. Eventually, the tape mysteriously vanished, most likely back to the neighbors' house. And I can only guess that it was my repeated picture-free viewing of that scene that led me to phone sex in later years.
At first, I called the pay services. But when my phone bill reached an excruciating $3,000 one month, I knew I had to seek other answers. I turned to America Online, the best place in the world to find hot and willing girls who also have a fetish for auditory pleasures. A lot of the women I talked to just liked to listen while I stroked myself, but there was one girl I spoke with on a regular basis who had a mouth and mind like no other. She said she wanted me to fuck her in the ass, then come on her face. (I wish to hell I knew what in a man's childhood turns him on to facial shots. I don't remember Freud covering that one.)
After one particularly memorable phone encounter, during which she implored me to take on the role of her father and punish her for doing bad things with her poodle (I never clarified if this was a euphemism or an actual dog), she said, "You know, I have a video of me playing with my pussy. Would you like to see it sometime?" I was overcome with such a sudden state of delirium that I felt the room begin to sway and pitch, and I panted an eager, "YES!" She said, "Okay. . . but you have to make me a tape of yourself and send it first."
I wasn't too keen on this. First, I didn't have quick access to a video camera. I also didn't know if I could pull it off. It's bad enough when someone can see how foolish and maniacal you look during sex. I imagine that most people look like village idiots while working themselves. With some hesitation, I told her I would see what I could do, which was a complete fabrication. I had no intention of going through with it. Ever. Maybe at some point, if I met this particular girl, I would film myself with her, but that was the extent to which I was willing to document my flushed and naked body.
However, I've never really been a man of conviction. This is why, shortly after her request, I decided to borrow my parents' camcorder while visiting their house.
I set it up on the tripod, figured out where to aim it and stripped down to nothing. As I prepared the little hog for the camera, I found myself without lubrication. Some men will swear by the comfort of their own pre-ejaculate and sweaty palm, but having rubbed myself to the point of drawing blood on more than one occasion, I had learned a little something about my own limits regarding friction. (Besides, I have sensitive skin, and I regard my use of vitamin E-enriched lubricants as a way of not only protecting myself from the weathering agents of masturbation, but also as my way of keeping it smooth for the ladies.)
Unfortunately, on this trip home, I didn't bring my own lotion. The only tube I knew of was in my parents' room. I had tried too many times in my youth to steal into the folks' bedchamber after they were asleep to plunder their supply of K-Y jelly, only to be thwarted by my mother's uncanny ability to sense when anyone was in her room. After some contemplation, I visited the kitchen and spooned out a half-cup of butter-flavored Crisco. I wondered for a moment if using such a cooking substance might alter the taste of my penis in some way, but I imagined it could only be for the better. I went back downstairs, greased myself with the vegetable shortening, and went to town.
I was putting on a stellar performance, with some obligatory moaning (my off-camera moments of personal pleasure take place in relative silence; I really see no need to voice my satisfaction to myself). I was rubbing my balls with one hand, trying to take advantage of the full range of my skills. I contemplated fingering my asshole, but I thought that might be a bit much on my first tape. You have to save something for an encore. (My father taught me this, although I suppose my execution of his wisdom was pretty far from what he had in mind.) I made eye contact with the camera, trying my best to look sexy, but the light that indicated the camera was recording had gone out.
I stopped to check the machine, decided the tape was screwed up, and began to look for another one. Because I was doing all of this on the fly, I hadn't had time to buy a tape beforehand. The folks were all out of blanks, so I grabbed one off the top of the television. If there was something important on it, they would just have to deal with it. I found another tape marked Perry Mason T.V. Movie and quickly decided my dad wouldn't miss Raymond Burr's later work.
The new tape worked fine. I got back in front of the camera and went to it. What the camera couldn't see was that I had dialed in the Spice Channel. Some up-and-coming porn starlet was giving her all to Peter North. It was getting me in a very serious mindset about my task at hand, and I could feel my impending orgasm building.
I scooted a little closer to the camera to let it go with my patented cry: "I'm fucking coming!" I cleaned myself off, stopped the tape and put it in for review. It was brilliant. I couldn't wait to send it out. I packed the camera back up and put the tape in my bag for my return trip to New York the next day.
Actually, it wasn't so brilliant. I mean, it was good, and I looked good. A lot better than I thought I would. But I was facing the camera. If you're a guy, and you want your penis to look even remotely large on film, never face the camera: it doesn't capture the length. I shot a good load, and that looked hot— don't get me wrong. It's just that I was left feeling like I really hadn't captured the real me. Under the circumstances, though, it was good enough.
Still, after a few days, something was eating at me about the tape. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I watched it a few more times, critiqued it a little more, and realized I bite my lower lip when I masturbate. Some women might actually find this attractive, but I thought I looked silly. I had always felt a little insecure about the fact that I masturbate on my knees. When I share this with people, I get nothing but grief. But that's just how I feel most comfortable doing it. On tape, it was rather charming.
I just couldn't figure out what kept popping up in my head like an ambiguous Mentos theme.
Then my mom called.
I had forgotten about the first tape that I had put into the video camera. I left it on top of the television and had never even glanced at what I had been recording over: How to Use Your New IBM Computer. Actually, had I taken a second to look at it, I wouldn't have thought twice about using it. My parents had owned their computer for more than a year.
My grandfather, however, was a completely different story.
My mom and dad had gone to visit my grandparents to help them set up their new IBM computer. They took the tape. As I understand it, it didn't help my grandparents use their computer at all. In fact, it left them rather puzzled.
When my mom told me this over the phone, thus sparing me the embarrassment of facing her while the evidence of my perversions was presented, she explained that my father had nearly shit out his kidneys while trying to shut off the tape before my grandparents both succumbed to strokes.
"So, what do you have to say for yourself?" she demanded.
What could I say? I had spent fifteen years of my life trying to conceal an activity that had suddenly been exposed in the most literal sense. I cleared my throat and said, "I think I had the wrong camera angle. Did my wang look small?"
My mother paused, and then with nothing but supportive matriarchal affection, replied:
"Why, no honey, not at all."n°
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Kevin Keck has worked as a minor league baseball announcer, pastry chef and forest ranger. In 1997 he boxed semi-professionally, losing all but one of his nineteen bouts within two rounds via knockout; the exception lasted three rounds. His writing appears frequently on hooksexup.com.
"alone time" with a bit of theatrics. (It's a terrible curse to have been born on the cusp of that first generation lacking any shred of an attention span.) Things started out simply enough: a Victoria's Secret catalog that I "borrowed" from the home of a neighbor, various sex manuals with helpful line drawings that my parents had closeted away from my curious adolescent eyes, the rare High Society magazine that I acquired by trading my Wade Boggs rookie card. I would close my eyes as my fist blazed a trail up and down the shaft of my penis, imagining that those mute, two-dimensional beauties were right in front of me, begging for me to give them my hot load. And give it to them I did: I must have spilled my seed across the pages of thousands of centerfolds and lingerie models, sealing them shut forever, then burying them in the woods next to our house so that I could avoid my mother's cross-examination: Kevin, what are all these magazines doing under your mattress, and why do none of them open? The humiliation of the soap-hole inquisition had stung me well. I was resolved to avoid my mother's Gestapo-like pryings into my penile affairs.
goddess, and because I had dealt with silent porn for so long, her orgasmic voice was a delight beyond compare. In one scene which was mildly moving, she phoned her husband and let him listen as she became entwined in a threesome. I watched that scene again and again.
sudden state of delirium that I felt the room begin to sway and pitch, and I panted an eager, "YES!" She said, "Okay. . . but you have to make me a tape of yourself and send it first."
something important on it, they would just have to deal with it. I found another tape marked Perry Mason T.V. Movie and quickly decided my dad wouldn't miss Raymond Burr's later work.
