The day after I turned seventeen I was busted, along with some of my friends, for vandalizing a golf course in celebration of my existence. We had been under the influence of Milwaukee's Best Light. Although damage to the course was relatively small, I was humiliated
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when my parents were informed that I had stolen several back issues of Penthouse from the office of the greenskeeper.
Instead of realizing that I was merely drunk, my parents concluded that wanton lust had bewitched me to the point that I needed serious help, and that the only person capable of curing me was the Lord. (I might have tried to dispute this point more vigorously, but when I slunk back home that night, my first official act as a seventeen-year-old was to jack off over those Penthouses while I leaned back on a broom handle I'd greased with Oil of Olay.) Because it was summer, my parents arranged to have me shipped to the mountains of North Carolina. I would be stationed at Camp Grier, a retreat for youth who needed to put themselves right with God.
When I arrived at camp (on a Friday the same day of the week as Jesus' crucifixion, let us not forget) I was shocked to discover that it was run by evangelical Presbyterians. At the time I was unaware that such freakish hybrids of Southern bible thumping and New England restraint existed, and I was even more dismayed that my parents would put me in their care for a month. My parents were not entirely prudish people, and I suppose they were more upset by the public nature of my criminal activities than the crimes themselves.
During orientation, which was attended by all the other campers and their parents, I noticed there were a tremendous number of girls present who could perhaps prove the existence of a benevolent deity. My friends had primed me with stories of their sexual experiments at summer camp, and their tales of pornographic archetypes games of Spin the Bottle and Truth or Dare that tumbled madly into massive orgies; mornings spent watching budding teen girls soaping each other in the showers suddenly filled me with the desire to stand in praise of God. This was unfortunate, because I was wearing shorts with a propensity to "tent" excessively. It wouldn't have been a problem had I been able to remain seated, but as soon as my penis raised its head like a prairie dog scouting the grassy plains for predators, everyone was asked to stand and greet the people around them. I sat still for as long as possible, until my father yanked me to my feet and spun me around to face the most exquisite creature I had seen in my entire misguided life. She smiled and extended her hand. When I reached out to take it, she looked at my crotch and twisted up her face as if I had just presented her with a turd on a silver platter. I had just enough time to glimpse her nametag which read "Aimee Kapps," the "i" dotted with a heart before she turned coldly away.
This only added to my distaste for being stuck in the forest with people far more immersed in their faith than I, especially when Aimee's version of our meeting rapidly progressed through the camp gossip circuit. The sound of woodland creatures was often drowned out by the giggles of my Christian cohorts, who were clearly not well versed in that whole "judge not, lest ye be judged" bit. To make matters worse, one was never left alone even traffic in the bathroom was constant and before I knew it, I hadn't jerked off for a week. This was more than just an inconvenience. Very soon, it felt as though the ripe sap of my loins was backing up into my brain and that I would go mad. As if being under constant surveillance weren't bad enough, boys and girls were separated during the day. I longed so much to catch a glimpse of a tanned thigh flecked with light, downy hair that my evening prayers developed a singular focus, one I don't believe they were intended to have. I prayed for poontang so intensely that I began wanting to buy into all the camp propaganda: I really wanted to believe that God would answer my tortured cries for a release from forced celibacy.
For reasons I am unable to fully explain, at the beginning of my second week I was assigned to clean the camp bathhouses. I assumed that the camp counselor had noticed my well-maintained bunk area and decided that someone with my sanitary skills could be trusted to make the tile and porcelain sparkle. Or perhaps my liberal use of the word "cocksucker" had placed me on someone's shit list.
I confess that the workings of my bowels are of great interest to me, and pondering the size and frequency of my stools has helped me to pass numerous hours in a pleasing manner. However, I have never cared to know what other people's bodies are capable of producing, let alone having to dispose of it. My co-campers appeared to be youth of good breeding, but the amusement they apparently gained from not flushing the toilet or stopping it up with wads of TP told a different story: these people were filthy vermin. And it wasn't just the men. I had been sentenced to cleaning the women's restrooms as well, during lunch hour, when their side of camp was deserted.
My first day in the women's bathroom was my first exposure to the hidden world of girls. I didn't like it. Specifically, I didn't like coming to terms with the fact that women crap. Or the fact that women also seem to have difficulty flushing the toilet. Despite all this, I was in heaven: I was finally alone.
In addition to toilets and showers, the bathhouses contained lockers which didn't lock, in which we stored our shower items. Each locker had a name on it, and I immediately found the one that belonged to Aimee, the angelic beauty. Despite the fact that she had given me the moniker "Rocket Man" (a title which was less flattering than it might sound), I still longed for her, my cock pressed hard into my bunk at night.
I opened her locker, not exactly sure what I was looking for. Perhaps I thought some delicate of hers might have been left behind, some sign of her own desires. I only found some soap and Pert shampoo. Without thinking, I unscrewed the shampoo bottle's lid, dumped a handful of Pert onto my cock and started stroking with magnum force. Had I been masturbating a few times a day as per usual, the experience might have lasted longer. But even before I could begin to summon up a suitable fantasy, I felt myself coming. Before I could stop myself, I put the open end of the shampoo bottle against the head of my dick and let loose.
Many girlfriends have told me that when I ejaculate, I produce quite a bit more than most men they've been with. I can't say whether this is accurate, because I really haven't invested a great deal of time exploring the matter. But after ten inorgasmic days, I felt as if I unloaded a gallon of jism into that shampoo bottle. I felt satisfied at first; as I finished my cleaning I was even smug. But then I started to feel guilty. I had heard the urban legends about vacationers who find mixed among their vacation photos shots of hotel clerks penetrating their rectums with the guests' toothbrushes. I had developed a healthy distrust of housekeepers, and I always kept my toothbrush under lock and key when I was away from home. And now, in my moment of weakness, hadn't I become as deplorable as those deranged individuals? Hadn't I committed some vile sin, made all the worse by the fact that I was among God's people, learning to do God's good work?
For the rest of the day, I was wracked with guilt, but later that night I was distracted by some very intensive square dancing (an activity that becomes surprisingly erotic in the absence of any other sexual outlet), and by the time I went to sleep I had forgotten all about my handywork in the girls' lavatory.
But the next morning, when I woke up and discovered that my penis was shedding its skin like a serpent, I had no trouble recalling what act had visited this pestilence upon me. I have never been so terror stricken: in a few hours, my prick morphed from silky whiteness into a rough and leathery brown; the head was puffy and red. It looked angry, like a Polish sausage that had been left under heat lamps for a fortnight. It was clear to me that God was pissed. This was the burden I would have to bear for my sins. I was Job, but my pox was a little more private.
Instinct encouraged me to run like an antelope to the nearest pay phone, call my mother and demand that she retrieve me and work her maternal healing powers on my wang. I had had chicken pox not that long before, and when it spread to every inch of my body, my mother didn't shy away from administering calamine lotion to each and every sore on my twelve-year-old frame. (I was grateful for the medical attention, but even then, something didn't sit right with me. If you couple this with the fact that my first memorable erection occurred while I was sunbathing nude with my mother, you might conclude, as I have, that many of my hang-ups can be traced to this time in my development.)
Shame prevailed, and I bore my torment silently. My cock was terribly painful to touch: every time I peed, it felt as if the fires of hell were licking at the tip. The itch was worse than the chigger bites I had on my inner thighs. So I was no longer just the boy who popped wood at the mere prospect of a handshake I was also the boy who couldn't stop tugging at his crotch. When I was alone during my cleaning duties, I peeled huge strips of skin from my penis, leaving it red and raw.
After two days, I couldn't take it anymore. I stopped praying for inter-camper copulation and began begging for forgiveness. This was exactly what they taught in church. They didn't explicitly say anything about masturbating into someone else's shampoo, but I knew that church people were pretty uptight about that stuff, and the Bible was full of hidden messages. I promised God I would never do that again, and as a bonus I promised never to jerk off on a Sunday. (I later revoked that clause when my dog was hit by a car.) When I woke on the third day, I was healed: my cock was smoother than ever. It looked purified; it practically glowed.
I promptly became the model camper, and I didn't touch myself again until I had returned home. In fact, in those remaining weeks at camp I was something of a role model, even earning an award at the end of the month for "Most Improved Attitude," an award I took disturbingly great pride in. On the last night of camp, we had a rather moving service; I expounded on my sinful past and told my peers how, in this month away from the world, I had been touched by the Holy Spirit (leaving out the specifics, of course). Afterward, when we were finally allowed to mingle freely, I found myself down at the dock and alone with Aimee, the object of my undying affection. In the moonlight, her hair had a healthy sheen to it, and I silently took credit for that. But when she leaned in to kiss me, I turned away. I told her I wasn't the man she thought I was, that I was following God's path now. She nodded in understanding, and we walked quietly back to the others.
When I returned home, I avoided my friends. I just didn't think there was a place for them in my new life of service to the Lord. I finally broke down and agreed to party with them, but only so I could act as the designated driver. I explained that only my concern for their well-being allowed me to cavort with such sinners. At the party, I became involved in conversation with a flamboyant Malaysian guy who was narrating his recent brush with being gay-bashed. I expressed sympathy and shock, which he casually dismissed with a wave of his limp wrist. "Oh, honey," he said, "don't sweat it. Getting a pounding from all those meaty white jocks got me so hot that when I finally got up off the street, I went in the bushes and jacked off. It's just a damn shame it hurt so much."
"Did they rack your balls that badly?" I asked, stunned that any man, gay or straight, would ever inflict that kind of harm on another.
"Oh, no. They didn't touch me there," he said, sounding vaguely disappointed. "I had beat off with some Pert shampoo two nights before, and that stuff had peeled the skin right off my dick. Shit. You talk about raw." I felt the blood drain from my face. It was more than self-evident that there was a God, and that not even he was on my side. n°
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.
would put me in their care for a month. My parents were not entirely prudish people, and I suppose they were more upset by the public nature of my criminal activities than the crimes themselves.
I longed so much to catch a glimpse of a tanned thigh flecked with light, downy hair that my evening prayers developed a singular focus, one I don't believe they were intended to have. I prayed for poontang so intensely that I began wanting to buy into all the camp propaganda: I really wanted to believe that God would answer my tortured cries for a release from forced celibacy.
fact that she had given me the moniker "Rocket Man" (a title which was less flattering than it might sound), I still longed for her, my cock pressed hard into my bunk at night.
It looked angry, like a Polish sausage that had been left under heat lamps for a fortnight. It was clear to me that God was pissed. This was the burden I would have to bear for my sins. I was Job, but my pox was a little more private.
(I later revoked that clause when my dog was hit by a car.) When I woke on the third day, I was healed: my cock was smoother than ever. It looked purified; it practically glowed.
