The previous entry in this diary dealt with my first "legit" t-room experience. Looking back over it, I see that as face-fucking/cum-shooting stories go, it was pretty lame. For the two of you out there who didn't mind that, you'll enjoy the following reminiscences. To the rest of you, I apologize--you'll have to wait 'till next time, when I get to the really raunchy stuff. You see, before I recount the hardcore stories--some true, some not--that peppered my childhood masturbatory fantasies, I feel I should mention two incidents that were fundamental to my development as a t-room junkie. Humor me. -------- If there was ever a time in my life when I didn't know the wrinkled, floppy texture of my grandfather's cock, I can't remember it. Preciocity was my hallmark before I was even potty-trained. The ritual went like this: after a long, hot day on the farm, toting bales of hay, feeding cattle, and kicking up the occasional thistle ("They ain't nothin' but big ol' weeds, boy"), we'd pile in the cab of the old but reliable F-150 and head back to the house, my brother and I sandwiched between the thick thighs of my granddaddy and a those of a hired hand. I'd try to stretch out, lay my head on granddaddy's lap, but I usually had to be content just leaning against his stout belly, broadened by countless helping of my grandmama's fine but fatty cooking. In that cramped, masculine space, there was a particular aroma of hay and sweat and leather (from the rarely used bullwhip that sat forever on the tan dashboard) that still sends a frisson of delight down my spine when I'm lucky enough to catch a whiff at stables or, sometimes, flea markets. Back at the house, we'd crawl out of the truck and my grandfather would head straight for the shower, located in a bedroom that once belonged to my uncle. By that time, however, my uncle was well into his 30s and married, and the room was largely unused. It remained as my uncle had left it, decorated in a boyish style with football pennants, model cars and boats, a few textbooks--like the set of a boy's bedroom in any sitcom of the June Lockhart-era. That bathroom was full of remarkable things, too--things we didn't have in our own home: brands of deodorant our family didn't use; a chrome medicine cabinet with fluorescent lights on the side, a design unknown to us; and best of all, a shower with an opaque glass door, through which I could see the bulky figure of our grandfather and fantasize about his soapy cock because I couldn't actually see it. In our house thirty miles away, we only had bathtubs. Under the pretense of looking at the veritable museum of a room, my brother and I trailed our grandfather. Sure, we wanted to take a peek at the cool bric-a-brac, but instinctively I knew we could get a gander at a naked man, too. My brother may not have understood, but he came with me nonetheless. Regardless of how conscious we were of our actions, we knew that our parents and our grandmother would find them morally objectionable. To obscure our intentions, we waited 'till we heard shower water running through the pipes of the old farmhouse, then, when we thought no one was looking, we crept into the bedroom to await granddaddy's naked emergence. Now, there are things each of us has done that in retrospect seem to make very little sense. Why did my friends and i start a club based on the size of our dicks when we were eight years old? Why did we start a club with rites of initiation that included a) skinny-dipping, b) streaking, and c) spanking? And, perhaps most germane to this story, why did my brother and I lie in ambush, waiting for our grandfather to finish his shower, so that we could rush upon him, lead him to the toilet, grab his limp cock, and hold it while we forced him to take a piss that he often didn't have to take? To our prepubescent eyes, his cock was massive, framed by a mane of silver fur that ran up his body, across his broad chest, and feathered out onto his muscled shoulders. He was an object of envy and of lust. If I'd had more of a clue as to what I was after, I would have opened my little mouth and shoved his dick inside. I would have grabbed him by the balls, holding him inside me, no matter how much he feigned protest. I wonder if he would have really resisted--I mean, he and my grandmother did sleep in separate beds... Dr. Ignatz Abromowitz, Child Psychologist: [earnestly, directly to the camera] So, Oprah, we've learned two very important things here: (1) the first semi-conscious object of Jim's sexual desire (even before he developed blatino fantasies of Luis and David on Sesame Street) was his hirsute, stocky grandfather, which accounts somewhat for his taste in men; and, (2) he associates that sexual desire with pissing--specifically, with the toilet--which accounts somewhat for his appetite for t-room sex. But this isn't a talk show, and I feel neither haunted, betrayed, nor determined by my childhood. I've had good times and bad. I've moved on. ------ As for as my fascination with same-sex environments (e.g. restrooms, locker rooms, the boys' lodge on camping excursions), if granddaddy's shower wasn't the clincher, it must have been little league baseball.... In rural parts of the country, we're used to pissing behind trees. So, given the primitive state of the restrooms at the field where we played baseball every Saturday evening, it's no surprise that many of us chose to drain the lizard behind the bushes, alongside a small ditch that ran by the first-base dugout. My superbly overprotective mother feared for me every time I ventured into the dense underbrush, certain that I would be devoured by snakes, mosquitoes, nutria, and any number of forest creatures. I went anyway. In fact, I probably went more often than I really had to. Perhaps I wasn't sure why I was going so much, but being the bullheaded Leo that I am, I went. One afternoon it dawned on me that Danny Jeffcoat was precisely my reason for going. Taller than me, lean, and with a fiercely mean father, I felt an overwhelming need to be held in his arms and, simultaneously, to comfort him, to let him know that he was going to be just fine as long as he stuck with me. I'd follow him to the edge of the ditch, my mother crying out, "You're gon' get eaten alive down there, I tell you what!" but I ignored her. I got as close as I could to Danny without giving him cause to think I was "weird," then I'd lean out over the ditch and try to catch a glimpse of his tool--the tool I imagined to be long and hard and grounded in a pelt of hair as deeply red as the stuff framing his handsome, freckled face. I wanted to see him pull it out through the fly of his tight, white uniform, to turn to me, fully hard, and look me dead in the eyes. I wanted him to stand next to him as we jacked our meat between innings, touching each other's balls, cockheads, asses. I wanted to hold him tenderly when he came, when we came together. I wanted to see our young cum shoot across the water and hit the other side in a never-ending gush of boyish love. I wanted him to collapse, sweaty and sticky, into my arms and to promise to be my secret boyfriend forever. I wanted to protect him, care for him, be with him, but we were never more intimate than pissing side by side on an endless series of Southern summer afternoons, which is almost just as good. I should have known then I'd be back, man-piss pheromones drawing me in.. |
entry #2