Ill Be Flipping The V-Sign Some Enchanted Evening
The virgin set out to lose it.
From the first erection that gave me such confusing pleasure, tingling somewhat like an intense yawn in the sun, blest but strangely guilty, not knowing how to use it; to the moment that I limped to games in tight white shorts, trying to conceal the friction burns of my frantic first wank, ashamed how Id bruised it. Pubescence had demonised my eager young mind, its swell turning the Jekyll of the essence of my innocence to the fore, to the full, where there would be no looking back.
It took me long enough to seal my first kiss. Whilst classmates were fornicating beneath the tables at the junior disco, cider hidden in the hedge outside, I was hiding at home, wallowing in the pride of high standards that I held as a banner for my inexperience and fear.
I had been keeping drawings that Id constructed of beautiful fashion models, as I dreamed them nude, in a file, fit for my delectation in the draws beneath my bed. Greater than the local girls school bitches were the machinations of future romance, which I held instead in my head.
I hungered with such fervour for my own unique beauty for me to consume and to consume me back, that I would steal for more catalogue images to strip and stroke out in soft lead. I baby-sat three times for a woman with warts in the village. I was so bored on the third occasion that whilst the kids were asleep, the womans lingerie magazines kept me sweet. I wanked, folded the torn out pages up, placed them in my pocket and fell asleep on the sofa, a deep, pant-soiled, corrupted sleep.
That first kiss came after such a long distant yearning, it had to fight its way through the comfort zone of so many invented yarns, eons of internal scenarios that stripped naked the girl on the bus, at the wedding, at my parents party, that kept her horse in our field, and countless more; as many as my eyes and mind could yield. Sex was boundless as my lips hallucinated on mouths galore.
I tried sometimes to simulate myself on top. Id gather my covers until they resembled feminine form and thrust my pelvis into my hand in some sordid sexual press-up, but Id give up due to me failure to stimulate myself and the discomfort felt. Instead Id lie on my back and watch the illusions slide up and down on me; Id stare up at the spaces where I put their faces, sometimes until dawn.
I loved my imaginary friends.
I made love to my imaginary friends.
I made my own, private, fear-of-mind-readers, personalised perfect porn.
That first kiss came at seventeen, too late, with saliva all over my slack-jawed, clean-shaven, baby-faced smile.
sanderlms@aol.com
The virgin set out to lose it.
From the first erection that gave me such confusing pleasure, tingling somewhat like an intense yawn in the sun, blest but strangely guilty, not knowing how to use it; to the moment that I limped to games in tight white shorts, trying to conceal the friction burns of my frantic first wank, ashamed how Id bruised it. Pubescence had demonised my eager young mind, its swell turning the Jekyll of the essence of my innocence to the fore, to the full, where there would be no looking back.
It took me long enough to seal my first kiss. Whilst classmates were fornicating beneath the tables at the junior disco, cider hidden in the hedge outside, I was hiding at home, wallowing in the pride of high standards that I held as a banner for my inexperience and fear.
I had been keeping drawings that Id constructed of beautiful fashion models, as I dreamed them nude, in a file, fit for my delectation in the draws beneath my bed. Greater than the local girls school bitches were the machinations of future romance, which I held instead in my head.
I hungered with such fervour for my own unique beauty for me to consume and to consume me back, that I would steal for more catalogue images to strip and stroke out in soft lead. I baby-sat three times for a woman with warts in the village. I was so bored on the third occasion that whilst the kids were asleep, the womans lingerie magazines kept me sweet. I wanked, folded the torn out pages up, placed them in my pocket and fell asleep on the sofa, a deep, pant-soiled, corrupted sleep.
That first kiss came after such a long distant yearning, it had to fight its way through the comfort zone of so many invented yarns, eons of internal scenarios that stripped naked the girl on the bus, at the wedding, at my parents party, that kept her horse in our field, and countless more; as many as my eyes and mind could yield. Sex was boundless as my lips hallucinated on mouths galore.
I tried sometimes to simulate myself on top. Id gather my covers until they resembled feminine form and thrust my pelvis into my hand in some sordid sexual press-up, but Id give up due to me failure to stimulate myself and the discomfort felt. Instead Id lie on my back and watch the illusions slide up and down on me; Id stare up at the spaces where I put their faces, sometimes until dawn.
I loved my imaginary friends.
I made love to my imaginary friends.
I made my own, private, fear-of-mind-readers, personalised perfect porn.
That first kiss came at seventeen, too late, with saliva all over my slack-jawed, clean-shaven, baby-faced smile.
sanderlms@aol.com