I've been asked on various occasions about the 'very first' experience and I couldn't dig up anything particular, little things, like reading, all building up, but, never leading to the very first one. I thought there must be something BEFORE! After I meditated on it and did some digging, POP, it came up. Believe it or not, I actually forgot about it, totally blanketed it!

I dug around in the memory recycle bin, most seemingly disappeared, except for this. Why's that I wondered? This is the one I can place a tag on now.

Music: Something Mediterranean.
Wine is optional - but, red, if selected.

This is not a story about the "First Time I Did It Knowingly," on the contrary, this is the


"First Time I Did Not Know What The Hell I was Doing and It Does Not Seem Very Momentous Now, But It Certainly Was At The Time."

Time/Place: One of those early summers which ARE a place, that lasts forever and ends in a blink of an eye. It was one of those summers which somehow mingle within our memories as the essence of childhood summers. Yes, one of those.

The setting: One of those small Mediterranean resorts. No, it was not one of those gargantuan edifices called resort hotels that squat between the shore and the hills, blotting out the sky, but whitewashed, rough hewn, stone houses with red tiled roofs. They were bathed in the blinding one o clock sun that pounds the almost dead sea and turns all sound into tiny squeaks that fade into yesterdays.

Zoom to: 'Hotel' room, the wooden blinds drawn, and it is floundering in stifling heat. There is a thirteen year old boy on wet bed sheets getting ready for the main festivity of the day. What triggered this activity, besides being pumped with hormones and a lot of girls running around testing their wiles? A movie perhaps, shown the night before in an open theater. Kids would sit on white pebbled ground just below the screen. Which movie? Who knows? Bardot comes to mind but I'm not THAT old, but it doesn't matter. It was French, certainly.

I remember just a scene, a shard of a scene. A naked woman was standing (and still is!) on the fur in front of the fireplace, her skin ruddy. The camera panned up from the pink heels, over the mile-long legs, lingered on that ass, (just a hint of quiver,) then followed the perfect, sinuous curves of her spine, and paused at the long neck holding up the blond head. The vision drew the mind's eye towards the damn heaven of the indigo summer night. And then, she turned her head toward the camera, and, that's THAT, a trigger.

Back in the room, the boy is getting ready to masturbate his head off. It's sweet, sharp, and strong, like the bite of first ice cold Coke you ever tasted, before it got stale. I was never told I'll go blind or that hairs will grow on my palms; never taught it was sinful or shameful. It was all those things, so sweet, and for me, it was something I discovered on my own. It's something nobody admits doing and yet, somehow, everybody knows all about it. Ha!

There I was, the young boy, getting ready to go for it. I took off my bermuda-like swimming trunks, that although garish, were most popular in those days. Ah, but I didn't take them off really. I just kept them down around my ankles and twisted them, in an effort to keep my legs open, to create the feeling that they were FORCED open by an outside agent, unable to pull them together on my own. The trunks didn't obey, so I brought into play a metal rod, one of those rods used to hang towels on, from the bathroom, and some towels, I think. I bunched it all together, twisted, tied, and struggled and - presto! - I restrained myself in an effective spreader bar. Hey, I invented it that day!

I could finally could indulge in that innocent, yet so damn naughty sport called - jacking off. With the added main ingredient of being exposed, forcefully, even forced to stroke it.

Flying high, I was jackrabitting and dimly aware of the sound of the key turning in the lock. The key? The key was a metal thing used to open hotel rooms before key cards. And I have no idea why I didn't leave my key in the lock. The cleaning lady pushed the tools of her trade in the room. Cleaning lady? Sorry, a nondescript local woman. The bed was so strategically placed that she was waaay in the room. I was hysterically struggling to pull the sweat dampened sheets from beneath to cover myself before she could notice me. When she did, she stared and squinted in the semi gloom. I tried to gather my wits together but my mind and body turned into Jell-o. She ordered me out! I was just a kid on holiday with his family and she was a local. The locals had a very low opinion of 'those city slickers'. 'Cleaning lady' couldn't imagine WHY anybody, let alone a boy on holiday, would want to lock themselves in a crummy, suffocating, hot, sweaty, and smelly (sniff... sniff...Do I smell something else, hmm?) room in the afternoon.

I managed to reply that I was sick or whatever, but she insisted. We engaged in a verbal tug-of-war and I was close to freaking out. I could not do even that! Some discreet tugging under the sheets convinced me I was bound for good. Did I have butterflies in guts? No, I had damn royal eagles slamming into a quivering prey in my guts every three seconds, keeping time with my ear popping heartbeat. Unfortunately, my damn dick didn't even want to go down! I had to pull the sheets upward to avoid the tenting.

Finally, she shrugged, turned, and went about her business. She opened the blinds, puttered and cleaned around the rooms, shuffled in and out the bathroom a zillion times, and occasionally threw me dirty glances. Did she KNOW? Well...she knew something was amiss. The whole time I laid there, pinned like a petrified butterfly, I clutched the sheets desperately (pretending I wasn't.) I thought there was a transparent glare coming in from the windows, a splotch on the sheets in a strategic place, my bound ankle must stuck out (it didn't.) Whenever she passed close by, I was worried she'd snatch away my cover, stare and laugh, THEN run down to the beach, stop, just to inform my parents, THEN, tell all my friends who would THEN come to the room. And THEN, well, kids can be sooo cruel. In my mind, I could just hear the girls giggling and commenting on a certain outhrust member and wanted to die. It was awful.

Ah, but my penis didn't think so. It kept playing the 'I'm down now, oops I'm up again' game. Eventually, after what seemed like several geological ages, some 15 minutes went by and so did the last dirty glance. She left, slamming the door behind her.. Whoosh! I let the breath out...I felt like I was holding it the whole time. And that was it...no...it was not. I finished the business at hand and finally, really messed up the crumbled sheets. Then, and only then, did I struggle to remove the makeshift spreader bar which held me spread-eagled all that time. THAT was the point. The OTHER point could finally rest...for a few hours at least, (thirteen, remember?)



Aaaaaaaand CUT!

***

And that is it. I went the other way eventually. This moment in time turned into time-capsule buried under a rubble of unused (and, perhaps, unwanted) memories. Resurrecting it, I offer this hot summer moment, cleaned and polished, for your inspection.

copyright (c) 2005 by Wolff


for the One