spgeddi
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Mar 2, 2006
- Messages
- 121
Can I recall for you the first time he showed me his penis?
I still feel a pang of guilt for the fascination I felt as he slowly unbuttoned his trousers. At first it, his penis, was soft, flaccid, but it quickly grew hard and I remember how insignificant I felt as I considered my own manhood. I was just thirteen, pre-pubescent, and strangely intrigued.
He didn’t ask me to touch him this first time, but stood there proudly masturbating before me. After, he asked me if I were impressed… I said not a word, I didn’t know, but in hindsight I’d say I was. Not by his penis, it was no more than normal, but rather by the copious amount of ejaculate and the passion he displayed in his performance. Somehow it inspired me throughout my teen years.
Even before I became a man, I became a chronic masturbator; no doubt my foster mum would recall the messy sheets and the tub of Vaseline that constantly disappeared from the bathroom. But these things are never discussed, not even today, some thirty or so years later.
Can I recall for you the first time he touched me. I still feel the terror of this occasion when he reached inside my shorts asking, “Your daddy wants to know what kind of man you are becoming.” My foster mother was in the next room and I was frozen, unable to resist; and for years I carried the questions of my own sexuality. Ironically those around me have always been curious... Is he gay? A question I have asked myself, of myself, many times.
Some have supposed, and sometimes even suggested that it is odd of me to not like the touch of others. I shy away from intimacy; it was even a struggle to learn to simply shake hands with another male. And to kiss a woman in greeting took years to “come to terms with” and still to this day feels awkward.
I have demanded much patience from my partners. Untill recently, I have never shared these experiences with anyone, not even my closest of loved ones. It has been the end of more than one strong relationship; everyone needs loving intimacy. Not all my lovers have been women, but they have all been confused by my asexuality. Perhaps I close the door so as to avoid my painful past.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve well and truly come to terms with these things. Certainly, my exterior is today without blemish, but inside I will always be scarred. My pock-marked persona is evident at close inspection, some scars you cannot hide… but you can lie about them.
I still feel a pang of guilt for the fascination I felt as he slowly unbuttoned his trousers. At first it, his penis, was soft, flaccid, but it quickly grew hard and I remember how insignificant I felt as I considered my own manhood. I was just thirteen, pre-pubescent, and strangely intrigued.
He didn’t ask me to touch him this first time, but stood there proudly masturbating before me. After, he asked me if I were impressed… I said not a word, I didn’t know, but in hindsight I’d say I was. Not by his penis, it was no more than normal, but rather by the copious amount of ejaculate and the passion he displayed in his performance. Somehow it inspired me throughout my teen years.
Even before I became a man, I became a chronic masturbator; no doubt my foster mum would recall the messy sheets and the tub of Vaseline that constantly disappeared from the bathroom. But these things are never discussed, not even today, some thirty or so years later.
Can I recall for you the first time he touched me. I still feel the terror of this occasion when he reached inside my shorts asking, “Your daddy wants to know what kind of man you are becoming.” My foster mother was in the next room and I was frozen, unable to resist; and for years I carried the questions of my own sexuality. Ironically those around me have always been curious... Is he gay? A question I have asked myself, of myself, many times.
Some have supposed, and sometimes even suggested that it is odd of me to not like the touch of others. I shy away from intimacy; it was even a struggle to learn to simply shake hands with another male. And to kiss a woman in greeting took years to “come to terms with” and still to this day feels awkward.
I have demanded much patience from my partners. Untill recently, I have never shared these experiences with anyone, not even my closest of loved ones. It has been the end of more than one strong relationship; everyone needs loving intimacy. Not all my lovers have been women, but they have all been confused by my asexuality. Perhaps I close the door so as to avoid my painful past.
Sometimes I feel like I’ve well and truly come to terms with these things. Certainly, my exterior is today without blemish, but inside I will always be scarred. My pock-marked persona is evident at close inspection, some scars you cannot hide… but you can lie about them.
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