When I began jerking off I was twelve, I believe.
If jerking off were an Olympic sport I would be like that jugeared pothead Michael Phelps, only better. I’d win relays by myself if jerking off were an Olympic sport. When I was in my teens and early twenties I would have a pull anywhere, anytime, multiple times a day, taking a breather only when I required some scabbing over to relieve some of the pain.
Mad pulling. Bloody palms and all.
But when I first gave myself that tentative little tug I had not the foggiest and so I referred to my inspiration to jack and often the fodder for same, my constant companion in those formative years.
It was a Penthouse letter that first gave me the idea and in this particular tale your man, while spying on his landlady/third cousin/stepsister/babysitter, pulled into a baggie.
Why? I have no idea.
But that is where I first read about masturbation and so when I decided to give it a whirl I figured I might as well follow the old saying and grab myself a Ziplock.
When in Ireland and all that, you know.
So I gave it a try and discovered that this undiscovered country was a hell of a wonderful country and so I began to take many excursions there each day. And it was early on and for some reason (inexperience and stupidity fighting tooth and nail) I thought that it might be a good idea to strip down when partaking in my new pastime.
So it came to be that one hot summer afternoon I had the house to myself and so I geared down, got my sandwich bag and sat down on the living room couch. I was just about at the moment of truth when the back door opened and I heard a buddy of mine call my name.
Now you could imagine the disaster that now was suddenly erupting in front of me. One does not survive such a moment. I would have been the guy whose buddy found him stark naked with a baggy on his cock if he had walked up the four steps from the back door, walked past the kitchen and done a hard left into the living room. This would have followed me to high school, university, my working life, my wedding day. I would be in a home and some old fucker would wheel into my room, cackle, and throw my dessicated self a box of baggies.
Voice breaking, ready to leap through the front window if necessary, I called out “hey man, just go down to the basement, I’ll be down in a sec.”
And he complied and tragedy was averted.
I picked up my clothes, hustled to the bathroom, locked the door and finished my favourite thing.
But sometimes I feel like I’ve just walked in on him and he’s sitting there in the buff, pecker in one hand, little baggie full of jizz in the other. Its embarassing as hell and I have to avert my eyes at the mess that he is making.