Thank you for trying to "cure" my virginity 33 years ago or so. I am sorry for my primitive Neanderthal mind and libido. At he time, at the raw age of 18 or 19 years old, my brain was unable to process what was going on. The selfless nature of your act. Your beauty was all I was able to fathom. I was in awe. The way you looked in your blue jean shorts. The way you filled your sweater up so nicely. Your brain, your evil laugh, you GOT me. So of course my mind had to race to fuck up what should have been a beautiful moment. This was was supposed to be the culmination, my graduation into adulthood, my moment.
What was going through my brain on that night was far from sexy. All I could think was, that is where Pee comes from. Why in the world would this beautiful, perfect girl, want anything to do with my pee hole?
At this point in my development as a "player" I had never had a conscious orgasm. I programmed myself to wake up in the middle of wet dreams, but usually just missed them. I had no facial hair. I used to sit in awee and terror of the kids in highschool who had to shave, the primtive brutes. Even Todd Sherman's gay-ass peachfuzzstache was intimidating to me. When he asked me if I had ever had sex, of course I lied. The beginning of a lovely pattern.
I remember one awkward moment with my father. The famous 'bird and bees speech". A real hallmark moment. "son do you know?" "Jeez Daad, come on, yeah" End of discussion. Again lying about something that was terrifying to me. Terrifyingly opening a closed bedroom door. A mistake you only make once. You learn the sounds of Love. And associate the terror with those sounds. And your life goes the way your life goes and this minor trauma is nothing in the big picture, but everything really. Shaping part of you life forever.
But I am a piker, compared to my father's journey of love and women folk.
Abandoned by his drunk Irish father at a very tender age. He just threw his laundry in the front seat one day and left. My grandmother was a tough old broad. She didn't take any shit. Obviously, neither did the woman my father married. He was raised as the only male in the hen house. Two sisters, two maiden Aunts upstairs, Vera and Marguerite. His adolescence forever scented with Estrogen and God. He was going to be a priest. That was the only true calling for a man. A natural people-pleaser and "good boy" Something happened. He never shared the details of his big decision to leave the Cloister, or whatever you call that closet that priests and young men live in, training the altar boys in the ways of God, the ways of the Father, On Earth as it is in Heaven.
I tried to bust my cherry in high school. In a cornfield with a willing girl. In another cornfield with her. An Intellectual type. That's my type, they get me. But nothing is more embarrassing and technical than busting another intellectuals cherry, sober, in a cornfield. There is no greater struggle than that of the smart ass genius faces with a condom in the dark. Where was my love assistant alcohol? Nowhere. I was a rebel. My parents were hippies. They enjoyed the social lubrication of alcohol. My piety at the time revolved around abstinence, and a good healthy fear of sex (because of my accidental eye full of awful when I was a wee lad. As a rebel with cool parents I almost had to turn republican. That's what kids do. They rebel. It took me decades to understand the beauty and commitment and selflessness that kept my family together.
My mother gave up the freedom of the sixties to be up to her elbows in me and my three brothers feces. All she wanted was a little ballerina to dress up and talk to. My father's sperm had other plans. The years of estrogen overdose turned his testes into alpha male machines.
What was going through my brain on that night was far from sexy. All I could think was, that is where Pee comes from. Why in the world would this beautiful, perfect girl, want anything to do with my pee hole?
At this point in my development as a "player" I had never had a conscious orgasm. I programmed myself to wake up in the middle of wet dreams, but usually just missed them. I had no facial hair. I used to sit in awee and terror of the kids in highschool who had to shave, the primtive brutes. Even Todd Sherman's gay-ass peachfuzzstache was intimidating to me. When he asked me if I had ever had sex, of course I lied. The beginning of a lovely pattern.
I remember one awkward moment with my father. The famous 'bird and bees speech". A real hallmark moment. "son do you know?" "Jeez Daad, come on, yeah" End of discussion. Again lying about something that was terrifying to me. Terrifyingly opening a closed bedroom door. A mistake you only make once. You learn the sounds of Love. And associate the terror with those sounds. And your life goes the way your life goes and this minor trauma is nothing in the big picture, but everything really. Shaping part of you life forever.
But I am a piker, compared to my father's journey of love and women folk.
Abandoned by his drunk Irish father at a very tender age. He just threw his laundry in the front seat one day and left. My grandmother was a tough old broad. She didn't take any shit. Obviously, neither did the woman my father married. He was raised as the only male in the hen house. Two sisters, two maiden Aunts upstairs, Vera and Marguerite. His adolescence forever scented with Estrogen and God. He was going to be a priest. That was the only true calling for a man. A natural people-pleaser and "good boy" Something happened. He never shared the details of his big decision to leave the Cloister, or whatever you call that closet that priests and young men live in, training the altar boys in the ways of God, the ways of the Father, On Earth as it is in Heaven.
I tried to bust my cherry in high school. In a cornfield with a willing girl. In another cornfield with her. An Intellectual type. That's my type, they get me. But nothing is more embarrassing and technical than busting another intellectuals cherry, sober, in a cornfield. There is no greater struggle than that of the smart ass genius faces with a condom in the dark. Where was my love assistant alcohol? Nowhere. I was a rebel. My parents were hippies. They enjoyed the social lubrication of alcohol. My piety at the time revolved around abstinence, and a good healthy fear of sex (because of my accidental eye full of awful when I was a wee lad. As a rebel with cool parents I almost had to turn republican. That's what kids do. They rebel. It took me decades to understand the beauty and commitment and selflessness that kept my family together.
My mother gave up the freedom of the sixties to be up to her elbows in me and my three brothers feces. All she wanted was a little ballerina to dress up and talk to. My father's sperm had other plans. The years of estrogen overdose turned his testes into alpha male machines.
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