Said The Dentures to the Peach...

I always knew my parents were strange as a child, but it wasn't until adulthood that I realized how truly bizarre my upbringing was. See, both of my parents had an oppressively conservative upbringing where wholesome family values were maintained with an iron fist. They ate dinner as a family unit every night, no TV past 7:30, and under no circumstance would they ever discuss anything remotely unpleasant. Well my parents' believe that this practice stunted their development, so they decided to do the exact opposite when they raised me and my sister. While they did enforce certain ground rules, I was always more than encouraged to learn about and then discuss my views on sex, drugs, violent movies, the concept of mortality, and anything else that pre-adolescents like specifically because their parents don't want them to know these things even exist. So when I turned twelve, of course they started leaving porno magazines in the bathroom. At the time I thought it was just a coincidence, until my parents, BOTH of them, lectured me on masturbation technique.  The lecture seemed planned, like they wanted it to introduce the concept, let that sink in, then maybe a quick anatomy lesson, a few basic motions to get me started, and proper sperm disposal.  But they kept arguing over details that were at the time completely over my head, like "If he always uses lotion it's gonna train him to get off too fast and he won't be able to hold down a relationship and he's gonna wind up committing hate crimes" or "That's gonna make it so he can only do girl on top"...  I noticed they were always quietly hovering outside the bathroom door.  Over the course of the next month or two, they repeatedly assured me that the magazines were in the basket next to the toilet for my enjoyment. My dad would wink at me and say, "Hey, I like the articles too, son!" like I was supposed to know what the fuck that meant! Most parents treat their kids like dogs or drunkards they are placating until they sober up into adulthood, my parents treated me like I was their buddy.

All the kids in school would make jokes about jerking off.  Admitting it to their friends was a relief, the relief of admitting something they were made to feel ashamed of.  Oh what I would give to know what it was to be ashamed of something natural! One kid said that the skin was bunched up in folds at the base of his dick like a Shar Pei because he was jerking off so much. Whenever he came back from the bathroom, a few of his friends would make this gushy sound with their lower lips and fingers that I assumed was what it sounded like when people jerked off. This gave me an idea. So whenever I was alone and I knew my parents were standing outside the door, I would make sure my door was locked and I'd sit on my bed and make those gushy fake masturbation sounds with my mouth.  It must have worked because the questions stopped, and soon I found a shelf unit sound system in my bedroom that I never asked for, ostensibly so my parents wouldn't need to hear me "jerking off" anymore.  It was the closest thing to shame I had ever felt, and I loved it!

As far as actual masturbation goes, I remember thinking how gross the whole thing seemed, and wondering why it is such a big deal. I was already freaked out by my new pubic hair, so the thought of anything other than pee coming out of there made my blood run cold.

Midway through that summer, the family packed into a van and drove up to the mountains for a family re-union at my grandparents' house. It was several days full of idyllic memories chasing crayfish under rocks, eating burnt diner pancakes at 6 AM before spending the day hiking, etc... by Sunday I was completely spent lying in the guest room full of aches and bruises as I looked at the old picture framed advertisements hanging on the walls. I was sharing a room with my dad. He comes in and after a few pleasantries brings up a subject I thought had been dropped long ago. "So you haven't been alone this whole trip, bet you must be jonesing for some privacy, eh?" I told him I already "took care of" what he was referring to, as though I took out the trash or mowed the lawn. "Oh, ok. You didn't use one of your socks, did you? I think you're all out of clean ones..." I told him I used a few tissues. "I don't see any tissues boxes in here." I was getting annoyed now, I told him I got them from the bathroom. "I don't see any tissues in the waste basket, either... are you lying to me?" I was tired, achey, and probably itchy from where my armpit hair was starting to grow. So I snapped. "Well... fuck you, dad, leave me alone! Maybe I'm just not in the mood!" My parents had a fairly traditional stance on swearing, especially when directed toward them. He used to stutter when he was this mad, but now he just adds unnecessary pauses and closes his eyes: "What did... you ... just ... say?" My dad tends to dole out impulsive and random punishments when he looses his temper. When my older sister was 15, he made her go on two dates with a guy she'd just broken up with because she went over her texting limit while they were dating that month. He calmed down and said, "You are going to stay in this room and masturbate, and you are going to give me the tissues when you're done. I'll come back here in half an hour and you had better produce something for me or else." I could barely make a fist from skipping rocks all day, and there were no magazines around for me to even try using for "inspiration". I thought about spitting into the tissues and handing that to him, but I didn't know if that would work. I started stroking myself and thinking of girls from TV and movies, girls I liked in school, girls with proportions I had imagined... but none of it was connecting to any real immediate sexual feeling. Then I looked at the old advertisements on the wall. Sure, the photos were black and white, but there were a few post cards with cute island girls wearing straw skirts... a magazine cover with a woman who was sorta pretty but was making a goofy face that I guess was sexy in 1957... and then there was a more elaborately framed dress ad with a woman who was giving me a very welcome stare. Her face was so approachable, as though I could meet her in real life and we could fool around or whatever. Her breasts were full and less pointy than the other breasts on the wall, so I could actually imagine what the nipples would look like in the context of the whole tit... I could see them shimmy gently as I pushed her legs apart and eased my cock inside of her... I had no idea how that would feel in real life, but I realized at that moment it must be some powerful stuff because I immediately ejaculated right over the one tissue I was holding, all over the side of the bed into my dad's open suitcase. I just stared at the mess as my posture deflated, thinking, "Wow, that's a lot! Did all that come from me? That's... awesome!"  I used the tissue to clean up my mess and once my dad approved, it was time for dinner, which I planned to rush through and then go masturbate again while the room was still unoccupied. I sit at the table and take very little from each dish that passes by. It may not be an official rule, but it is implied that I am only to contribute to the dinner conversation when directed to do so. Maybe I'm a gentleman or maybe I just wanted to enrich my first consummated sexual fantasy with some details, but I wanted to get more information about the woman in the old dress ad. I didn't want to ask directly though, so I just talked about how much I liked those old ads hanging on the walls. My grandmother laughed and said, "Oh yeah, when you get old you tend to accumulate a lot of junk," and she paused to glare at my grandfather, then continued "I had such a hard time getting him to throw out any of those old magazines, so we compromised: he got to decide which clips we keep and I'd frame them and send the rest to recycling! Of course, that's why they're mostly pictures of pretty girls!" The old man was a shameless lech who went to great lengths to check out and make crass comments at anything, even girls in TV commercials. When I was little I used to say "She can't hear you, grandpa!", before I realized it didn't matter. My grandmother continued, "Oh, except for that old dress ad in the golden frame. That was from my short-lived modeling career, year before I met your grandfather." I gave my dad an unmistakable panicked look, and he interjected, "Uhh, you mean the one in the guest room that we're staying in? In the golden frame? Closest to the door? Polka-dot dress? That one?" My grandfather slouched in his seat and with a proud guttural groan he said, "Yep. That one."