by Jason Kason
I've been having a long think about what I want to write about, since Philip has given me the freedom to talk about whatever I want, and I've decided I want to go back in time a bit, to the night I first wanked off.
You see loads of books about this kind of stuff on the shelves at Tesco's: 'My Very First Snowman', 'My Very First Tricycle', 'My Very First iPhone 6 with 4G'. Well, this is my own version with a cutesy cover and nice glossy colourful pages: 'My Very First Wank'.
"Aw," you can hear the nice ladies on mums.net saying, "isn't that sweet!"
I've already talked to Philip about the first time I jazzed off because he was interested in what I was thinking about when I did it (I mean, duh!) and, more predictably, how I felt about it afterwards.
He said, "Most young gay men, when they first masturbate, find themselves climaxing when they look at or think about their own genitals. Was that what happened in your experience?"
I gawped at him like I was especially dippy today. "Who's doin' what now?"
That's my way of saying, could we cut the crap please?
He bristled but rephrased his question: "The first time you wanked, did thinking about your own cock make you cum?"
"Oh, right," I nodded. That was more like it. "But, actually, no, I didn't think about my own cock. My own cock has never really been that interesting to me."
"Really?" he asked. Now he looked genuinely intrigued.
I nodded. "Yeah. You'd think I probably would have enjoyed looking at it when I wanked, and maybe trying to worship it the way I do with other blokes' cocks now, but I've never been that bothered about it."
"Does it revolt you a bit?"
"My cock?" I laughed. "No, of course not!"
I was reminded of a lad in sixth form whose organ I had the honour of gratifying for a while. He was called Thomo, not short for 'Thomas' obviously, but instead was the nickname for his surname 'Thompson'. I can't actually remember was his first name was. Ian, maybe, or Lee. Something one syllabled.
He was a swotty, specky lad who had a wanger with a curve in it. I kid you not, the thing bent so strongly to the right that by the time you got the tip you were looking at it side-on. Trying to be positive about it, and hoping of course to properly exalt the sacred organ, I told him first time I saw it that it would be good for shagging around corners. He didn't find that even remotely funny but it turned out that he was able to provide me with sensations like no other when he had it up inside me, the way it kept veering the side and jabbing my appendix.
Perhaps after all this time, it'll turn out the appendix is really a G-spot. Who knows?
We got partnered up in a Biology lesson, doing some experiment or other, and he said in quiet voice calm as you like while he was tilting his head to read the thermometer, "Latham says you like helping lads out...?"
Stuart Latham. Pity his knob wasn't as big as his gob.
I glanced at the front of Thomo's trousers. For all his face was pretty grim to look at, he had a nice hefty bulge down there. He'd probably worked himself up into running a hard-on, plucking up the courage to make a move on me.
Not that that mattered. Even if his zipper hadn't been straining with whatever his dick was doing inside his old-man drawers, my response would have been exactly the same: "Yeah, I do."
Writing the measurement he'd taken in his notebook, he said, still without looking at me, "D'ya wanna help me out?"
I felt like telling him he could help himself out by buying a max-strength bottle of Clearasil, but instead I asked him, "What sort of stuff were you thinking of, Thomo?"
He looked at the stop-clock and cocked his head again to take another reading. He muttered, "I heard somewhere that a lad's bum can feel exactly like a fanny. D'ya wanna help me find out if that's true?"
I nearly laughed out loud at that. Like he had the first fucking clue what a fanny would feel like! Even the sluttiest of tramps in the bottoms sets wouldn't touch him with a six foot pole.
But I would. I mean, he had a cock didn't he? So instead, I let that one go and said, "If you let me suck you for five minutes, then yeah, I'll help you find out."
He looked over at me and smiled. He would actually be quite cute if you could get past his awful skin and thick-rimmed glasses.
"Proper bum stuff, you mean, Kasey?" he whispered. "With my knob... you know... properly up your arsehole?"
Pretending to write some stuff down myself when the teacher looked over at us, I nodded and said, "You'll need a condom, though. And you'll have to bring it."
I would bring the lube and it wasn't like that was cheap.
He got back to writing more measurements down and went on with his voice shaking slightly, "Will you shave your arse crack for me? It's just... you know... it'll feel better if it's not hairy."
I shook my head, just randomly filling the table in my notebook with numbers. Now that a cock was filling my brain, I couldn't really focus on whatever it was we were supposed to be doing. "I don't want my arse to get itchy, Thomo. I reckon you'll have to take it as you find it."
After all, beggars can't be choosers.
He nodded. He knew the score.
We started meeting up after school behind the bins around the back of the sixth form 'Youth Hut' as it was called, me slavering over his strangely-shaped cock for a good ten minutes or so and then sliding his condom down it so he could, with some difficulty, work his bent shaft sort of side-on into me. Then we'd have about thirty seconds of rough and rapid fucking, with me jacking myself off furiously at the way my appendix was tingling, and him quickly filling the condom deep inside me and off to the right.
He always had his eyes closed when he fucked me: I used to look back at his greasy face huffing and puffing away over my shoulder. He'd be wincing like he was in pain while he pounded at my butt and I was never sure if it was because he didn't like the feel of my hairy arse-crack, or if the bend in his dick really did make sex quite painful for him.
After a few romantic dates like that, one night Thomo turned up with a C&A carrier bag full of odds and sods of clothing.
He grinned at it proudly and said, "Hey, Kasey. I've brought you a prezzie."
"Oh nice," I said. No lad had ever given me a present. Actually, that's not strictly true because I did once receive a herpes virus from some kind soul during a blowjob which still brings me out in coldsores to this day.
He pulled out a red frock from his bag and held it up.
He smiled at me and then saw my face which must have been like: you've gotta be fucking kidding me.
His smile sort of faded and he said, "Is it not your colour?"
"Not my fucking colour? It's a dress!"
"Yeah..." he said uncertainly. "But you like dressing up in woman's stuff... er... don't you?"
"Why the fuck would I?" I asked.
"I thought that's what gay-boys liked," he replied. He fished around his bag, maybe thinking I hadn't quite understood what he was suggesting. He pulled out a bra and some rolled up balls of socks.
Now I'd seen enough.
"I'm fucking going, Thomo. I'm not standing around having frocks shoved on me."
I turned to walk away from him – and you've probably realised by now that it's very rare for me to pass up an opportunity to spend time worshipping a cock – but he quickly stuffed his misjudged gifts back into his bag and called for me, pleaded with me, to come back behind the bins.
"I just thought," he began to explain, when we were back in our lovenest, "that you must like to dress up as a girl. I didn't really think it through."
"But I'm a lad like you, and I like that. Why would I want to be a girl?"
"I dunno," he said. "I just thought that was how it worked. That one day you'd get an op and start living as a woman."
"Fuck off, Thomo!" I said in near outrage. "I like having sex with lads as a lad myself. That's what being gay means. Boys doing it with boys. Two cocks together, two pairs of bollocks."
"Well, yeah... okay," he said, his eyes not on me but staring at the back of the big council bins as he thought it through. "I guess that kind of makes sense, Kasey. I just didn't think about it like that."
I nodded and he went on, "So if I'd brought some clothes to dress you up as, say, a builder with a hard hat, some Doc Martin boots and one of those bright orange jackets... would you have liked that?"
"Fuck, yeah!" I said, hoping he'd do exactly that. But he never did: I think he only really wanted me in that frock with the rolled-up sock tits so he could imagine I was some lass he had his gozzy-eyes set on.
Anyway, to get back to Philip's question which was got me side-tracked, I might not want to worship my own cock but I don't have any ill-feelings towards it. And I sure as hell don't want it snipped off in an op! It's sometimes nice to have one of my own to play with, but I think it prefers it a whole lot more when I'm paying tribute to one of its brothers.
So back to 'My Very First Wank' by Jason Kason. Available now at all good, or maybe not so good, bookshops.
It was Sunday night and I'd been allowed to watch 'Spitting Image' which I used to love and had gone upstairs and was brushing my teeth with the music for 'The South Bank Show' playing.
I'm sitting here wondering why my mam and step-dad would watch 'The South Bank Show' because they hadn't any interest at all in artsy-fartsy stuff. I think my mam just liked the theme tune and my step-dad probably couldn't be arsed to reach out and pick up the remote control at that time of night.
Anyway, with Melvin Bragg's nasal tones coming up through the floorboards I made my incredible discovery.
I don't know why I was playing around under my bed covers, but I had my torch shining on my cock and was looking at it poking upwards from pyjama bottoms, its little slit peering at me as if confused about why it had such a raging hard-on.
I guess I was fascinated by it, perhaps an early indicator of how devout a worshipper I would one day become. I'd had erections before, of course, and maybe I'd similarly shone my torch on them, curious about what they signified, but those ones had gradually withered and died when I hadn't really known what I should do with them.
But this night the thing just wouldn't let up. It was throbbing quite painfully and the bean-sized tip of it had darkened from pink through to purple. It was also gently seeping a clear, thick liquid, I remember that. I was a bit disgusted by how slimy it looked but was, at the same time, intrigued about what was leaking from its slit that was that was making the end of it so gooey and slippery.
Sex ed lessons at my school were pretty much non-existent, you see.
I ran my finger across the pounding purple head of it, shuddering and gasping at how sensitive it was. Then I raised my sticky finger to my mouth and tasted the ooze that was smeared on the tip. It was actually quite nice: it had a salty, sexy taste that made my cock throb even harder and the slit start dribbling even more profusely.
I was getting really hot doing this. I could feel my cheeks were burning and my forehead had sweat trickling down it. It occurred to me that if my mam had to get me out of bed for something, she'd wonder what the hell I'd been doing under the covers.
(Looking back, of course, I realise she would have pretty quickly figured it out!)
I strained my neck forwards to try and lick the swollen head of my cock. I wanted to lap at the nice-tasting goo that was weeping from it in another early hint at the obsession that would one day consume me.
Needless to say, I couldn't get my mouth anywhere near my boned-up prick but if I had, I dare say 'My Very First Wank' would have actually been 'My Very First Meal of Hot, White Cum.'
Giving up on trying to lick myself, I pulled my foreskin right back and then pushed it forwards again so that it covered the glistening purple head and made a little puckered mouth at the end of it.
Then I did it again, enjoying the feel of the circular opening of my foreskin sliding back across my mushroom head and the way my slit oozed a gob of drool at the exquisite sensation of it.
I did it a few more times, steadily getting more confident, just easing my tight round skin back and forth across my now straining purple helmet.
And then we were off!
I grabbed my cock with my whole hand – fingers and thumb wrapped right around it – and took up a firm, rapid rhythm jerking my foreskin up and down. I was panting and gasping, the sweat now soaking my arm pits, almost overwhelmed by how intense and luxurious it felt.
I wasn't one of these lads who farted about with their pricks over a series of nights, slowly figuring out what feels nice and what doesn't, squeezing a bit here and stroking a bit there. I just grabbed the shaft of it and started quickly and roughly wanking myself off, using pretty much the exact same technique that very first time that I've stuck to all these years I've been doing it.
I opened my legs as wide as I could, for some reason that made it feel even better, and yanked my balls out through my pyjama fly so that they bounced up and down and smacked against my hand as I pumped my fist faster and faster on my grateful dick. I knew full well how noisy I was being, with my bed creaking like a see-saw and my bed-sheets thumping like a drum, but this was simply far too nice for me to care.
To be honest, I didn't really think about what I was doing: that'll be the "emotional blinkers" thing again that an earlier counsellor mentioned. The fact I was having 'My Very First Wank' hadn't occurred to me until after I'd finished and I realised from all the thick, white fluid that had just spurted from my cock and was making a mess on my tummy, that I'd just experienced my first spunk-up.
While I was doing it, in those brief few minutes, I just lay there with my torch still on, completely mesmerised by my hand sweeping faster and faster as it pounded up and down my now painfully hard cock.
I was panting and sweating, and feeling a little bit scared by how frantically my hand was now hammering up and down my throbbing cock but was unable to muster up the willpower to stop myself. My face must have been scarlet and my pyjamas soaked and yet my hand kept beating at my dick, the incredible feelings from it surging in waves up my spine and making me gasp and whimper.
If my step-dad had bothered to traipse up to the loo during the break in 'The South Bank Show' he'd have heard it all going on in my bedroom: the sound of my bed screeching like it was being sawn in two; the rapid beating of my fist against my bed covers getting faster and faster; and maybe the sound of me myself, breathless and grunting as I discovered the first of many tricks my rock hard cock could do.
I don't reckon he did, though. Before school the next morning, I looked at him and my mam to see if they seemed at all different with me, but neither of them did and so I figure my first time enjoying the love of my right hand had gone totally unnoticed.
At the very least, as with my all matters sexual, my step-dad would have looked away and blushed.
For the first couple of minutes I must have just marvelled at my own cock as it enjoyed being wanked off for the first of many, many times: engrossed to see how much bigger my hand was making it grow and how the head of it looked so plump and shiny, puffing up so fat it was a like an over-ripe plum.
But I soon grew bored of that. I'd seen my own hard-on countless times before and, while it was nice to see it in its new-found glory, hardening and swelling to a size it had never yet achieved, I found it was far more fun to think about other lads' cocks and whether their owners – the boys in my PE class to be more precise – did to theirs under their bedsheets what I was doing to mine. How much sexier would theirs look when they were rubbing at them like this; how much thicker and longer would they grow from the dangly little peckers that flopped around in the showers?
"You're absolutely sure of that?" Philip asked. "That very first time, you thought of other boys' dicks?"
"Of course I did," I shrugged. "Mine's nice enough, but other ones are so much more interesting."
Lying there gasping and soaked with sweat, I thought about my friend Taylor, who used to stand alongside me at the bench when we got undressed before sport. He was a really weedy lad but he had a lovely, full cock and I always enjoying sneaking glances at the whopping great bulge it made in his tight white pants when he pulled his black trousers down.
The mental picture of Taylor's well-packed briefs made my own fist-pounded hard-on twitch with delight as I grabbed it more tightly underneath my bed-clothes. When I thought about how he looked naked in the showers – his big, fat prick dangling down between his legs and looking totally disproportionate to his scrawny body – it sent bolts of sheer pleasure coursing up to my brain.
So that was how it worked, then? Your dick felt better when you thought about other dicks. It must be like at school, when the teachers say that your writing gets better when you read other people's writing, just like your own drawing and music also benefit from studying other people's stuff.
It just worked that way with knobs too. It stood to reason; there was no point even questioning it.
Another lad in my PE group was Gibby and thinking about his cock made my own feel just so, so good. He was dead short but when he showered among all us naked lads, I could swear his pronger used to get much bigger. I mean, it never stood up or anything – he'd have been the laughing stock if it had – but he seemed to love showing it off, washing himself flamboyantly with his hips pushed forwards and his dick looking so big and heavy, smiling at anyone who he saw checking it out.
One week, I'd made a point of noticing that when Gibby first took his pants off, his saggy nut-bag hung down much lower than his stubby-looking knob. But in the showers, when he was flaunting his bits and soaping himself down like he thought he was a porn star, his cock steadily thickened up and slowly lengthened downwards until it was hanging about twice as low as his hairy bollocks. Maybe to him that was a full-scale hard-on; maybe he just had really droopy boner.
I don't know that Gibby was necessarily gay but he was definitely an out-and-out exhibitionist. He loved it when other people were looking at his pumped-up prick, seeming all the bigger because of how he was so short. He didn't even blush when the teacher came in; I think he liked to see Mr Coltman's face looking envious at how little Robert Gibson had a knob that went halfway down to his knees and was probably even bigger than his own man-sized dick.
During 'My Very First Wank', I thought about how some weeks when Gibby was really putting on a show, his foreskin would roll back from his bell-end so you could see his little red slit poking out from underneath it. To me back then, that was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen and I used to have get the hell out of the showers as quick as I could in case my own knob would bone up and everyone would start jeering and pointing at my stiffie.
So there I was lying there, having all these lovely thoughts about how nice Gibby's cock looked and wondering if he lay in his bed pulling away on it like I was now with mine. How cool would that be, watching his hand beating up and down his nice meaty hard-on, seeing his foreskin roll right back and expose the big, red helmet that had for so many weeks fascinated me.
I thought of a few other lads in my PE group too with pretty much the same enticing images flashing through my brain until I came to Vaughan Macadam, or Macca for short, who got changed opposite me. I'm not sure I ever spoke to the guy but he will always be special to me as the subject of my very first ever spunk-up.
There's another nice glossy book for the shelves at Tesco. Not so colourful this one though: mainly just different shades of cream.
Macca used to climb on the long bench that ran down the middle of the changing room stark bollock naked and do a stupid dance that made his cock and balls jiggle around. He seemed to revel in it and would do it just about every PE lesson and all his mates, much rowdier lads than me, would clap and cheer as he paraded himself for them. It wasn't like they were making him do it: Macca was one of the coolest guys in our year-group and he'd only go and do stuff like that if he wanted to.
I don't think he was an exhibitionist, like Gibby certainly was: after all, his cock never showed the slightest reaction when he was doing his stupid dance. I think he just liked to make his mates laugh and clap and tell him what a nutter he was, and probably enjoyed the looks of shock on the quieter boys in the group.
I used to love to watch him jumping about like that, almost in a trance at the sight of his dick and nuts bouncing around, one minute slapping side-to-side against both his thighs and then leaping up and down and whacking against his pubes. It was quite beautiful in a way and would have looked even more stunning if you could have filmed it and played it back frame-by-frame in slow motion.
I said that to Philip but he wasn't impressed.
I said, "It's a pity there weren't mobile phones with cameras on them back in those days. I'd have spent each week sneakily recording the changing room and then played it back over and over up in my bedroom."
"And no doubt you'd have had a criminal record a whole lot earlier," he retorted. "You'd have ended up on the sex offender's register for doing something like that."
"I meant when I was that age myself," I was quick to point out. "I'm not into dodgy stuff, as well you know."
"I know that," Philip replied. "And I meant that too. But even teenagers who film other teenagers can find themselves in very hot water."
"What, you mean they end up all sorts of lists?"
Philip nodded. "So I think it's best you were limited to the technology of the eighties, Jason, don't you?"
I nodded back. "Christ. I'd have had my name on just about every database going."
It's a good job, then, that the movie fuelling my first wank was just playing in my head.
So thinking of Macca's knob brought me gasping and whimpering to my first – shall we say – unexpected orgasm, though not with the memory of him jumping about like an idiot on the bench, but what he might look like stood there with his dick at full-mast in front of us all, doing what I was doing with his hand sweeping up and down it. That was the image that brought me off: one of the most laddish of all lads who was in my year at school, whacking away at his big hard dick on the bench with his mates all cheering and clapping, and me peering up at it with dumbstruck awe.
I can still remember it clearly: the vivid mental picture that made my cock start spewing. Macca's cock was right in front of my face: its huge domed helmet glistening and dribbling while his hand pounded fast and hard up and down the imposing shaft. He looked down at me, leering broadly at how shocked I looked, and then directed the purple head of it forwards to fire off a massive wad of spunk straight into my face.
A fairly appropriate image to cap off a cock worshipper's first wank, don't you think?
I could elaborate that final climax-inducing image and say that the position of the strip light behind him made it look like his crotch had its own radiance, giving his cock a golden and glorious aura as his hand jerked away at it, but Philip would see straight through a trick like that. He's not stupid is our Philip. He plays it dumb sometimes but he sees through most of my shenanigans as quick as a flash.
One day when I walked into his office, before we'd even said hello, he glanced at the lump I was making in my trackie bottoms and threw me a look of scolding reproach.
"What now?" I said by way of greeting.
"You seem to be bulging somewhat, Jason. I hope you're not up to your old tricks again."
"What old tricks?" I asked, knowing full well what he meant, and making sure I crossed my legs when I sat down on the chair.
"You know which tricks. Wearing a penis ring and loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms," he said. "Strutting around outside of the pound-shop in town, advertising your wares and hoping another man will make eye-contact."
"It's nothing like that," I retorted. "I was just in a rush and didn't have time to find a pair of clean undies."
"So if you were to pull your tracksuit bottoms down right now, you wouldn't be wearing a ring around the base of your shaft to make it look more prominent? Is that what you're telling me?"
"Er... yeah... kind of," I tried, admittedly dismally unpersuasively.
"Would you like to prove it to me?" he asked.
"Hang on! That wasn't the part of the deal," I came straight back with. "I just had to turn up here and talk to you about stuff. There was nowt about having to flash my dick off to you."
He smirked and nodded. He knew my game.
"You must stop doing this, Jason," he went on, more quietly and with his eyes more compassionate. "You know what'll happen – you know full well. Some guy with throw you a nod, the two of you will head off to the nearest toilet stall, and then security will see what you're up to in there and call the police. And as you've already got a suspended sentence for your other misdemeanours, we both know where it is you'll end up."
I shrugged. "At least I'll get my teeth done for free. A lad I knew went in for a stint and came out with a nice new smile – top set and bottom. Would have cost him twenty grand if he'd had it done himself."
"Is that actually true?" Philip asked with some interest. Now I had him weighing up the costs and benefits of a spell inside. He'll probably be ordering himself a cock ring and pair of trackie bottoms to swan around the High Street in next.
But seriously, though, a few months in prison doesn't really worry me. Imagine all the cocks to worship: all those horny, boned-up knobs that are desperate for a bit of kindness and attention. It wouldn't even worry me if things got a bit rough in there sometimes: whatever predicaments I'd find myself in, chances are I've already done stuff like that before and chances are I've done it in worse places than a prison shower. So I can't see whatever goes on behind bars could really be that bad.
The day after 'My Very First Wank' the end of my cock stung like anything. Next morning at registration I was almost grimacing with the jabbing pains coming from my bell-end and kept having to fiddle with myself during lessons to try and stop it hurting so much.
Maybe all lads get that. Maybe the male teachers who noticed me keep wincing and having to adjust my prick were thinking, "Oh aye, so Jason Kason's just started bashing his meat off, has he?"
Maybe if I'd been a bit more switched on and looked around at my classmates, I'd have noticed that every single other lad, one-by-one, was having his own special day when he would keep flinching and tweaking the front of his trousers. I'd have liked that – seeing each boy in the class figure out in his own time and his own unique way how his cock and his hand made really good friends.
All of us slowly joining the wanker's club but none of us saying a word about it to each other.
So anyway, that nasty searing pain quickly died away and I started rubbing away at my hard-on pretty much every night from then on. Sometimes I'd sneak a quick one on my bed when I got in from school and sometimes I'd have one first thing while I was in the shower.
And all the time, when I was merrily wanking off, I kept thinking about as many cocks as I could, seeing nothing at all unusual about that until the catalogue incident, several years later, with my former-mate Edgy. I'd try and clearly memorise what everyone's cocks looked like in the showers after PE: that almost never failed to fuel a good wank. But some of my closest friends weren't in my PE group and I had to just imagine what theirs might look like or sort of mentally construct them from odd flashes I might glimpse when we were taking a pee. When that failed, I always had my mam's catalogue to fall back on but even she could sometimes get funny about how often I looked at it especially as I never picked out anything I wanted.
So I had a stash of a few other bits and pieces underneath my old art folder at the bottom of my wardrobe. There was a cutting I'd kept from 'Smash Hits' magazine of the fellas from Spandau Ballet wearing just loin cloths: that was just incredible as the five of them were all a bit sweaty and the third one in – I had no idea of any of their names – had a really pronounced bulge that was made all the better for being a bit ambiguous as to whether it was being made by his cock or his balls. I had a picture I'd found on the back of a 45 single which showed Grace Jones and her brother both in the nuddie; him with this mammoth black monster out front that would need deifying rather than mere worshipping. And, underneath those, I had a small collection of pictures I'd cut out of the Sunday magazines showing the likes of Boris Becker, Jason Donovan and Matt Goss, all with their shorts or trunks showing off fascinating lumps.
It was all laughably tame compared to what's around these days, but any one of them could easily get a good wank underway when my memory or my imagination just wouldn't cut it.
One day when I was off school sick, I must have been consigned to my bedroom and feeling piss bored. For some reason I got out my collection of 'Guinness Book of Records' that my gran bought me every Christmas and which were never normally opened except from a sense of duty on Christmas morning. I had absolutely no interest in them but had never had the heart to tell her – the poor old bugger probably couldn't think of stuff to buy a teenaged lad – so they just got filed away on my bookshelf, all in pristine condition.
Anyway, I was having a rifle through them – like I say, I must have been bored out my mind – and after I'd looked up stuff about who was the fattest person who'd ever lived and who could eat the most boiled eggs before chucking up, I flicked to the sports pages.
Now I remember the rest of this day very clearly because it was the first day I ever wanked off five times in a row.
It was the cricketers that did it for me. It was nice enough that when you saw them from the back you could always make out the really obvious of their underwear against their crisp white trousers, but the big hefty mounds they were packing out front were just out of this world. I can't remember why I was sick from school, but my illness didn't stop my dick standing up on permanent hard-on all through that day.
For a brief time, I actually got into cricket. Well, I bought a sticker album and started collecting the stickers showing all the players bending, batting and bowling in their tight white trousers, which is near enough the same.
It was years later that I found out that cricketers only pack huge bulges in their crotches and have really prominent underwear lines on their arses because of the cups and jock straps that they have to wear. All those wanks I used to have had been under false pretences; all those 'Guinness Book of Records' hardbacks pored over with a magnifying glass when in reality there hadn't been a single cock making as much as a dimple.
Anyway, that's my potted history of self-abuse all the way from 'My Very First Wank' that Sunday evening, through to the infamous catalogue incident with Edgy, which I've already told you.
I feel like this has turned out to be a rambling journal entry so sorry about that. No doubt in my next session, Philip will want me to continue writing about the whole father figure fetish thing he reckons I've got going on.
Thinking about it though, it's probably best when he guides me about what I should write here. There's no way I'd have admitted that before I tried writing under my own steam, but he's probably right to give me a bit of direction.
So maybe treat this one as a sort of interlude in my chronicle (or should that be 'gospel'?) of cock worship before we get back on track next time.