A Moderately Revolting Moment in My Childhood, and a Mini-Profile of a Friend I Used to Have
Paul Bernstein
About the same time I discovered what having an orgasm was, I stumbled upon my two best friends in the throes of what was, more than likely, their first sexual encounter.
We were all growing up in Los Angeles, sons of doctors and bankers, and despite our location, ours was a sickeningly banal childhood. Los Angeles in the mid 70s was rife with cocaine and easy sex, while my friends and I were riding our dirt bikes and playing monopoly.
We were also discovering ourselves, and our penises.
I was about 11 years old and I knew that something other than pee would, if properly coaxed, come shooting out of my penis. Intrepid youth that I was, I had to try. I probably tried about a dozen times, and thinking that after much effort and sweating, a little discharge that was not pee did escape from the end of my penis. Nothing but a few drops of a sticky mucus secreted by my bulbourethral gland. That’s it? I thought. Not too exciting, really. I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Of course, I had to try again, as the process was rather intriging, in and of itself.
When I finally did manage to bring myself to climax, I was stunned. I remeber it being a complete loss of control, huge spasms of writhing, foreign sensations of what must have been pleasure take hold of me. It seemed like weeks, although I’m sure that only about five seconds had passed. After I recuperated I realized that I had found my true calling, at the age of 11. I would be a professional masturbator.
Apparently, this sort of event was happening concurrently to my friends. We never really talked about it, but something must’ve taken hold, and other things, other questions about our newly discovered multipurpose penises arose. I remeber looking at my big poster of Farrah Fawcet on my wall and being stirred as the blood rose, thinking that it must be better to have someone else to whack you off, and perhaps invite your penis over for a warm ride in a slippery blanket.
This period of self-dicovery was still rather innocent, of course, upon reflection, it was very private. I didn’t go out to masturbation parties at my friend’s homes. We were still concerned about getting on our dirt bikes and jumping curbs, or avoiding the neighborhood bully.
So one day I went over to Robert’s house. He and Chris were hanging out and I’m sure we were going to find something to get into. Little did I know what they were already up to. I let myself in (Robert’s parents were out, of course) and I make my way upstairs to Rob’s room. It seemed eerily quiet to me, and I didn’t get any response to my calls of hello. I step into Robert’s room, and find him and Chris, essentially naked on Robert’s bed. They have obvious litttle pre-pubescent erections and are writhing and giggling. I remember standing there with my jaw dropped. "What are you guys doing?" I said, not feeling particularly clever at the moment. "It’s fun, why don’t you join us," one of them responded. I can’t recall which one, but it was probably Robert.
Robert was plagued by being born into a great, loving family, with very strong moral convictions (Southern Presbyterians) but they were also strangely liberal in their views about social issues. Nobody, and I mean NOBODY in Los Angeles (or anywhere else in the country) recycled cans and newspapers in 1975. They did. That’s just the tip of the ice burg for this family. But then there was Robert. I think he was born on the wrong side of the bed. Our homes shared a common back property line, and we were about the same age, so of course we became friends. My mother, who was a good judge of character, disliked and reviled this kid from the day she met him. This kid used to hang out in the bathroom with me (much to my chagrin and embarassment at the time) and expostulate on whether or not pee tasted like orange juice. "Try it and tell me," he would say. Rob was also fascinated (or plagued by) his own excrement. On more than one occasion I spied (and witnessed) his own poor anal hygiene. The scent of feces was palpable from across the room, as his most recent deposit was still sitting in his shorts. It was most likely that he had dug around, scratching his anus, and pulled out a morsel of poo with the size and character of a Hershey’s kiss. Nausiating, indeed. So, not the prettiest of portraits of one of my closest childhood friends.
So I stood there, stammering. "Um... no thanks... I... I... I think I’ll just wait outside til you guys get dressed."
Not much came from the remainder of that afternoon, I believe. And I never did stumble upon them again. I had to wait about 6 more years before I would have my first sexual experience, and to this day, I’ve not wiggled with a man.
 Loafer's #5, Before X-Mas 1995
Gray paper cover (whoop-de-da!). Loafitorial by Peter Schilling Jr. on working for a living; Letters involving heinous acts by Newt Gingrich, creepy basement dwelling, the lonliness of John Engler, Brad Pitt fucking Martha Stewart, Cousin T. moving, among other tidbits; Eric Goodell sits down with his holiness, God; Peter Schilling Jr. on the sadness of Mark "the Bird" Fidrych; Fred Urshgur poem; John Schilling carves up company; Poetic Postcards; Mike Skladany rambles; Andrew Clason's "City Year Diary" begins in the Loaf; Loaferlist on Vegetarianism by Janice Rideout; Tom Loretto loves donuts!; "Evening Poem" by Sherrod Blankner; The poverty of being a grad student part II, by Ursh.; Marilee Mitchard tries to get a handle on the McNutt Brothers; illustrations by Willis, Schwetz, J. Schilling and more. Cover of Santa Claus by Peter Schilling Jr.
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