Quite by accident one night I discovered that from the second floor of my house I could look right down the slats of their closed Venetian blinds and into the room itself. It was quite an experience for an impressionable young boy, now twelve years old, not because I was able to see the girls undress and walk around naked, which alone was good enough, but because they were lesbians and I had never seen or heard of such things.
I had a pretty good view of their bed, and my dad's binoculars made it much better. I watched them make love with the fascination of a scientist discovering a new life process under the microscope. One girl was kind of fat, but they both had pretty faces. I watched them sucking each other off (which seemed nauseating to me at the time), kissing and rubbing against each other with a wild abandon that I couldn't then understand. It gave a new stimulus to my fantasies as I pictured myself with them, positive in my knowledge that they would rather have me than each other.
It was great while it lasted, which wasn't very long. After about a month they moved out and the people who owned the house turned the room into a storeroom. I never forgave them.
Then I developed what I thought was a major problem. I began to grow tits. Being very narcissistic, I looked at myself often in the bedroom mirror, growing a tremendous hard-on and examining it from every angle. I borrowed my mother's tape measure and measured it carefully from top and bottom, not yet knowing that the time was coming when I would be considered "hung." I'd let it get half hard and curve down in a graceful arc; then I'd work it up again. It was all such fun.
Of course, I'd make muscles and imitate he-man poses, too. It was in the course of doing this that I noticed my breasts enlarging. My god, I thought, I'm growing tits, just like a girl. From that point on I would examine myself several times a day, and, to my horror, they seemed to be growing larger. I began to imagine all kinds of grotesque things. I would have to buy a bra. Everybody would laugh at me as some kind of freak. I wore loose-fitting shirts and walked hunched over, a condition which my mother blamed on my age. I worried constantly, and when I stripped for gym I put my sweatshirt on as quickly as possible to cover the awful evidence. I began thinking of how I could see my doctor about this embarrassment without my parents finding out.
And then the inevitable happened, I got sick and Dr. Hoffman was called to the house. He sat on the edge of my bed, felt the lymph nodes in my neck, and examined my eyes, ears, nose, and throat. Finally it came. "Open your pajamas," he said, taking out his stethoscope.
"What?" I said, feigning deafness.
"Open your pajamas," he repeated, his thick German accent showing impatience. The jig was up and I knew it. After all, I had only been thinking about seeing him. Now that he was actually on my bed, I had turned a quick chickenshit.
"Mine Gott!" he would say "You've got tits!" And he would probably say that I had some unpronounceable fatal disease. I got the pajamas open, and, cringing in fear, waited for the worst.
He took his stethoscope and put it on my left tit. Right on my left tit. "Breathe deeply," he said.
I breathed deeply, waiting for some sign of astonishment on his face as he noticed my deformity. There was none. He did my right tit, and then banged both tits a bit with his fingers. All he said was that I had a sore tin-oat, gave my mother some medicine for me, and left without so much as a word about my tits.
From that day on I went back to bare chest in gym class and elsewhere. Only years later did I learn that this was a common mental aberration among boys my age. With breast worry behind me, I went back to concentrating on the biggest problem at hand. Getting laid.
Chapter 2
Getting laid was no easy task for a guy my age. I mean, virginity was still treasured by my female contemporaries. Most of them hung on to their hymens for dear life, heeding their parents' warnings of a future of outcast depravity should they lose their virginity. Also, opportunities were limited. The boys still clung together in what the sociologists called peer groups and we called gangs, and so did the girls.
But I was growing up. By the time I was thirteen my puberty had almost pubed. I was shaving a rather heavy beard every day, my voice had lowered considerably, and my body took on the general characteristics of manhood long before most boys of my age.
Of course, we talked about getting laid all the time. Some of the guys told handsome tales of how they had fucked this or that girl in our class. I'm sure some girls lost their "reps" because of these rumors, based upon adolescent fantasies. Some of the guys, not quite willing to lie to such an extent, would say that some girl had wanted to do it with them, that they had gotten her stripped and everything, only to find out that she "had the rag on," since we now knew all about that. Thus, the boy would get sympathy for being so close to "scoring" and the girl would have her reputation saved by the grace of a little imaginary blood. That way nobody got hurt except the gullible fools who believed the tales and tried to date the girl in question, only to find that either her parents didn't let.her date yet, or if they did, to find a hard hand across their face when they got fresh.
We didn't spend all of our time thinking about sex. Just most of it. We all were very normal. We attended school, played at sports, pursued hobbies, spent time with friends and parents, etc. It was only the other ninety percent of the time that we concentrated on sex.
At our age there were two basic groups of boys. There were those who turned all of their energy to sports, memorizing the names, numbers, and batting averages of all the players in the major leagues and keeping meticulous track of all the player trades in the new pro-football circuit. We thought of those guys as retarded and frequently snickered at them in the hallways as they walked, uncaring, past beautiful sets of knockers, with their heads buried in sports books. Then there were the rest of us, who lived double lives; normal junior-high freshmen with our heavy secret lives of sexual daydreams, reveries, curiosity, and constant masturbation. We considered ourselves, with our knowing bullshit, to be the elite.
Looking back, it was a wonderful feeling not to know what it was like to make love to a woman. Imagination had free reign because the entire subject was still a big question mark in all of our minds. We knew about cunts and breasts. We had seen pictures. And we thought we knew how to do it. It was a combination of true innocence and wishful anticipation that I sometimes long for in the lonely hours.
Soon several things started my life on a new course, which ultimately was to remove me from my school friends and accelerate my maturing process tremendously. I was now thirteen. By the time I was fifteen I would regard boys of my own age as children, with whom I had nothing in common. Everybody I knew would be much older and I would find myself wise much beyond my years.
I was a smart little bastard with an IQ up in the genius range. Schoolwork bored me, but I devoured literature, art, and music like a goose being prepared for pate (another indication that I didn't spend all of my time jacking off).
It was in the field of music that I took off, with a lunge into drums and.other percussion instruments. I had great, natural rhythm and well-developed coordination. Two weeks after starting in the school band I had mastered the twenty-six rudiments of percussion and read music as readily as English. Recognizing this talent, my school music teacher recommended that my parents secure some first-rate private instruction for me, since my drumming abilities had already surpassed his. This they did, and for a while I had one of the best drum teachers in the Bay Area. In school, I was taken out of my beginners' class and put into both advanced band and orchestra with the exalted ninth graders.