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I started masturbating
when I was ten. I didn't get anything out of it, insofar as that divine
nectar of the gods goes. Mostly, I just ended up with an irritated penis.
I had devised a method that involved carving a hole in the center of a
bar of soap, then sliding my dick through it over and over. I had a much
smaller penis then. After a few weeks of this, my mother asked me why I
was putting holes in the soap. I didn't touch myself again for two years.
After my rape of the Ivory (was it the soap's boastful
claims to purity that I felt the instinctive need to sully?) and my recommencement
of onanistic activity, I started feeling the need to enhance my "alone
time" with a bit of theatrics. (It's a terrible curse to have been born on the
cusp of that first generation lacking any shred of an attention span.) Things
started out simply enough: a Victoria's Secret catalog that I "borrowed" from
the home of a neighbor, various sex manuals with helpful line drawings that my
parents had closeted away from my curious adolescent eyes, the rare High
Society magazine that I acquired by trading my Wade Boggs rookie card. I
would close my eyes as my fist blazed a trail up and down the shaft of my penis,
imagining that those mute, two-dimensional beauties were right in front of me,
begging for me to give them my hot load. And give it to them I did: I must have
spilled my seed across the pages of thousands of centerfolds and lingerie models,
sealing them shut forever, then burying them in the woods next to our house so
that I could avoid my mother's cross-examination: Kevin, what are all these
magazines doing under your mattress, and why do none of them open? The humiliation
of the soap-hole inquisition had stung me well. I was resolved to avoid my mother's
Gestapo-like pryings into my penile affairs.
Of course, the innocence of printed images became boring.
It wasn't long before I discovered my father's stash of silent eight-millimeter
porn films. (To develop a true appreciation for the internet, I think that every
teenage male should have to try and load a reel of film with an insistent hard-on
and fingers slick from Vaseline.) Moving from still photos to actual footage
of people fucking was a personal victory that I equate with launching a dog into
space: it was a small step in the right direction, but hardly the giant leap
my manhood was hankering for. I wanted sound with my porn, heavy breathing and
the Oh Gods I had read so much about in the plastered pages of Penthouse
Forum. Also, I wanted to dispense with the heavy machinery of eight-millimeter
erotica: nothing arouses as much curiosity in a mother's ever-attuned ears as
the sound of film projection equipment whirring away in her son's room at two
in the morning.
I was eventually liberated by a VHS copy of Inside
Seka that my parents had borrowed from the next-door neighbors. Watching
it was pure rapture: Seka was a blonde  goddess,
and because I had dealt with silent porn for so long, her orgasmic voice was
a delight beyond compare. In one scene which was mildly moving, she phoned her
husband and let him listen as she became entwined in a threesome. I watched that
scene again and again.
At night, when I couldn't risk the light from the television
flickering in the dark house, I adjusted the controls so that the screen went
black, then lowered the volume and pressed my ear to the speaker as I roughed
up my rod. Eventually, the tape mysteriously vanished, most likely back to the
neighbors' house. And I can only guess that it was my repeated picture-free viewing
of that scene that led me to phone sex in later years.
At first, I called the pay services. But when my phone
bill reached an excruciating $3,000 one month, I knew I had to seek other answers.
I turned to America Online, the best place in the world to find hot and willing
girls who also have a fetish for auditory pleasures. A lot of the women I talked
to just liked to listen while I stroked myself, but there was one girl I spoke
with on a regular basis who had a mouth and mind like no other. She said she
wanted me to fuck her in the ass, then come on her face. (I wish to hell I knew
what in a man's childhood turns him on to facial shots. I don't remember Freud
covering that one.)
After one particularly memorable phone encounter, during
which she implored me to take on the role of her father and punish her for doing
bad things with her poodle (I never clarified if this was a euphemism or an actual
dog), she said, "You know, I have a video of me playing with my pussy. Would
you like to see it sometime?" I was overcome with such a  sudden
state of delirium that I felt the room begin to sway and pitch, and I panted
an eager, "YES!" She said, "Okay. . . but you have to make me
a tape of yourself and send it first."
I wasn't too keen on this. First, I didn't have quick
access to a video camera. I also didn't know if I could pull it off. It's bad
enough when someone can see how foolish and maniacal you look during sex. I imagine
that most people look like village idiots while working themselves. With some
hesitation, I told her I would see what I could do, which was a complete fabrication.
I had no intention of going through with it. Ever. Maybe at some point, if I
met this particular girl, I would film myself with her, but that was the extent
to which I was willing to document my flushed and naked body.
However, I've never really been a man of conviction.
This is why, shortly after her request, I decided to borrow my parents' camcorder
while visiting their house.
I set it up on the tripod, figured out where to aim it
and stripped down to nothing. As I prepared the little hog for the camera, I
found myself without lubrication. Some men will swear by the comfort of their
own pre-ejaculate and sweaty palm, but having rubbed myself to the point of drawing
blood on more than one occasion, I had learned a little something about my own
limits regarding friction. (Besides, I have sensitive skin, and I regard my use
of vitamin E-enriched lubricants as a way of not only protecting myself from
the weathering agents of masturbation, but also as my way of keeping it smooth
for the ladies.)
Unfortunately, on this trip home, I didn't bring my own
lotion. The only tube I knew of was in my parents' room. I had tried too many
times in my youth to steal into the folks' bedchamber after they were asleep
to plunder their supply of K-Y jelly, only to be thwarted by my mother's uncanny
ability to sense when anyone was in her room. After some contemplation, I visited
the kitchen and spooned out a half-cup of butter-flavored Crisco. I wondered
for a moment if using such a cooking substance might alter the taste of my penis
in some way, but I imagined it could only be for the better. I went back downstairs,
greased myself with the vegetable shortening, and went to town.
I was putting on a stellar performance, with some obligatory
moaning (my off-camera moments of personal pleasure take place in relative silence;
I really see no need to voice my satisfaction to myself). I was rubbing my balls
with one hand, trying to take advantage of the full range of my skills. I contemplated
fingering my asshole, but I thought that might be a bit much on my first tape.
You have to save something for an encore. (My father taught me this, although
I suppose my execution of his wisdom was pretty far from what he had in mind.)
I made eye contact with the camera, trying my best to look sexy, but the light
that indicated the camera was recording had gone out.
I stopped to check the machine, decided the tape was
screwed up, and began to look for another one. Because I was doing all of this
on the fly, I hadn't had time to buy a tape beforehand. The folks were all out
of blanks, so I grabbed one off the top of the television. If there was  something
important on it, they would just have to deal with it. I found another tape marked Perry
Mason T.V. Movie and quickly decided my dad wouldn't miss Raymond Burr's
later work.
The new tape worked fine. I got back in front of the
camera and went to it. What the camera couldn't see was that I had dialed in
the Spice Channel. Some up-and-coming porn starlet was giving her all to Peter
North. It was getting me in a very serious mindset about my task at hand, and
I could feel my impending orgasm building.
I scooted a little closer to the camera to let it go
with my patented cry: "I'm fucking coming!" I cleaned myself off, stopped
the tape and put it in for review. It was brilliant. I couldn't wait to send
it out. I packed the camera back up and put the tape in my bag for my return
trip to New York the next day.
Actually, it wasn't so brilliant. I mean, it was good,
and I looked good. A lot better than I thought I would. But I was facing the
camera. If you're a guy, and you want your penis to look even remotely large
on film, never face the camera: it doesn't capture the length. I shot a good
load, and that looked hot— don't get me wrong. It's just that I was left
feeling like I really hadn't captured the real me. Under the circumstances, though,
it was good enough.
Still, after a few days, something was eating at me about
the tape. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I watched it a few more times,
critiqued it a little more, and realized I bite my lower lip when I masturbate.
Some women might actually find this attractive, but I thought I looked silly.
I had always felt a little insecure about the fact that I masturbate on my knees.
When I share this with people, I get nothing but grief. But that's just how I
feel most comfortable doing it. On tape, it was rather charming.
I just couldn't figure out what kept popping up in my
head like an ambiguous Mentos theme.
Then my mom called.
I had forgotten about the first tape that I had put into
the video camera. I left it on top of the television and had never even glanced
at what I had been recording over: How to Use Your New IBM Computer.
Actually, had I taken a second to look at it, I wouldn't have thought twice about
using it. My parents had owned their computer for more than a year.
My grandfather, however, was a completely different story.
My mom and dad had gone to visit my grandparents to help
them set up their new IBM computer. They took the tape. As I understand it, it
didn't help my grandparents use their computer at all. In fact, it left them
rather puzzled.
When my mom told me this over the phone, thus sparing
me the embarrassment of facing her while the evidence of my perversions was presented,
she explained that my father had nearly shit out his kidneys while trying to
shut off the tape before my grandparents both succumbed to strokes.
"So, what do you have to say for yourself?" she
demanded.
What could I say? I had spent fifteen years of my life
trying to conceal an activity that had suddenly been exposed in the most literal
sense. I cleared my throat and said, "I think I had the wrong camera angle.
Did my wang look small?"
My mother paused, and then with nothing but supportive
matriarchal affection, replied:
"Why, no honey, not at all." n°
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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Kevin Keck has worked as a minor league baseball
announcer, pastry chef and forest ranger. In 1997 he
boxed semi-professionally, losing all but one of his
nineteen bouts within two rounds via knockout; the
exception lasted three rounds. His writing appears
frequently on Nerve.com.
click here for more Kevin Keck articles |
©2002 Kevin Keck and
Nerve.com
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