First Dance
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"Don't let anybody tell you teenage girls are the only ones with a monopoly on the phone," my mother said to my dad as I started toward the stairs with a plate of crackers. Our clunky Cold War era cordless phone was tucked awkwardly against my neck. "She's bitching AGAIN," I whispered as I scurried down into the cool air of the basement and out of range of parental potshots.
But it was true. We were always on the phone. Matt and I had been friends since kindergarten, now with a full year in secondary school under our belts. Now the whole summer was ahead of us. The past year we'd passed notes every day at school, and at night we dominated our family phone lines after dinner. We talked about girls, computer games, nerdy science stuff, and hilariously inaccurate middle-school suppositions about sex. It was pretty typical. I settled in with my plate of crackers.
The conversation bounced from a girl I'd fancied at school to plastic surgery gone wrong to Baywatch actresses to jokes about jerking off.
Hilarious. Teenage boys giggling on the phone at 8:30pm about masturbation. Except, you know, WE didn't do it.
Seriously, that was the entire premise. We giggled about wanking, we offered up successively more detailed descriptions and potential hilarious mishaps. But we'd never tried it. Oh, no. Not us.
I wish I could remember who took the lead. It was probably him, later on it was usually him, but I'd been curious for quite a while now. I had fantasies I didn't know what to do with, but they didn't really trouble me either, so I just kind of followed them where they led and didn't think much else of it. So maybe it was me that started it. I don't know.
One of us asked if the other had gotten horny. If so, what did it feel like? Imagine, one boy asking another if he'd ever been horny.
Anyway, we both admitted that we had, and went on to describe our experiences to each other in clinical detail. I remember he said it felt like a tightness in his lower body and pelvis. He used the word pelvis. It was the kind of word either of us would use. We were smart k**s. He said it felt like a tightness and a … flow, a sort of slow inrush of something like warm honey, that's what it felt like as he started getting hard.
Ah, it must have been him that described it first. I remember this: an erection had been mentioned. The game advanced right then. Now there was an actual penis in play in the conversation. It was the first time one of us had directly mentioned our hard cock, directly acknowledged its existence. I remember it was him, because that's when some deep instinctive part of me knew I needed to keep myself in this delicate dance taking place on the telephone.
We both admitted that we got hard, and that we got hard a LOT, and then we told some funny stories about having a raging boner at school. I had to press on mine sometimes in 7th period math, it always acted up in that class, and there was this girl Amanda sitting next to me. It felt good when I had to press on it though.
We talked about pubes. I definitely had them, though I was almost smooth as a peach everywhere else. He said his were thick, and I said it figured because the hair on his legs was darker than mine. Yeah, that was reasonable. Biology. Made sense.
But back to the getting hard thing. You know, I wonder and I've never asked what he was doing on the other end of the line. I was in my room, on my bed, hard as a rock. My describing to Matt what it felt like to be horny was more of a rush transcript hot off the presses than a description from memory.
One of us asked the other if he'd considered, you know, doing anything about it. Like jerking off? A cloudburst of witty junior high masturbation jokes. A full two minutes circling back to the next Big Question that we'd both gently negotiated onto the table. God, it was like doing crochet on the head of a pin. I was up and pacing now as I sometimes did on the phone, a throbbing inside my jeans starting to ache as well as tingle because it was taking so long.
We admitted we'd both thought about trying it. Accidental touches felt good, especially when we were hard. But we'd never done it! It must be natural, though, we decided.
We talked. For another 90 minutes, at least. Maybe two hours? The battery on the cordless died and I had to get the phone off my dad's desk, hook up the extension cord, and bring it into my room.
There was a lot of good sound reasoning that we accomplished together. By the end, we'd decided that there wasn't anything WRONG with masturbating that we could identify; we doubted there was any terrible consequence we hadn't thought of; and it probably felt really good. That idea was backed by a remarkably accurate description of the feeling of hot semen pooling just before the release, all hypothetical of course.
It was decided. There would be an experiment. We should try it that night and report back first thing the next day after my swimming lessons were over.
A mission! We had a mission. Hanging up the phone did not dispel the thick charge in the air. There was no waiting. I came, stroking myself to a thigh-clenching orgasm in seconds. It was a virtuoso performance for someone who'd insisted he'd never tried masturbating even once. Then an hour of tossing and turning; only after cumming once more could I fall asleep.
* * *
The next day I ran home from the pool. My mom regularly came home from work for lunch - such quaint times - and my dad was irritatingly present as usual with his endless unemployment. There were chores to be done and criticisms to be heard when I got home. I raced through them all with an eye toward maximum speed. I had cum twice, then I had slept. That meant I could cum again, and that charge was back, in the air, in my head, seeping down into my belly like warm incandescent honey. For the first time in my life I was PURSUING something sexual. A goal. Not consciously, yet, mind you; I'm pretty sure the doublethink took care of that. But something was about to happen.
My mom went back to work. My dad had to grocery shop. A secure line was established.
"So how was it?"
We described it. We told each other in rich detail what masturbating felt like. That tightness, that warmth, that insistent hardness. Encircling ourselves with our hand. The instinctive stiffening response to doing so. Stroking. How fast? He'd settled on fast. I liked medium. Both of us had a way more sensitive head than shaft, that was notable. We'd stroked a while. How long? I tried to make up an answer that sounded best. Five or six minutes?
Then that feeling. Yeah, it was just like we'd "imagined" last night. Everything getting tighter. Urgency. A runaway feedback loop. And at the moment of truth, that … pooling. And then, release. Semen shot into the air! How much? How far? What did it look like?
And somehow, after three hours of an agonizingly delicate dance the night before, after all the making sure it was safe, the next day we got right down to business. We took only twenty minutes for an erotic note comparison on last night's experiment, and then one of us suggested we try it together.
I wish I could remember who. Almost certainly him. I think. It was dizzying.
* * *
I climbed the low hill to his house on my ten-speed like a tornado was driving me across the sun-baked Kansas landscape. It wasn't just dizzying, it was EXCITING. My heart was pounding. I'd thought about being sexual before, with girls at school or on TV, with guys at school even, but it was always abstract. There was never a goal until now.
We'd escalated this in twenty minutes on the phone, and I was racing toward his house on my bike, and then I got there, and then we had to deal with the face-to-face reality of seeing each other after an entirely new dimension had sprung into being in our relationship. We had a snack and dispensed with the awkwardness quickly, or so we thought. We were going to do this. There was no question about that, awkwardness or no.
But immediately, another challenge. Having moved to Matt's bedroom, we'd both stripped down to our briefs. We wore white featureless Hanes instead of k**'s briefs, now, because we were young men. Graduating to generic underwear came with things like wearing deodorant and watching one's chin for something to shave. I was painfully aware of the slight bulge stirring under the thin cotton between my legs. A silence.
Now we had to get naked in front of one another.
Matt was always a bit bigger and a bit tougher than me. While it didn't keep me up at night, there was a constant subtle awareness of it grating in my consciousness, even since kindergarten. The seeds of competition had been planted when we first met, him threatening me on the playground the first day. That conflict might have flowered about now, at 14, when our balls were dropping, our cocks thickening, and our attitudes getting worse. But it would turn out that what was beginning right now would keep this competition from flaring too much.
At the moment, though, the dynamic in the room was fuel for paranoia on my part. Smaller, bonier, and suddenly realizing I was probably not as well-endowed, I feared an elaborate prank. We negotiated; I insisted on a foolproof system to disprove any ruses or traps. We memorized what each other's briefs looked like - presumably to prevent the use of any handy extra pairs for deception - and then I went into the closet and he went into the foyer to his bedroom. On the count of 3, we'd both toss our underwear into the middle of the room. Then on the next count of 3, we'd walk out at the same time, nude. It was agreed.
In the closeness of the closet, I could hear my own breathing as I shucked off my underwear, stepping out one foot at a time. I picked up the garment. It was dark around me. The air was tingling. My cock, formerly uncertain, was uncertain no more. It was a live wire between my legs. One. Two. Three.
My briefs collided with Matt's in mid-air, dropping to the plain carpet. A beat. He'd counted for the briefs, now I'd count for the walk.
I leaped into the unknown. One. Two. Three.
We both strode forward simultaneously and looked. We were both at full mast.
He chuckled. "Mine's bigger." Asshole.
We looked some more. There were differences. We compared closely and with great interest. Matt's penis was about seven and a quarter inches long to my six and a half. His was a little thicker, too, but the head of my penis was bigger than his, more pronounced in a mushroom flare away from my shaft. Matt had a more obvious ridge down the underside. His glans was shiny, mine was faintly rough. Extra skin bunched up a little behind his head. We had no idea about this yet, but I was cut and he wasn't. My hard cock hung suspended at 90 degrees from my body. Matt's, darker than mine, stood up stiffly only 45 degrees out from his belly, as if ready to pounce.
Matt had darker, thicker pubic hair than me but mine was longer, a wild tuft at the base of my cock compared to his dense carpet. My balls were tiny just then. I remember it was cold in his bedroom. It was mid-June but he had central air. His sack was tight, too, and surprisingly dark compared to mine which was almost the same tone as my shaft. His balls hugged low below his erect cock, like a taut plum. They weren't as hairy as mine.
It was quickly decided that we'd hang a centerfold he'd managed to steal on the wall - one that he'd kept only for academic interest and never masturbated over before, of course. Then we'd try jerking off together. Matt was a lot more comfortable calling it "J.O.," so we settled on that term and would use it forevermore.
So we stood, about four feet from each other, him leaning against his high bed, me against the desk. We looked at the centerfold, sometimes nervously at each other, and started to stroke tentatively. Eye contact was a little dangerous, but our roaming eyes weren't always on the centerfold. Matt had had the foresight to find paper towels. They lay on his bed, a nod to the reality of what was to come.
It was unsatisfying. Simultaneously, we were realizing: this wasn't what we'd set out to do.
"This isn't really working that well," Matt said after a couple minutes of slow stroking, neither of us wanting to cum.
Again, I don't remember the words. I just remember the first phone call taking hours, the decision to try this together taking minutes, and the decision to jerk each other off taking seconds. The longest part of the process was deciding who would go first.
Matt would go first. Meaning he would cum first. I remember him sitting down on the high twin bed, me standing next to him now. His bed was high enough that he could barely sit on the edge, but it was just the right angle for his penis to stand perfectly vertical, straining toward the ceiling. His glans was shiny, purple, expectant. He had paper towels at the ready now. Dangerous eye contact. He smiled a bit. We were nervous and thrilled and throbbing hard. So, so hard.
The moment of truth: I reached out with my right hand. I encircled his stiffness. Matt's skin was slick with a thin coating of the Vaseline we'd decided was an obvious requirement since the jokes all mentioned it. My top two fingers touched the head of his cock first, then the next two curling around the top of his shaft, finally my thumb brushing that sensitive sweet spot where the skin of his uncut frenulum met the bottom of his slit. My hand was around another boy's cock. He let out a breath he'd been holding. I was surprised by the urgent heat under my fingers.
It was weird! Once you learn to masturbate, your hand and your cock are forevermore connected. At least mine were. They were two parts of the same organism, and I couldn't feel my cock without my cock feeling my hand, if that makes any sense. The sensation of my hand on my penis always scribbled over the sensation of my penis in my hand and so in a sense I didn't know what touching a penis FELT like. Until now. It was new and thrilling and I felt a tightening inside my chest and my balls at the same time.
My hand slipped down a little. Matt's glans felt as smooth as it looked. He was very, very erect. His shaft felt foreign, like something inflated. My fingers tightened a little, curling around and over the ridge on the underside of his cock. It was prominent enough to be easily felt, one strong main chamber engorged to the fullest, two more stiff to the sides, familiar anatomy but not my own anatomy. I slid my hand further down, my thumb leaving its nest between the meeting point of his corona. My hand now nestled at the base of his cock. I felt the soft bristle of his pubic hair.
And then, still tentative, the journey back up.
This time the curl of my index finger crested over the top of Matt's head, just reaching the top of his slit. He drew in a sharp breath. Sensitive.
It didn't take long to lose the hesitation. I moved a little closer to him for a better angle. I stroked, not squeezing but not too light, about the best I could figure after sneaking peeks earlier at how he used just his fingers when he stroked himself. I couldn't tear myself away from the show I was watching unfold right before my eyes, almost like I was standing next to myself as I pleasured my friend's cock. It was fascinating. His balls were practically gone. His glans, purple before, had darkened further. Within moments, he'd stiffened well beyond when I first touched him, his penis now actively resisting my hand if I moved against its angle. I could hear him breathing. He looked distracted.
This was what we'd set out to do.
After the previous several minutes of nervous and unfulfilling solo stroking, it couldn't have taken more than 90 seconds. Almost without warning, his breathing quickened and then caught. His cock stiffened even further in my hand, pushing against me as I rubbed near his glans. I was just lifting my eyes to his face as he came. It's frozen in my mind forever, his unfocused half-smile giving way to pleasure, and a thin shot of semen reaching its vertex in the air between his face and mine as we locked eyes briefly.
With sudden return to habit in the midst of his orgasm, he moved the neglected paper towels into place, but not before his second shot escaped. It was nearly as high as the first. Impressive. I didn't see the rest, but I instinctively continued stroking as he pulsed under my hand. I didn't stop until he relaxed a little.
There weren't many words in between his turn and mine. I recall an admission that it was "way better than when I did it myself." Pretty soon I was sitting on the bed. By now, for me, there was no awkwardness any more. After seeing and feeling Matt's journey from nervous expectance to orgasm, I was REALLY turned on. I have to wonder how it was for him, the first time being sexual with someone, particularly another boy, having to jerk me off after he'd already cum. I never did know, or ask, but he showed no second thoughts or hesitation.
It's hard to describe the first time you feel another person touch your penis in a truly sexual way. I'd played doctor - or our more accurate name for it, "Private Stuff," with a couple neighborhood k**s years before. We were k**s, though, not teenagers. Making up weird rituals with the girl up the street definitely carried a similar charge, but this was way, way more powerful. This was DRIVEN. I was rock hard. My balls sent out a sudden tiny shock of pleasure, something I'd never felt before.
Matt reached out. I watched his hand traveling toward me, and as he did I noted how his fingers were paler and longer than mine. He touched me there. My cock stiffened immediately, a reflex I'd later realize was completely out of my control. He stroked the top with just his fingertips once, almost contemplating, but not lingering. I remember his fingers traveling up my shaft and over the flare of my head just before his hand surrounded me in earnest.
His touch was quite cool. Maybe he was still a bit nervous. It was so foreign. So completely new. His first couple strokes were experimental, then he got a good position and lightly stroked me, up and down, more with his fingertips than with his whole hand, just like he stroked himself before. That wasn't how I did it. I liked to use my whole hand unless I was backing off from cumming. It was so new. The unfamiliarity and the coolness of his touch bought me about thirty seconds before I really began to respond. Suddenly the honey spread. My nerves lit up, pleasure referring out from my penis down my legs. I was hyper-aware of the heaviness in my testicles. A glowing bubble formed in my belly and traveled up, spreading warmth into my tightening chest, just like I'd described on the phone. I felt the lock-in, the beginning of the feedback loop that I'd discovered a little over two years before in the school bathroom when class became too boring to put up with.
I wasn't near the edge yet, but Matt's fingers on me, rising and falling, added energy to the loop with each stroke. His fingertips instinctively tracked my underside ridge. There was a sweet spot on it right at my circumcision scar. Sometimes he wouldn't go below the scar, his fingers staying up near my head for a few strokes before returning back down. It was just inconsistency; he couldn't have known, but that was the very best way to touch that spot I'd ever found.
The base of his index finger brushed the top of my mushroom flare with each rise. The bottom of his hand settled into my pubes at each fall. It wouldn't be long now. There was a rhythm. It was steady. My legs glowed. The centerfold on the wall was forgotten. I watched his hand on my cock like I always watched my own. My belly was full. The pressure built. I locked in. His fingertips slid right over the magic spot at the bottom of my slit. My breathing caught and I stiffened. His hand traveled back down. A hot pooling inside, behind my balls. Back up. He was changing his grip a little. I was losing it. The heel of his palm suddenly came in warm contact with the side of my impossibly stiff cock. An unexpected fat bead of white welled up, hanging there for an instant. I went over the edge.
"Catch it," I heard him say from across the ocean fifteen years later, my hand fumbling with the paper towels as the third thick rope of my semen reached its apex a few inches above my cock. Matt wasn't stopping, he was a champ, he kept stroking me as I came. I saw a fourth pulse of cum before I got the towels in place, their roughness unexpected against my still-spasming penis. His hand away glistening.
After a moment, I breathed again.
"Wow," I said.
A couple hours later that afternoon, we did it again.
I have only one regret. I wish I'd stood up to Matt's characteristically orderly habit of catching his ejaculation with paper towels. Of the hundreds of times we came together in the future, that was one of just a handful that I ever actually saw.
But it was true. We were always on the phone. Matt and I had been friends since kindergarten, now with a full year in secondary school under our belts. Now the whole summer was ahead of us. The past year we'd passed notes every day at school, and at night we dominated our family phone lines after dinner. We talked about girls, computer games, nerdy science stuff, and hilariously inaccurate middle-school suppositions about sex. It was pretty typical. I settled in with my plate of crackers.
The conversation bounced from a girl I'd fancied at school to plastic surgery gone wrong to Baywatch actresses to jokes about jerking off.
Hilarious. Teenage boys giggling on the phone at 8:30pm about masturbation. Except, you know, WE didn't do it.
Seriously, that was the entire premise. We giggled about wanking, we offered up successively more detailed descriptions and potential hilarious mishaps. But we'd never tried it. Oh, no. Not us.
I wish I could remember who took the lead. It was probably him, later on it was usually him, but I'd been curious for quite a while now. I had fantasies I didn't know what to do with, but they didn't really trouble me either, so I just kind of followed them where they led and didn't think much else of it. So maybe it was me that started it. I don't know.
One of us asked if the other had gotten horny. If so, what did it feel like? Imagine, one boy asking another if he'd ever been horny.
Anyway, we both admitted that we had, and went on to describe our experiences to each other in clinical detail. I remember he said it felt like a tightness in his lower body and pelvis. He used the word pelvis. It was the kind of word either of us would use. We were smart k**s. He said it felt like a tightness and a … flow, a sort of slow inrush of something like warm honey, that's what it felt like as he started getting hard.
Ah, it must have been him that described it first. I remember this: an erection had been mentioned. The game advanced right then. Now there was an actual penis in play in the conversation. It was the first time one of us had directly mentioned our hard cock, directly acknowledged its existence. I remember it was him, because that's when some deep instinctive part of me knew I needed to keep myself in this delicate dance taking place on the telephone.
We both admitted that we got hard, and that we got hard a LOT, and then we told some funny stories about having a raging boner at school. I had to press on mine sometimes in 7th period math, it always acted up in that class, and there was this girl Amanda sitting next to me. It felt good when I had to press on it though.
We talked about pubes. I definitely had them, though I was almost smooth as a peach everywhere else. He said his were thick, and I said it figured because the hair on his legs was darker than mine. Yeah, that was reasonable. Biology. Made sense.
But back to the getting hard thing. You know, I wonder and I've never asked what he was doing on the other end of the line. I was in my room, on my bed, hard as a rock. My describing to Matt what it felt like to be horny was more of a rush transcript hot off the presses than a description from memory.
One of us asked the other if he'd considered, you know, doing anything about it. Like jerking off? A cloudburst of witty junior high masturbation jokes. A full two minutes circling back to the next Big Question that we'd both gently negotiated onto the table. God, it was like doing crochet on the head of a pin. I was up and pacing now as I sometimes did on the phone, a throbbing inside my jeans starting to ache as well as tingle because it was taking so long.
We admitted we'd both thought about trying it. Accidental touches felt good, especially when we were hard. But we'd never done it! It must be natural, though, we decided.
We talked. For another 90 minutes, at least. Maybe two hours? The battery on the cordless died and I had to get the phone off my dad's desk, hook up the extension cord, and bring it into my room.
There was a lot of good sound reasoning that we accomplished together. By the end, we'd decided that there wasn't anything WRONG with masturbating that we could identify; we doubted there was any terrible consequence we hadn't thought of; and it probably felt really good. That idea was backed by a remarkably accurate description of the feeling of hot semen pooling just before the release, all hypothetical of course.
It was decided. There would be an experiment. We should try it that night and report back first thing the next day after my swimming lessons were over.
A mission! We had a mission. Hanging up the phone did not dispel the thick charge in the air. There was no waiting. I came, stroking myself to a thigh-clenching orgasm in seconds. It was a virtuoso performance for someone who'd insisted he'd never tried masturbating even once. Then an hour of tossing and turning; only after cumming once more could I fall asleep.
* * *
The next day I ran home from the pool. My mom regularly came home from work for lunch - such quaint times - and my dad was irritatingly present as usual with his endless unemployment. There were chores to be done and criticisms to be heard when I got home. I raced through them all with an eye toward maximum speed. I had cum twice, then I had slept. That meant I could cum again, and that charge was back, in the air, in my head, seeping down into my belly like warm incandescent honey. For the first time in my life I was PURSUING something sexual. A goal. Not consciously, yet, mind you; I'm pretty sure the doublethink took care of that. But something was about to happen.
My mom went back to work. My dad had to grocery shop. A secure line was established.
"So how was it?"
We described it. We told each other in rich detail what masturbating felt like. That tightness, that warmth, that insistent hardness. Encircling ourselves with our hand. The instinctive stiffening response to doing so. Stroking. How fast? He'd settled on fast. I liked medium. Both of us had a way more sensitive head than shaft, that was notable. We'd stroked a while. How long? I tried to make up an answer that sounded best. Five or six minutes?
Then that feeling. Yeah, it was just like we'd "imagined" last night. Everything getting tighter. Urgency. A runaway feedback loop. And at the moment of truth, that … pooling. And then, release. Semen shot into the air! How much? How far? What did it look like?
And somehow, after three hours of an agonizingly delicate dance the night before, after all the making sure it was safe, the next day we got right down to business. We took only twenty minutes for an erotic note comparison on last night's experiment, and then one of us suggested we try it together.
I wish I could remember who. Almost certainly him. I think. It was dizzying.
* * *
I climbed the low hill to his house on my ten-speed like a tornado was driving me across the sun-baked Kansas landscape. It wasn't just dizzying, it was EXCITING. My heart was pounding. I'd thought about being sexual before, with girls at school or on TV, with guys at school even, but it was always abstract. There was never a goal until now.
We'd escalated this in twenty minutes on the phone, and I was racing toward his house on my bike, and then I got there, and then we had to deal with the face-to-face reality of seeing each other after an entirely new dimension had sprung into being in our relationship. We had a snack and dispensed with the awkwardness quickly, or so we thought. We were going to do this. There was no question about that, awkwardness or no.
But immediately, another challenge. Having moved to Matt's bedroom, we'd both stripped down to our briefs. We wore white featureless Hanes instead of k**'s briefs, now, because we were young men. Graduating to generic underwear came with things like wearing deodorant and watching one's chin for something to shave. I was painfully aware of the slight bulge stirring under the thin cotton between my legs. A silence.
Now we had to get naked in front of one another.
Matt was always a bit bigger and a bit tougher than me. While it didn't keep me up at night, there was a constant subtle awareness of it grating in my consciousness, even since kindergarten. The seeds of competition had been planted when we first met, him threatening me on the playground the first day. That conflict might have flowered about now, at 14, when our balls were dropping, our cocks thickening, and our attitudes getting worse. But it would turn out that what was beginning right now would keep this competition from flaring too much.
At the moment, though, the dynamic in the room was fuel for paranoia on my part. Smaller, bonier, and suddenly realizing I was probably not as well-endowed, I feared an elaborate prank. We negotiated; I insisted on a foolproof system to disprove any ruses or traps. We memorized what each other's briefs looked like - presumably to prevent the use of any handy extra pairs for deception - and then I went into the closet and he went into the foyer to his bedroom. On the count of 3, we'd both toss our underwear into the middle of the room. Then on the next count of 3, we'd walk out at the same time, nude. It was agreed.
In the closeness of the closet, I could hear my own breathing as I shucked off my underwear, stepping out one foot at a time. I picked up the garment. It was dark around me. The air was tingling. My cock, formerly uncertain, was uncertain no more. It was a live wire between my legs. One. Two. Three.
My briefs collided with Matt's in mid-air, dropping to the plain carpet. A beat. He'd counted for the briefs, now I'd count for the walk.
I leaped into the unknown. One. Two. Three.
We both strode forward simultaneously and looked. We were both at full mast.
He chuckled. "Mine's bigger." Asshole.
We looked some more. There were differences. We compared closely and with great interest. Matt's penis was about seven and a quarter inches long to my six and a half. His was a little thicker, too, but the head of my penis was bigger than his, more pronounced in a mushroom flare away from my shaft. Matt had a more obvious ridge down the underside. His glans was shiny, mine was faintly rough. Extra skin bunched up a little behind his head. We had no idea about this yet, but I was cut and he wasn't. My hard cock hung suspended at 90 degrees from my body. Matt's, darker than mine, stood up stiffly only 45 degrees out from his belly, as if ready to pounce.
Matt had darker, thicker pubic hair than me but mine was longer, a wild tuft at the base of my cock compared to his dense carpet. My balls were tiny just then. I remember it was cold in his bedroom. It was mid-June but he had central air. His sack was tight, too, and surprisingly dark compared to mine which was almost the same tone as my shaft. His balls hugged low below his erect cock, like a taut plum. They weren't as hairy as mine.
It was quickly decided that we'd hang a centerfold he'd managed to steal on the wall - one that he'd kept only for academic interest and never masturbated over before, of course. Then we'd try jerking off together. Matt was a lot more comfortable calling it "J.O.," so we settled on that term and would use it forevermore.
So we stood, about four feet from each other, him leaning against his high bed, me against the desk. We looked at the centerfold, sometimes nervously at each other, and started to stroke tentatively. Eye contact was a little dangerous, but our roaming eyes weren't always on the centerfold. Matt had had the foresight to find paper towels. They lay on his bed, a nod to the reality of what was to come.
It was unsatisfying. Simultaneously, we were realizing: this wasn't what we'd set out to do.
"This isn't really working that well," Matt said after a couple minutes of slow stroking, neither of us wanting to cum.
Again, I don't remember the words. I just remember the first phone call taking hours, the decision to try this together taking minutes, and the decision to jerk each other off taking seconds. The longest part of the process was deciding who would go first.
Matt would go first. Meaning he would cum first. I remember him sitting down on the high twin bed, me standing next to him now. His bed was high enough that he could barely sit on the edge, but it was just the right angle for his penis to stand perfectly vertical, straining toward the ceiling. His glans was shiny, purple, expectant. He had paper towels at the ready now. Dangerous eye contact. He smiled a bit. We were nervous and thrilled and throbbing hard. So, so hard.
The moment of truth: I reached out with my right hand. I encircled his stiffness. Matt's skin was slick with a thin coating of the Vaseline we'd decided was an obvious requirement since the jokes all mentioned it. My top two fingers touched the head of his cock first, then the next two curling around the top of his shaft, finally my thumb brushing that sensitive sweet spot where the skin of his uncut frenulum met the bottom of his slit. My hand was around another boy's cock. He let out a breath he'd been holding. I was surprised by the urgent heat under my fingers.
It was weird! Once you learn to masturbate, your hand and your cock are forevermore connected. At least mine were. They were two parts of the same organism, and I couldn't feel my cock without my cock feeling my hand, if that makes any sense. The sensation of my hand on my penis always scribbled over the sensation of my penis in my hand and so in a sense I didn't know what touching a penis FELT like. Until now. It was new and thrilling and I felt a tightening inside my chest and my balls at the same time.
My hand slipped down a little. Matt's glans felt as smooth as it looked. He was very, very erect. His shaft felt foreign, like something inflated. My fingers tightened a little, curling around and over the ridge on the underside of his cock. It was prominent enough to be easily felt, one strong main chamber engorged to the fullest, two more stiff to the sides, familiar anatomy but not my own anatomy. I slid my hand further down, my thumb leaving its nest between the meeting point of his corona. My hand now nestled at the base of his cock. I felt the soft bristle of his pubic hair.
And then, still tentative, the journey back up.
This time the curl of my index finger crested over the top of Matt's head, just reaching the top of his slit. He drew in a sharp breath. Sensitive.
It didn't take long to lose the hesitation. I moved a little closer to him for a better angle. I stroked, not squeezing but not too light, about the best I could figure after sneaking peeks earlier at how he used just his fingers when he stroked himself. I couldn't tear myself away from the show I was watching unfold right before my eyes, almost like I was standing next to myself as I pleasured my friend's cock. It was fascinating. His balls were practically gone. His glans, purple before, had darkened further. Within moments, he'd stiffened well beyond when I first touched him, his penis now actively resisting my hand if I moved against its angle. I could hear him breathing. He looked distracted.
This was what we'd set out to do.
After the previous several minutes of nervous and unfulfilling solo stroking, it couldn't have taken more than 90 seconds. Almost without warning, his breathing quickened and then caught. His cock stiffened even further in my hand, pushing against me as I rubbed near his glans. I was just lifting my eyes to his face as he came. It's frozen in my mind forever, his unfocused half-smile giving way to pleasure, and a thin shot of semen reaching its vertex in the air between his face and mine as we locked eyes briefly.
With sudden return to habit in the midst of his orgasm, he moved the neglected paper towels into place, but not before his second shot escaped. It was nearly as high as the first. Impressive. I didn't see the rest, but I instinctively continued stroking as he pulsed under my hand. I didn't stop until he relaxed a little.
There weren't many words in between his turn and mine. I recall an admission that it was "way better than when I did it myself." Pretty soon I was sitting on the bed. By now, for me, there was no awkwardness any more. After seeing and feeling Matt's journey from nervous expectance to orgasm, I was REALLY turned on. I have to wonder how it was for him, the first time being sexual with someone, particularly another boy, having to jerk me off after he'd already cum. I never did know, or ask, but he showed no second thoughts or hesitation.
It's hard to describe the first time you feel another person touch your penis in a truly sexual way. I'd played doctor - or our more accurate name for it, "Private Stuff," with a couple neighborhood k**s years before. We were k**s, though, not teenagers. Making up weird rituals with the girl up the street definitely carried a similar charge, but this was way, way more powerful. This was DRIVEN. I was rock hard. My balls sent out a sudden tiny shock of pleasure, something I'd never felt before.
Matt reached out. I watched his hand traveling toward me, and as he did I noted how his fingers were paler and longer than mine. He touched me there. My cock stiffened immediately, a reflex I'd later realize was completely out of my control. He stroked the top with just his fingertips once, almost contemplating, but not lingering. I remember his fingers traveling up my shaft and over the flare of my head just before his hand surrounded me in earnest.
His touch was quite cool. Maybe he was still a bit nervous. It was so foreign. So completely new. His first couple strokes were experimental, then he got a good position and lightly stroked me, up and down, more with his fingertips than with his whole hand, just like he stroked himself before. That wasn't how I did it. I liked to use my whole hand unless I was backing off from cumming. It was so new. The unfamiliarity and the coolness of his touch bought me about thirty seconds before I really began to respond. Suddenly the honey spread. My nerves lit up, pleasure referring out from my penis down my legs. I was hyper-aware of the heaviness in my testicles. A glowing bubble formed in my belly and traveled up, spreading warmth into my tightening chest, just like I'd described on the phone. I felt the lock-in, the beginning of the feedback loop that I'd discovered a little over two years before in the school bathroom when class became too boring to put up with.
I wasn't near the edge yet, but Matt's fingers on me, rising and falling, added energy to the loop with each stroke. His fingertips instinctively tracked my underside ridge. There was a sweet spot on it right at my circumcision scar. Sometimes he wouldn't go below the scar, his fingers staying up near my head for a few strokes before returning back down. It was just inconsistency; he couldn't have known, but that was the very best way to touch that spot I'd ever found.
The base of his index finger brushed the top of my mushroom flare with each rise. The bottom of his hand settled into my pubes at each fall. It wouldn't be long now. There was a rhythm. It was steady. My legs glowed. The centerfold on the wall was forgotten. I watched his hand on my cock like I always watched my own. My belly was full. The pressure built. I locked in. His fingertips slid right over the magic spot at the bottom of my slit. My breathing caught and I stiffened. His hand traveled back down. A hot pooling inside, behind my balls. Back up. He was changing his grip a little. I was losing it. The heel of his palm suddenly came in warm contact with the side of my impossibly stiff cock. An unexpected fat bead of white welled up, hanging there for an instant. I went over the edge.
"Catch it," I heard him say from across the ocean fifteen years later, my hand fumbling with the paper towels as the third thick rope of my semen reached its apex a few inches above my cock. Matt wasn't stopping, he was a champ, he kept stroking me as I came. I saw a fourth pulse of cum before I got the towels in place, their roughness unexpected against my still-spasming penis. His hand away glistening.
After a moment, I breathed again.
"Wow," I said.
A couple hours later that afternoon, we did it again.
I have only one regret. I wish I'd stood up to Matt's characteristically orderly habit of catching his ejaculation with paper towels. Of the hundreds of times we came together in the future, that was one of just a handful that I ever actually saw.
Rowan
- 05.01.2021
- 26
- 0
