Going Underground

I suspect it didn’t help that my upbringing was rather conservative. Sex was not discussed, there was no conversational innuendo and any kissing on TV precipitated a rapid and furtive change of channels. Clear preference was expressed for nature documentaries. My Dad’s paternal duty was done one day in his workshop when the rudimentary details were discussed without eye contact and all a bit too functional. Boys of that age know when there was something being withheld. Why use matt paint on woodwork when gloss is clearly preferable?

The situation was further complicated by an outbreak of adolescent acne. Growing pains par excellence. Painful and unsightly. Or at least a 16 year old thought so. Who wants to go out with a boy with spots? My mind convinced me no one. Possibly self-deluded and also self-regulating. No one.

So, although my hormones were in perfect working order I held myself in custody. I ached for a girl just to be friendly, but I had spots and no expectations. I wasn’t to be disappointed. Girls never materialised and my needs and desires went underground and stayed there for all my teenage years.

However, boys will be boys and some sort of stimulation was required. So I masturbated and quickly became quite an expert. It became a treasured hobby and a guilty secret. But this was a process that quickly necessitated stimulation. The solution arrived quite inadvertently. As a 16-17 year old I was encouraged to earn some pocket money in the school holidays so I did a paper round. My alarm went off at 5.30am daily and I rode my bike a mile to the village paper shop where it was converted to carry 50 daily newspapers. I diligently delivered these to large houses with long gravel drives in leafy stockbroker belt Surrey. I was on time, efficient, and reliable. That is as long as you weren’t counting the ‘dirty’ magazines that were displayed on the newsagent’s top shelf. If you were, then I was untrustworthy, furtive and a thief.

The opportunity arose when the newsagent went into his back office to collect a missing copy of the Radio Times that the diligent newspaper boy had reported missing from his stockpile. In the 20 seconds, he was out of sight a magazine of dubious quality was expertly removed from the top shelf and slyly slid under the tall boy’s jumper. With all that shapely female flesh safely stored against his torso for the duration of his round he cheerfully went about his business with a spring in his step and considerable excitement in his trousers (and a bonus copy of the Radio Times for his trouble).

So it was that Mayfair, Penthouse and Fiesta became my girlfriends. What stimulating company they were. I became entranced by shapes, sizes and contours. I fell in love and lust. Definitely lust. These girls were gorgeous and became more than an idle fascination. Many of them looked me in the eye and I knew they fancied me. No conversation but they willingly gave themselves to me. And I gave myself to them. Explosively. The most perfect and desirable examples of the female form. This was not necessarily conventional dating protocol…..and it had also set the bar rather high.