i don't remember the first time i masturbated, but i remember my first fantasy, my first conjured series of images and sounds that created the sensation i now know to be orgasm. It remains in my memory now because I used it many times to feel that shiver, that rush, that empty sigh that was not made full for many years, when i began to create sperm cells, which was at least ten years later, when my family had moved to south carolina and i was at my father's school. I didn't get hair in my armpit until my senior year of high school, i didn't start generating semen until at least seventh grade. I had many years of mess-free masturbation and I took advantage of it. For years it was my nightly ritual to rub myself to a climax before going to bed. I cannot attest that this is a helpful ritual to keep, but I kept it for many years, more than I kept my first fantasy.
My first fantasy went like this: I would meet a dark-haired girl, of similar age to myself, she and I would make a pact to obtain alcohol from our parents. In the fantasy, I would obtain a glass of beer, she would have wine. At the time, my father only drank beer, my mother only wine, so I equated the drinks to the genders. Even now, seeing men with wine confuses me for a split second. When restaurant commercials affirm my assumption I am confused even further. Once we had obtained our mutual glasses, a task that grew harder to justify as I reused the scenario, we would meet at the sandy foot of a metal slide, touch glasses, and drink, after which we would almost immediately drop dead. I came every time I saw our bodies lying next to one another.
My fantasies were not linked to any sexual for years. My first vivid recollection of being attracted to women comes from a baseball game at the stadium in Norfolk, VA. I was some age of little consequence, between four and 6, my parents sitting to my right. Behind me sat a young couple, in their 20's, I'm guessing. The woman was blonde, but may have been dirty blonde, probably so. She had a beer in a plastic cup, the golden damp seemed almost magical at the time. I found her desperately beautiful and at the same time confusing. She had a beer, the drink I equated to men. I wanted to masturbate to the sight of her, but to do so would have been both impossible and social frowned-upon. Even at that age, I had been made aware that I should not rub my penis in public. So I would try my best to find excuses to look back, to steal glimpses of her. To stare too long would have given me away, so I took as many glimpses as I could and hoped I would be able to piece a picture together later. When I got home, I masturbated furiously. I didn't remember her face. I don't now. All I remember is the shame I felt each time I tried to look back, the fear I felt that I would be discovered.
My favorite fantasy came only a year or so after my first. It involved the Power Rangers, my favorite source of entertainment at the time. Despite having never been allowed to watch it, I loved it. I played with my friends action figures, role-played as whichever Ranger's weapon I could get them to let me play with, begged for every Ranger toy I saw. One night I had a dream in which the pink ranger was beaten in some way and the yellow ranger, in an attempt to save her, was hit in the head with a wine bottle, almost comically, not shattering, as though the bottle was solid inside. It aroused me more than any other vision I'd had to that point.
Later I would be aroused even further by a wrestling match I witnessed before my parents found me watching and promptly turned it off. It was a tag team match between four large, imposing fellow, one team possibly named The Rowdy Boys, something to that effect, the other team nameless jobbers in blue one-pieces. The jobbers did their job to a T, they were utterly demolished before my eyes. their limp bodies and the damage the Boys continued to inflict, throwing them across the ring, diving from the top of the corner, slamming them into the mat with resounding force, it set me aflame.
Alcohol and violence were a part of my sexual fantasies for much of my life, but took a backseat once I realized that what really got me going was women, especially certain parts of them.
My love of breasts was affirmed one night during an awards show, I believe the Oscars. I remember a woman, maybe blonde, in a black dress, cut low enough to show two small but firm flesh-coloured orbs. The image stuck in my mind and I raced upstairs to put it to use. Once there, the image had faded to what it is today: a mosaic, with a pair of tits in the middle, the rest made up of disjointed pieces.
I went through several phases of sexual interest as I progressed, from my 9th grade discovery of pornography to my discovery of hentai in a high-school summer week with my parents on vacation and me spending days at a tennis camp and nights grinding myself furiously to drawn images of sexual activities. the first day of that week I masturbated six times in a row. My first experience with hentai was indeed illustrious. I drifted from soft to hard, from real to drawn, from nighttime teases to internet glimpses to full on sexual exposure as I explored the depths of the internet in search of the ultimate plunder. Every time I thought I had seen it all, there were new things to be discovered. Yet despite all the phases, all the fascinations, all the desperate desires, none confuse me more than my sexual connection to alcohol and why I daily lust for familiar flesh but unfailingly flinch at any mention of the liquid opiate, why, after having the power ranger fantasy, I could not bring myself to even spell out the letters w-i-n-e to my friends, why even today i can barely stand to see the word in writing, why i cringe when i hear it spoken, why i stop breathing when i am near it, for fear of its noxious scent creeping into my nostrils, making me gag.
Violence no longer arouses me, it disturbs me. Alcohol still stirs me, but rarely on its own. Strange feeling still creep inside me when I am in supermarkets, passing large displays of wine bottles. I find myself wanting to stare at them, I find myself wanting to turn away, I never find myself wanting to taste from them, I never will.
I do not understand any of this. It all seems bizarre to me now, but having seen much more of the world, I am sure there are tales far stranger than mine, I have heard them. None, however, explain why, at 3 years on this planet, I would bust nuts at the thought of two children drinking and dropping dead.
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