Years ago, when I was at an age where my head was a child but my body was defiantly showing signs of puberty, I discovered masturbation. I know I wasn't alone, because at the same time, just about every boy my age, give or take a few years, was discovering this singular delight.
I remember the very first time I climaxed. I don't think I've ever felt anything quite like it since. I'm not saying I haven't climaxed wonderfully since but my very first orgasm is a memory I cherish.
I was what is considered to be a late bloomer. In other words, I was awkward, skinny, all knees and elbows, with the emotional intellect of an 11-year-old but with the galloping hormones of a 15-year-old. I was easily given to tears, sensitive and easily impressed. In some ways, I'm still like this, although I can now temper these things with a more-rounded, less naive view of the world and am less inclined to break into sobs when I see something I don't like or am presented with a difficult situation, task or what-have-you.
My first orgasm happened during a period of time where I wasn't sure what I was feeling so I told my parents I was ill. They put me to bed and cared for me as only parents can do - with little triangular pieces of toast with vegemite and weak, sweet milky tea.
After happily munching on the toast and sipping the tea, thus alleviating my parents’ worries about my appetite, I lay in bed with a well-thumbed issue of Penthouse magazine (Penthouse magazines were much preferred by myself and my peers over the lame Playboy magazines). As might be expected, something came up, which I then attempted to fondle into submission, not very successfully. I knew what was going on but didn't quite know what was going to… ahem… come of it. After some more urgent rubbing, an explosion of a sort occurred and I was left gasping for air and holding a handful… well, okay… a good dollop of sticky, white liquid - my first orgasm. I was so proud of myself, I felt like rushing out and telling the world. I wanted to put the dollop into a glass jar and keep it, for posterity's sake. Instead, I nearly got busted.
At that moment, my mother came into my room to check on me. I immediately thrust my hand under the covers and feigned a groan of Oscar-winning potential. Mum put her hand to my forehead, claiming I looked 'flushed'. Having cleared me of anything but a slightly high temperature, she said I should stay in bed for the rest of the day and I'd be fine. I spent it 'convalescing' i.e. trying to unstick my hand from my sheets so I could duplicate my first experience. This was to no avail with the exception of some friction burns. But the day was not wasted. I'd crossed the boundary from childhood into full-fledged puberty. Now all I had to do was grow up.
