Innocence Lost

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The experience of my first orgasm was quite similar to the first time I got addictively high. Both were magical, special beyond words, private new secret treasures that caused me to immediately realize that new doors had not only been opened, but they led to places that I would eagerly seek out and embrace for the rest of my life. At least with chasing the orgasms anyway. Both experiences were something that I knew existed but had no idea that they could be so damn good.

In the cool, drape-shaded quiet of the ground floor guest room at my Grandparents country house, I stripped off my wet bathing suit. After having been wrapped in that chafing dampness all afternoon down by the pond, it was an exhilarating and overdue liberation, to kick that wet fabric loose. Fishing, boating, swimming off the dock, I wallowed for hours in heaven for a twelve-year-old boy. Grandma had gone into town to shop at the Safeway store, Grandpa was out in his shop using his router on a big slab of mahogany he’d had shipped in from somewhere in South America. Mandy was in the furnace room, sulking.

That guest room had its own bathroom complete with a large linen closet. The shelves were stuffed with a lot of Grandpa’s shaving stuff and overflow from his main bathroom upstairs off their master bedroom. Of course I had gone through everything, examining all the items an older man may collect along the way. Suppositories, electric shaver lotion, clippers, razors, extra soaps, shampoos and toilet paper. Three shelves stuffed with towels.  I had discovered that the heavy black cardboard box held a vibrator though, a “scalp massager” the enclosed pamphlet called it. I had no reason to think differently. But when I visualized that closet, my mind’s eye focused on that black box.

On that particular afternoon, I stood looking at my skinny twelve-year-old body in the full length mirror as I massaged my shriveled, hairless dick. It just felt good and the eroticism wasn’t lost on me. Curious how that scalp massager would feel when pressed into the service of my scrawny nakedness, I brought out the black box, placing it gently on the double bed, lifting the lid carefully as I did.  Plugging it in and going back to the mirror, my vibrating hand immediately went to that little turtle head that had never really had a life of its own. Almost immediately, the damn thing started to swell and stand straight up, one horizontal eye pointing back at me in the mirror as it defiantly declared its own independence. “Look at me! I’m stiff with pride and won’t take no for an answer!” OK, fine with me, I thought. Let’s see where this goes.

That vibrator was as demanding as the mouth of a seasoned old prostitute looking for a quick twenty bucks. The tingling started in my legs, a mild electrical charge that ran from toes to navel, making concentric circles that pulsed and narrowed as they intensified. Waves of pleasure arched my back and pushed my new best friend forward with an unfamiliar urgency that would only be satisfied one way. It was one of those things where you don’t consciously know what’s happening but when it is that spectacular, you just enjoy the ride without the clutter of thought. Orgasm hit me as if the hand of god had grabbed me, revealing himself with an epiphany that excited and rattled every molecule of my being.

Much like the first time I freebased cocaine thirteen years later, all I wanted was more. Unlike that coke though, this orgasm stuff was legal, forced me to wait in between doses, didn’t empty my bank account, and didn’t cause the heart of a good friend to suddenly stop working while sitting around our poker table, and refuse to ever beat again.