I was a late bloomer.
When one day I heard—it was late summer and I must have been thirteen at the time, an age where most boys have already begun experimenting not only with themselves, but with girls—when I heard from a friend of mine (who indeed had begun to experiment) that yes, you actually insert your penis into the girl’s vagina, I was nothing short of amazed: why on earth, I asked myself (though not him), why on earth would you want to pee into someone?
Luckily, I did not voice this question or I would probably be hearing about it to this day. Still, the question remained unanswered for weeks, months. Very curious, I was. Why on earth would you?
A mystery, indeed. My parents were no help; they refused (apparently) to broach the subject, and I wasn’t about to bring it up. So much for father-and-son (or mother-and-son) heart-to-hearts.
A conundrum indeed. A deep and unsolved mystery until that one morning the following June (or was it July? I don’t remember) when the itch down below had grown so unbearable that I touched myself a little too enthusiastically, and then: my world exploded—literally, if messily—and for an intense few heartbeats I knew I had gone completely mad. Utterly and inconceivably and wonderfully mad. So mad, in fact, that I was expecting death at any moment (yes, there was something heavenly about it).
Or let me put it this way: death’s arrival would not have come as a surprise. This sensation, this completely out of nowhere phenomenon was as unreal, as unearthly, as heavenly implausible as an alien visitation, and I just knew I was about to be brought back to the mother ship, something like that. Profound to say the least.
Two hours later, when it turned out I had not died from my experience slash visitation (nor had I been carted off starward), I tried this enthusiastic rubbing again, with similar result and Oh My God realized that this had come to stay. Should I let the world in on this? I seriously wondered whether people were aware of this. Was this commonly available? If not, the world would certainly need to know. Should I inform it, enlighten it?
Part of me, though, figured—and correctly, of course—that the world already knew. Still, wonder of wonders: what a treasure.
It became my favorite hobby, this enthusiastic touching, rubbing, call it what you will. It does have technical terms as well.
I hit my stride with the opposite sex a few years later, and we had a field day, my penis and I. This was liberated Sweden in the 1960s and sex was both great and plentiful and AIDS was still some distance off in the future.
True, I’d do the most idiotic, and sometimes cruel and hurtful things at the leash of this now towering obsession, but (so the computation went) it was all worth it, if only for a few hectic, breath-stealing moments of such enigmatic bliss. See you later, I’ll call. Promise.
Some call this Love.
I’d call it dangerous.