Chapter Twenty-One
I haven’t got tales of illicit conquests, threesomes or rampant roger-fests. As I mentioned briefly at the start of the course, I’m a different sort of sex addict. I’m addicted to sex with myself. I like to Bash the Bishop. Choke the Chicken. Yank the Yoghurt Pot. You know. I’m sure most of the planet, if asked, would admit to knocking one off from time to time, and the rest are probably liars. I’m a little bit different. It took me a while to realise but I now understand it’s not normal to jerk off two dozen times a day. It’s not normal to have a spare room full of magazines and DVDs. It’s not normal to spend twenty-four hours at a stretch surfing the internet for more and more freakish porn.
Sorry, I know I need to start at the beginning. My Dad’s a CEO for a big multinational based in Singapore. When I was fourteen or so he sent me away to boarding school in England. I was lonely and I felt like I didn’t fit in. The weather was always grey and wet and I missed my mum so much. The school was horrible and we didn’t have much to look forward to. But all that changed one day when my friend Stevie smuggled in a magazine called D-Cup Delights. We all gathered around in the dorm after lights out, with a torch and the mag and reverently turned each page. We couldn’t believe what we were seeing. Remember, we were a bunch of spotty virgins walking around with hormone-filled balloon balls most of the time anyway. The only decent material I had in the jerk bank was an image from parents’ day when James Morrison’s mum climbed out of her car wearing a short skirt and flashed her knickers.
So bringing this magazine into the dorm was like throwing a cat into a room full of toddlers, everyone wanted a stroke.
We took turns taking the magazine into the toilets; most boys were in and out in thirty seconds, beaming and relaxed. Then they went off to do other things. I made sure I was last so I wouldn’t be disturbed. The second-to-last boy handed it to me with a wink and said: ‘Sorry about the mess on page 17. I cleaned it up as best I could.’
I sat on the loo trembling with excitement and opened the first page. I made sure I read every caption, inspected each girl. ‘This is Samantha, 19, from Croydon. Samantha likes dancing, meeting people and says she’s right behind Mr Bush and Mr Blair as our brave boys go off to war. Her guns are loaded and she’s ready to fire.’
I didn’t care too much about Samantha’s politics but, like her, I too was ready to fire. I reached into my shorts and pulled out my dick. I knew what I was doing. I was fifteen at this point and I’d obviously done it before, but this was different. This was special. It was me and Samantha now. Guns at the ready. I began to stroke myself off. I tried to go slowly, to enjoy the sensation, but the pictures were too much and it wasn’t long before I fired my jizz across the cubicle and hit the door.
But I wasn’t finished. It was rugby practice that day and no one would miss a scrawny runt like me. I had all afternoon and I used it. I whacked off to every one of thosee and more difficult, and I was getting sore. I began constructing elaborate fantasies about what I’d do to each of the girls to help keep me huge-breasted girls that day. Towards the end it was getting morhard. I’d make this one kiss my penis. I’d lie on top of that one and do whatever it is you did to girls when you got them back to your house. I’d get that one to do to me what I was now doing to myself.
I was on the final spread and nearing orgasm, searching for it as I yanked at my poor, abused cock. Then the door opened and someone came in. I was determined to finish, I was so close, and kept it up. Then someone spoke.
‘Who’s in there? Is that you, Bala?’
I had no intention of answering and I kept jerking away, trying to concentrate on my fantasy, involving Bridget and her skimpy bikini.
I finished with relief, my come no longer spurting out but merely dribbling like a half-hearted drinking fountain. As I leaned back against the cistern I looked up to see the head of Mr Blake, the science teacher, peeping over the top of the door, eyes popping out of his sockets like turtle heads as he realised I was beating the meat.
Needless to say, the mag was confiscated. Stevie demanded I replace it but I’d already made up my mind to make it my business in life, or at least at this school, to acquire as many stroke mags as I could. I don’t think the school told my father what had happened. This sort of thing was commonplace, and who wants to tell a potential source of income his son spends most of the time at this £12,000-a-term boarding school tossing himself off to jazz mags.
On a free day soon after, I wandered down to town and walked into the newsagent. Twenty minutes later I walked out again with a selection of top-shelf publications and an arrangement with the owner. He’d supply me with magazines, I’d sell them to the other boys at school and we’d split the profits. I’ve always been good with money, I suppose it’s my dad’s influence, and I made a fair amount of pocket money over the next couple of years. I also got to look through the magazines and make the bald man cry before I sold them. The best ones I kept for myself, in a special hiding-place where I could go and spank the monkey to my heart’s content before selling the mags on. I was always careful not to make a mess of them. No one wants to pay top dollar for something only to find half the pages stuck together.
I wasn’t the only one doing this of course. We used to trade everything. And sometimes other lads would bring in magazines I couldn’t get hold of at the small-town newsagent.
Once a boy named Ducker brought in a magazine he’d picked up somehow when in Italy on holiday. He showed us a little. It was dynamite stuff. Much harder than anything we could get in England. The girls looked a bit rough but that wasn’t surprising considering the workload they’d been asked to perform. Ducker asked for our best offers.
I had to have it. It was a tight auction but the other boys knew I was determined; I’d already got a reputation, and a nickname – the Organ Grinder. It cost me forty fags and my own treasured copy of the ’96 October Playboy – the one with Pamela Anderson
Me and a few of the other boys formed the Palm Club, where we swapped the best literature we had and discussed technique. Sometimes we’d watch each other, which I found intriguing at first, but ultimately tedious. Some of the other boys paired off and tried helping each other out. They weren’t necessarily gay, but when you’re stuck in an all-male environment, then you don’t care too much what sex the hand is that’s jerking you off. I tried it a couple of times. I liked doing them more than I liked them doing it to me. They never got it quite right. They didn’t know exactly how hard to squeeze or where to pinch. I preferred it solo. Always have. We had competitions for speed, for frequency and for distance. I won all three, hands down, nearly every time, apart from the fortnight I had meningitis; then I could only manage around half the distance.
When I left school I had no idea what to do. I’d wasted too much time stroking the sausage to have done well in the exams. I wanted freedom, freedom to explore the wide world of pornography I knew was out there. So I needed income. Dad was understandably unhappy about paying for me to sit in a flat and play with myself, and he arranged for me to go and work in the London office of his firm. The London boss wasn’t too keen when he saw my results, but Dad told him I’d work hard and he gave me a probation period. That was fine with me. I’m not stupid, and I am capable of working hard when I need to. And not just one-handed working either. Problem was, they let me have internet access. It’s really been porn, and people’s insatiable desire for it, that has driven the development of the internet. Forget all the worthy talk about communication, and education, and democratising the planet. It’s not the part-time surfers in Silicon Valley driving this, it’s the one-handed surfers in a billion bedrooms around the globe. I’d discovered this treasure-trove of porn, much of it free if you know where to look, and I was in heaven.
Now this was a few years ago and I only had dial-up at home, which meant it took a long time to download a hi-res image of a girl with big tits. Often up to a minute per tit. Short clips and streaming video could take hours. God knows h
ow many days of my life I wasted sitting, staring at a picture assembling itself line by line on my fourteen-inch screen, hoping that the girl would be as dirty as the caption had suggested. Most times I was disappointed. It was the thrill of trying to find something truly filthy that kept me going.
But at this job, they had ADSL, much faster, though not as speedy as today’s broadband, still six to seven tits per minute. I couldn’t resist. I started sneaking little looks on my third day, when I could stand it no longer. Just the thought of all that young, firm flesh in the big internet pot, ready for me to access with just a few clicks of the mouse. I’d wait till there was no one else in the room, then I’d open the filthiest sites I could find and gorge myself. Problem was though that I’d get myself so hard I’d have to keep popping into the loos for a five-finger disco. If they ever used one of those CSI blue-light things the police have for showing up DNA traces they’d find that little toilet cubicle lit up like Blackpool.
So I asked the boss if he’d mind me working late. He looked surprised, but agreed. Of course he did. This is brilliant, I thought to myself, I can sit here all night tugging the todger to the world’s most depraved porn and keep the boss happy at the same time. I saw some great stuff. Things I’d only dreamed about, and things I’d never dreamed were possible. Have you ever seen a woman fit two fists inside her arse? Or a dwarf fuck a giantess? Have you ever wondered how really fat people have sex? Or what gay transsexuals like to do most? Well, I’ve seen it all. And I know you might think this is all a bit sad, and that we should feel sorry for those people and not exploit them, but at least they were there, doing it. What was I doing? Watching it all on a tiny screen. The freaks and the weirdos were getting more actual sex than I was. I didn’t mind. I was just an observer, just watching others get on with their weird lives.
And jacking myself off in the process.
I kept it up, literally, for five nights before I was rumbled. My plan was slightly let down by the fact that I was hardly doing any work, and that we kept running out of bog roll. They checked the internet access records with IT and saw what I was up to.
The boss decided he wanted to catch me red-handed for some reason, probably to make it more likely I’d just walk out without a fuss. He came in later one night and cleared his throat right behind me as I was slapping the salami to an image of a woman so flexible she’d managed to stick her head between her legs, come up the other side and give herself a backdoor treat.
This time my dad did find out what I’d been up to. Though my boss agreed not to tell him the specific image I’d been looking at. Funny thing though, I didn’t really feel embarrassed about it. Everyone does the five-knuckle shuffle. Everyone hides it. Okay, so no-one wants to see what other people are getting up to, no one walks into a party and says, ‘Hey, guess who I was jerking off to last night?’ But hey, it happens. Let’s not make a big deal, alright?
Anyway, my dad didn’t see it that way. He told me to get my arse back to Singapore. Well, I don’t know if any of you have ever been there? Nice place but straighter than a nun’s haircut. They’ll flog you for spitting gum in the streets. Anyway, my Dad and I don’t get on, he’s a total div, and I mean no offence to the div community when I say that. Some of my best friends are divs. So I refused to come back. He cut me off and I found myself looking for a job.
What was I going to do?
I did the only thing I knew how to do. I started up my own magazine importing and distribution company. I travelled to the darkest corners of Europe finding the cheapest, vilest, most specialist publications you can imagine and set up a direct mail service. I distributed to porn shops and even some regular newsagents too, but most of my income came from catalogue and internet sales. I worked from home when I wasn’t travelling, trawling the net for filth. There’s plenty there if you know where to look. And, boy, did I look. Everyone wants to do something they love as their main job. Here I could pay my rent at the same time as helping to put Mr Kleenex’s kids through college.
I was responsible for bringing in such lines as Grannies on Meth, Girls Who Like Dogs, Big-Arsed Slags, and Fisting World. Made pots of money, and really dredged the depths of my own perversions. I did discover that even I have a limit. I couldn’t deal with proper violent stuff, no kiddy-fiddling of course. Animal stuff I was all right with, as long as it was tasteful.
Don’t look at me like that. It can be.
The upshot was I had loads of time on my hands to get to know my first love – Mrs Palm and her five daughters.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was around this time that I met Carla. My first girlfriend.
You’re asking yourselves how did a dysfunctional creep like Larry get himself a girlfriend. Well, it’s not so strange. I met Carla through a sex-chat website. Sometimes, when I got bored of porn, I’d log onto one of these rooms and talk to real people. Sometimes they had webcams, and I had one too. I liked the look of Carla and she seemed to like the look of me. She also liked to watch me choke Kojak. She’d type dirty suggestions to me and I’d tell her to take off her top and stuff. Then I’d whack off while she watched. She never seemed to indulge herself at the same time, she’d just watch, fascinated. I’d try to fire my load right into the camera lens for her. She loved that.
Eventually we arranged to meet up. I think she wanted to see me masturbate for her in the flesh. I was happy to oblige.
We went out for dinner first. I’m not a complete social retard. I don’t have many friends, but I know how to be with people in a normal situation. She was nice, perhaps not so sexy as she seemed on the tiny webcam display. She was pleasant looking rather than pretty. And she was taller than I’d expected and a bit triangular. But I liked her. Especially her flashing dark eyes and her gypsy hair. She seemed exotic to me. Though I suppose any woman willing to talk to a mean fiddler like me must be a bit out there.
We had a nice time but towards the end of the meal I was horny and really needed to liquidate the inventory. She seemed keen to get home and watch. I had a couple of beers so it would take longer. I took her back to mine, where I’d spent most of the day washing sheets. I poured drink for both of us and we sat on the couch looking at each other nervously. Carla put down her drink and lay me back on the couch. She unbuckled my jeans and pulled them down, then she did the same with my boxers. She inspected my stiffening cock.
‘It looks much bigger in real life,’ she said, which I thought was very decent of her. I wondered for a minute if she was going to open her mouth and blow me, but she just watched, her face a few inches away.
‘Go on,’ she said, breathlessly.
I took hold, the practised fingers slipping into what I called position two. This would take longer, but would produce a longer, lower-level orgasm, with plenty of spurt height. She sighed as I began cleaning my rifle. I watched her watching me, fascinated by her fascination.
It felt really weird basting the ham with another person watching, but it got me going. I had to take deep breaths and restrain myself to avoid blowing my load too early. I wanted our first time to be special. But eventually it proved too much. I fell into a great well of sensation, I almost lost the ability to move my arm (and I sometimes wake up in a sweat, having had a nightmare about just that) but I managed to jerk out the petite mort, as the French call it. When I opened my eyes, I giggled at the sight of Carla still there, face covered in white seminal fluid.
‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Are you going to work yourself off? Or would you like me to?’
She shrugged and smiled nervously. ‘I don’t know how,’ she said.
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘How hard can it be?’
So we did it together. I helped her slip out of her trousers and panties, feeling myself grow hard again at the sight of her dark thatch. Then I laid her down on the sofa and lifted a leg up so I could get at her. Remember, this was the first time I’d been with a real woman. It didn’t occur to me to kiss her. I just parted her labial lips with my fingers and dip
ped the tip of my pinky into her slit. She arched her back and moaned. I slipped a finger up to her clitoris and began circling. You might think it’s odd, but actually I’m a good lover. Bear in mind that I have seen everything by sitting at my computer. I could list a hundred nuanced fingering techniques, one to fit every occasion. I’d go as far as to say I was a connoisseur.
I knew Carla needed me to go slowly and gently.
But for me, it wasn’t exciting. It was just an interesting exercise. I was so good at playing lightsabers with Captain Solo, now I had to do it to someone else. I rubbed her a little harder as her breathing deepened. Then she reached down and took hold of my hand. She thrust my fingers deeper into her. ‘Fuck me with your hand,’ she said. I squeezed my fingers together and slid them inside her. She groaned again, deep and guttural. I pumped my fingers in hard and rhythmically. I could feel the orgasm build in her broad hips and at last she was there, thrusting back hard against my hand, threatening to envelop it as her muscles relaxed. She stiffened and raised her hips off the sofa as she came.
We moved in together a few weeks later. And on the first night in our new flat, I actually used my cock for what it was designed, rather than just mangling the midget the whole time. It was a little disappointing to tell the truth, but we kept practising and I got to like it more. The problem with regular sex, is that it’s kind of dependent on the other person. They never know exactly how to move, when to thrust, what to suck. On the other hand, having someone else’s hand on your pecker was a revelation for me. I’d tried the old trick of lying on my hand until it went to sleep before knocking one off in the hope it would feel like someone else was doing it. But it doesn’t really work. Wearing a surgical glove works better.
Anyway, the point is that we enjoyed a proper, recognisable sex life. We both still liked to watch. I’d watch a porn flick, and she’d watch me test-firing the Death Star. This is the period I like to think of as my normal period. Unfortunately it didn’t last.
Confessions Page 22
