That Filthy Book

By Daddy X

Oh Jesus- And we just did “Confessions”.

Damn.

Okay. Let’s roll…

The first sex books I ever encountered were likely the way many kids of my generation were introduced to sexual stimulation. Our dads brought home cheap little fold-and-staple cartoon books from France, Japan or maybe the Philippines, printed for soldiers during the war. They often featured such newspaper comic characters as Popeye and Olive Oil (bet she was tight). And I know Maggie used to make Jiggs nuts with her terrible singing. Who knew her throat also drove him crazy in such other marvelous ways? Nancy was a slut who made Sluggo go down on her. Did anybody know the Katzenjammer Kids gave it to each other up the ass? Oh my, that Daisy Mae. She made boys hard even when Al Capp drew her on Sundays.

Boys will be boys. And when the boys are all that young and all that horny and all that full of hormonal fire, with the slightest stimulation at all, we will jerk off! We will be involved in circle jerks. We will talk like we know what we’re up to, even if all we know is the occasional glance at our mother’s bush. We talk about how our fathers look undressed. We sort things out. We speculate on what is, what it is all about. All in respect to nothing. Without benefit of information.

In the school district where I graduated high school, seniors of my generation were among the first to have sex education taught in the classroom. So before we had that information, it was all street talk and hearsay. Bravado worked for the guys who were ‘gettin’ some’. I remember going ‘parking’ at the local lovers lane, making out with a girl in front, my buddy and his date in back.  We hear the girl behind us say, “Get your finger out of my belly button!” And so it went.

I must have been about thirteen. After all, it was a big year sexually for me. I had made myself come! For a month or more of pre-sleep manipulations, I thought the pre-come issuing forth was the whole deal. I thought I’d jizzed. That fortunately didn’t last long. How the fuck could it? Christ, the longer you rubbed it the better it felt, so why not keep going? Gahaaahhh!

But the closer I got to that first orgasm, the more frightening it became. Losing equilibrium. Feeling too good. O my god getting whirly. At that age, I hadn’t yet been introduced to altered states of consciousness, so the loopiness was scary for a kid. I do remember the first time I went ‘all the way’ with myself. All the scariness disappeared. I confessed the act to a priest. Fuckhead gave me five rosaries for a penance. I began to question religion. How could a benevolent god not condone such a harmless act done with oneself in the privacy of one’s own bed? Not any god I was interested in.

So here I am, thirteen or so, and another kid in the neighborhood loans me a “fuck book”.  This was real porno shit, like women sucking champagne bottles dry with their hoohas for one thing, then guys getting drunk on the draining thereof. Hot stuff for a kid, no matter how lame or outlandish; after all, what did we have to base anything on?

No cartoons in this book. There were, however, photos. Photos of unfortunate-looking individuals, not anywhere a pretty face or a cleft-jawed man. Rather dark circles under the eyes on the desperate women; missing teeth, military tats or bald heads for the men. Nothing in the few grainy shots interspersed throughout the pages had a damn thing in common with the text, except the fact that both male and female sexes were represented.

And boy, was that book horny. And boy did reading that make us horny. And boy, didn’t that kid and I jerk off by the creek that day, taking turns reading the filthy thing out loud. Considering one hand was kept pretty busy, we handed it back and forth to each other when it came time to turn the page. It was wonderful, the way it made you feel.

And boy, didn’t that kid just loan me this today. Boy, I’d better get the most out of this sexy ass thing before he wants it back. Probably ‘borrowed’ it from his father. He’ll have to get it back to its hiding place. …

Huh! … I’d better jerk off, then. Right here, right now. All by myself in the den.  I’ll just pull it out and start wanking myself to a fairytale delight on the sofa. With that book.

My mother barges through the door. She’s home early. “Eeeeeek!” she cries.

I high-ass it to my room. Has she seen the book? I’ll just throw it here in my closet before she gets up the stairs. She’ll never know.

Of course, Mom goes straight for the closet, finds the awful thing her son is reading, accuses me of indulging in some sex ring with imaginary adults and perverts of all persuasions. (Mom had a vivid imagination, let’s say) Some adult pervert has given this filth to her baby. Probably at that PUBLIC school her sick son wanted to go to so bad. Mom has the perfect solution. She gives the book to our parish priest and sends me back to Catholic school. No perverts there, not in a Catholic school, for the love of Christ! Talk about into the fire.

I hated that school and my parents for sending me there. In a year and a half, after being punched unconscious by a priest, I was brought home in an ambulance, then sent back to a genuine school where you were expected to learn, not simply submit.

I don’t remember what ever happened to my friend who gleeped that book, or if he ever got in trouble, but I’m pretty sure the priest never did give it back.

Huh… Looking back at this post, I wonder why, with such an early traumatic experience with a sexy book why I’d ever want to write filth myself. Hehe.

Thanks, Mom.