Reading Sexie Sadie's book excerpt this morning brought back a lot of memories. If I recall correctly, I discovered the joys of masturbation in the summer between eighth and ninth grades.
How wonderful, to be able to bring myself off whenever I wanted. Before that, I was in an almost-perpetual state of frustration...desperate for a release, but with no idea of how to achieve that release. It sounds silly to say now, but I simply didn't know how. I remember laying in bed at night literally aching, humping the bed, *needing* something to happen. And nothing did.
Finally, at long last, I figured it out. In the shower. A scoop of shampoo lather in my hand, a few thrusts into the slippery tunnel of my fingers and palm, and Hallelujah! It couldn't have felt more wonderful. From that point on, the shower was my favorite place in the world. All summer long I sprayed the shower wall with violent bursts of teenage cum.
I had to be the cleanest guy around, showering morning, noon, and night. I would decide at the drop of a hat that I really needed a shower. If my parents noticed my changed habits, hopefully they attributed it to a new-found teenage obsession with cleanliness.
But, as with Sadie, feelings of guilt and shame were mixed in with the wonderful feelings of joyful release. I would rather have died a thousand deaths than have anyone know what I was doing in the shower. I was very thankfully spared the misfortune of being taught to be ashamed of my body or sexuality - my parents were relatively enlightened, and we didn't go to a church that taught guilt and shame. But somehow I had the idea that this was something to be ashamed of.
And also, like Sadie, I had the idea that deceased relatives could see what I was doing. The thought wasn't enough to make me stop (wild horses couldn't have done that,) but it was disconcerting.
I also came up with the thought that as long as I had done it fewer than 100 times, that it wasn't really that bad. Of course I got around that by very consciously never doing the math. I was surely over 100 times after six weeks, but I reassured myself for months and months - telling myself that it couldn't possibly be over 100. Then I just stopped thinking about it.
It probaby took more than ten years for the guilt to go away competely, but I had crossed a bridge into a new world.