Part Two of a three-part series; read Part One.

At the end of my 2 years at boarding school I returned to my own room at home. Here I learned the joys of humping the mattress and pillow. The yellowish stains mounted rapidly, and by washing day they must have been so obvious to my mother, but she never mentioned it to me. My masturbation rate was at 3 to 4 times per day, and I felt that the whole thing was getting out of control. One day at about age 16 I knelt beside the bed and prayed for help in getting the habit down to once per day. It did not do any good at all, for as soon as I got into bed I was at it again. Like all others I woke with a full erection, and it was rare for me to get through the morning shower without masturbating.

Just before I turned 17 I was transferred to Melbourne, the capital of the state of Victoria. We students needed to lodge in private homes, and fortunately I always had my own room, so I conducted my nightly masturbation sessions in privacy. In addition to my using the more traditional right-hand method, my mattress-humping accumulated many stains (6 or 7 per week). These could not have been missed by my landlady, but she never mentioned it, so I guess women in 1955 were just as aware of young men's sexual needs as they are now.

I was not very successful with women at this stage, and each weekend if possible I would return to my home town to visit my parents and catch up on my friends. My brother, who was much more successful with women than I, was going out with a girl my age. Her elder sister was unattached, and one weekend my brother and I went around to the girls' place, and after a while I was instructed by my brother to stay outside while he went inside with the younger sister. The elder sister and I went to the family car (her parents were out somewhere) and sat in the back seat. She was much more experienced than I, and after a short time we progressed to the point where she had removed most of her clothing — I had the object of my fantasies open and expectant before me. It only remained for me to release my raging penis, which at the time felt huge but was only average in size. I had partly accomplished this task when I ejaculated all over my fumbling hand, her stomach, and almost everything else in the area. I was disgusted, as at that point I remembered how my father was so slow and deliberate — and long-lasting — when he'd had sex with my mother. I could not speak for a while, and that fiasco was the last I saw of her.

Back in Melbourne I met a girl who "never did such things," as she was a good Catholic girl. However, she loved to massage my penis in the back seats of the picture theater, and many was the night when I returned home in the bus with a steadily growing wet spot in the front of my pants. But that was as far as I got with her. On another occasion my job sent me to a town about 200 miles from Melbourne. I met a girl there, and in an almost exact replay of my first fiasco, I was in a car with her lower body naked and very ready. This time I managed to release my organ from my trousers (buttons, not zippers, in those days) and had it only inches from nirvana. Splash! — I could hardly believe it had happened again. This time it landed on the bull's-eye and most of the surrounding area, but she was as mad as hell, and that was the end of that.

In Melbourne again I at last met the girl of my dreams — both wet and dry! — and knew very soon she was the one I would marry. It was over a year before we had sex. (Don' t laugh, youngsters!) We managed to figure out many ways to mutually masturbate without becoming too obvious, as her mother watched us like a hawk. We found out years later she used to stand inside of the front door and listen to her daughter's orgasms, with me rubbing my bulge against her clothed clitoris — damned awkward it was!

My girl's mother was a widow, and her fiancé had a holiday home down at an outer beach suburb, and we spent many weekends there. After our evening meal we would go for a walk down to the beach in order to get some time alone together. The beach was backed with tea trees, and this area had many walking tracks with grassed areas beside them. One evening we were sitting on one of these when the kissing, etc., got completely out of hand and desire took control of both of us. We had our first sexual intercourse right on the side of the path in full view of anyone who may happen to come past. I in particular was just too randy to care.

That was the beginning of our sexual life and over 40 years together. We managed to have sex about once a week, and of course I had to make up the difference with my right hand (and, less often, the mattress). We married in February 1960, and fairly soon afterward, my wife made it clear she considered any masturbation to be a waste of an ejaculation that she wanted reserved for her. So for some years my masturbation was confined to her period and when she may have been "off-color." My wife, though, was an enthusiastic masturbator since very early childhood, and our sex life together included many orgasms before, during, and after sexual intercourse. I was quite happy with this, as our sex life took all of my energy both sexual and physical.

Go to Part Three.


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