Adeste Fidelis

We would have been called innocent in 1966. Now I'd call it ignorant.

My Catholic boarding-school classmates, all 12- or 13-year-old boys, were carrying out an unofficial science experiment outside class time. We were looking for sperm cells by urinating onto glass slides and then examining the slides under a microscope. We never saw anything, and as far as I know, not one of us knew how to get a sperm sample, even though a few of the boys had pubic hair and deeper voices. We were at a Catholic school run by monks, priests, matrons, and the formidable Miss Herrington! By the standards of the day, the regime was enlightened and not at all abusive, but sex education was not high on the agenda.

That summer, while swimming breaststroke, I started to get some nice sensations in my trunks. I had no idea what was going on, but it felt nice, so my trips to the pool increased in frequency. The strong frog-like movement of my legs and the tension in my trunks felt great. It was relaxing, and while the feeling was strong, I could have drowned for all I cared. It wasn't a full-blown orgasm, but it felt nice! I'd never felt anything like it before even though I had been playing with my penis for years. I only ever got that feeling while swimming.

Once in the school cellar, I played strip poker with another boy. (There were no girls at the school.) We both got naked and had strong erections, but neither of us knew what to do with a stiff penis, so we went no further. More innocence.

In September I moved to the senior school, had my 14th birthday, and later sang treble in the Christmas carol concert. In the middle of "Adeste Fidelis" ("O Come All Ye Faithful," which was appropriate, really), while singing the descant (the high, loud, and frilly bit), my voice broke into an almost ultrasonic squeak that was quite painful. I had to mime for the rest of the concert and could only croak afterward.

I suppose things had been building up for some time, but within one month it felt as though everything changed. During the Christmas holiday, aged 14 years and two months, while taking a bath, playing idly with my penis, just as I'd been doing for years, the swimming-pool sensation came back — but stronger and stronger, and wow, I nearly blacked out. That was one hell of a surprise. No one had warned me or told me anything about this. I don't think I ejaculated and I didn't notice anything in the bath water, but I didn't know what to look for anyway. Suddenly, part 3 of the monastic teaching about being "impure in thought, word, and deed" made sense. It was also clear to me that what I had done could not be wrong. It had happened by accident, and in any case something so nice could not be wrong in my book. Goodness knows what the priests at confession made of all the younger boys confessing to impure deeds. In the ignorance of youth, I once confessed to adultery, and the priest had to explain what that was. I hadn't done that either!

Being a budding scientist and keen on fact-finding and experimentation, I took less than a day to work out how to re-create the bathtub conditions to get a repeat performance. This was fun — better than the other Christmas presents, none of which I remember. I still didn't ejaculate. I didn't know about masturbation, or wanking as it's commonly known in the U.K. — but I had joined the club.

The following night after going to bed, I tried again. I must have been making a lot of noise, because my mother walked in to see what was going on. Luckily it was fairly dark, and with lightning reflexes I had the covers over me before she got the door fully open. After she left, I proceeded more cautiously, and for the first time I ejaculated a small amount of yellowish semen. This was another big surprise, but it solved a problem I'd been having. I couldn't work out exactly how women got pregnant and was too embarrassed to ask. Now I knew — I only lacked knowledge of the female anatomical details.

The next day my mother cryptically asked me if my pubic hair had started to grow. I said it had. I guess she knew exactly what was going on, but the new freedoms of the '60s had not yet reached our family and the subject was never discussed again. Did I feel guilty? I don't think so. How many boys would consider it appropriate to masturbate in front of their mother?

At school, I had desperate urges during classes. During the 5-minute break, as well as when switching classroom and books, I'd run to the toilets and get in a quick one. There was a school assembly where all the boys were reprimanded for the amount staining on the bedsheets (it was a boarding school). This caused a lot of laughter, so I guess there wasn't much guilt there then. During prep (homework) in a room with 80 other boys, I'd get the urge, and with minimal discreet rubbing, my leg muscles would tense up and with tingling toes I'd ejaculate into my trousers. I just could not wait.

The boy in the next bed in my dorm congratulated me once for wanking less often. I think he was confused. I have a nervous fidget where I rhythmically waggle one foot while dropping off to sleep. In fact, I was masturbating quietly every night without fail. I was just dropping off to sleep faster and forgetting to waggle my foot.

My first three orgasms are burned deeply into my memory because they came as such a surprise and the learning curve was so steep. Since then, taking the JackinWorld statistics as a guide, I guess I've been normal. For 36 years, I've been masturbating whenever and wherever I get the urge and a little privacy, from zero to 4 times a day, after which I burn out. I use several of JackinWorld's techniques and occasionally try others when I'm in the mood.

Here are a couple of techniques from personal experience that I've not seen on JackinWorld: Use a hand-cranked egg white/cream whisk to vibrate your penis through your underpants, which need to be tight or they will get tangled in the mechanism. On no account use an electric whisk! Another one: When masturbating in the bath, if the water is nice and hot, the semen can cook a bit like egg white. It then sticks to your body and pubic hair, and even after thorough toweling gets glued to your clothes. Later, after a drying period, as you move about, one by one your hairs get pulled out. It is hard to remain composed when this torture is happening. To avoid this, catch the semen and using a convenient thigh, rub it in vigorously until it froths like egg white. When this is washed off, it doesn't act like glue. (I am still a budding scientist, and one day I plan to find out if semen is similar enough to egg white to make meringues!)

Thanks, JackinWorld, for a great resource. If only you had been around in 1966, we innocent boys might have done some really good science — but I wouldn't have had such a nice surprise aged 14.