bruisemeblue's Journal

Sexual Confession number 1
I was about twelve when I made the discovery of the torn magazine page underneath my parents’ bed. I looked at the pictures on it, saw the man holding the knife and the girl with his penis in her mouth. I saw the girl on her hands and knees, the man behind her, the knife welding hand settled on her back while the other tightly grasped her around the waist. A second man walked around them with a video camera. There were other pictures like this on the page, and though I could not quite make out the mechanics of how and why they were doing what they were, thanks to sex education at our Lutheran church, I knew exactly what was going on.
Further investigation under the bed brought less disturbing images. The choreographed rape scene gave way to Playboy Bunnies with flowing blonde Charlie’s Angels hairdos, gawking at the camera while sharing their beautiful bodies. There were many magazines like this. I remember the picture made of up tiny photos depicting a girl stripping nude. The naked girl sitting on the floor, long slack brown hair hiding her lowered face in shame as a fully clothed hippy woman lazily studied her from her chair. A couple standing, the man grasping the woman, pressed tightly against her back, both watching the setting sun. And the sisters, washing each other in the shower, sharing secrets while naked in bed. Soon these magazines made hidden journeys from under the bed to the back room upstairs—which would become entrenched with my budding sexual desire and perversion--where I stashed them behind the mattress and bed frame.
I would stay in that room for hours, not even the hottest day could send me running for the fans anymore. I would carefully turn the pages, studying the pictures, reading the text, always masturbating. I would find myself in situations reading about a woman’s fantasy of living with five horny men, but only letting them fuck her on Saturday nights—and if they tried anything during the week they had to watch—and I would be stroking my penis so furiously I would barely hear the door open and someone start to make the trek up the steps. I would rush to pull up my shorts, mask my erection, and stash the magazine in its hiding place. They would walk in and I would be pretending to search through the records or an odd box sitting nearby, panicked, sure they knew what I was up to as I made the mad dash from my secret place to the other side of the room.
There would be days when I would masturbate once, cumming quickly. Then would do it again, and again, while shuffling through the pages of the magazines, reading about the man who wanted a harem of women living with him—one of his girls being a plain Jane whose self confidence was so low he would have to fuck her everyday. During the summer I would be drenched in an intense sweat as each orgasm took longer to achieve.
In my carelessness I would often pull the old Mickey Mouse blanket over, using its edges to wipe away the semen from my young hands, stomach, and penis. I would toss it back to its spot by the barbell. Once I snuck a condom from my father’s underwear drawer, and after soiling it with my semen, I stuffed it into a crack in the wooden floor. Fifteen some years later and I wonder if it still lies there.
I would experiment with my masturbation. I would sit on the bar bell, not knowing that anal sex meant sticking the penis into the anal cavity instead of sliding it up and down the crack. As I sat there, the bar right between my ass, I felt I had a perfect simulation of what it might feel like for a girl. Other times I would rub against the mattress until I came, or crawl up it, grasping at the bed frame behind it so I could raise myself up and down in the air, letting my penis lightly rub against the mattress. Once I snuck the bottle of Vaseline from the bathroom cabinet and masturbated to a slick, messy orgasm. Upon trying to return it, letting it be held against my side by the elastic waistband of my shorts and hidden by my shirt, it escaped in the kitchen and slid down my leg, crashing to the floor. My mother sat at the table, looking down at it. I bent over, picked it up, asked, “What was this doing upstairs?”
“I don’t know,” she quietly answered.
I walked away, positive I tricked her. But she knew very well what it had been doing.
When our long, trying time came to an end at the old house, most of what was upstairs was tossed away. One hot day I scooted around on the floor in that backroom, searching through boxes ready to be trashed and making sure nothing was an absolute must keep. My hiding place had been abandoned, the magazines had made the dangerous trek back downstairs to be stashed back under the bed. My ten year old brother would later find them while packing and come bouncing out of the bedroom, waving them happily in the air, asking, “Hey, dad! Can I keep these?” I would pretend innocence and disgust at his excitement.
But that day upstairs, thinking myself out of the clear--the magazines long gone, the used condom buried under wood--my mother lifted up the Mickey Mouse blanket, finding it drenched with dried yellow stains. “I think we can throw this away,” she said, holding it up with the tips of her fingers, displaying it for my father to see.
“Oh, sometimes my allergies would start bothering me and I would start sneezing when I was up here,” I said, feeling cool and confident at my quick cover up. “I would just blow my nose on that.” They never suspected a thing, I thought.
My father smiled and suppressed a laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s throw that away.”

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