Dark Passenger: I Can Do It Myself (#6)

In the rural South during the 1970s and 1980s, sex turned out to be one of those things we didn't discuss along with my cousin in jail and my uncle's drinking problem. Without the Internet, a curious mind like mine could only get information from friends — who knew little more than I did — and the encyclopedia.

That was about it. My resources about my emerging emotions and proclivities lacked an outlet and, even more troubling, came with erroneous data. The man who molested me turned out to be my only source of information. As I look back, I think he delighted in the torture he caused me. He also seemed to misinform me — on purpose.

For example, his explanation of a "blowjob" turned out to be significantly different than the truth. According to him, you would visit a stylist who washed and dried your pubic hair — a blow-dryer being the pivotal tool needed in the "blowjob" experience.

A year later, another adult would correct this error and, in fact, molest me. Or, then again, I fucked him, so I guess I molested him.

Anyway, back to the story. I'd cum a few times — an addictive sensation that allowed me to keep returning to the man. He would jerk me off at most, usually with exhausted irritation since, in his post-ejaculation depression, he only wanted me to disappear.

This summer, we ventured to some islands off the shore. The hot, humid, and far away from crowded beaches, my summer vacation was highlighted by sleeping with my father in a double bed next to my mom and sister. In other words, I was pretty much cock-blocked from every angle.

So away from the man who molested me, at a beach location, no privacy, full of boredom. What to do?

Going for a swim at the beach, I imagine shirtless men surrounded me and I suffered from perpetual blue balls and a rock-hard cock.

Eventually, my intellect started to churn and I got around to figuring out the basic movement of my molester's hand could be duplicated by me.

I just remember sitting in the bathroom, door locked and claiming to have an upset stomach, and jerking my cock. The sensation proved to be heavenly as I worked it up and down and, finally, reached climax. As I rode the first few moments, the cum flew, flying up about five feet and falling to hit my smooth chest.

Before I could begin wiping up, I could hear his words about hell and how I would go there for doing this. The guilt overwhelmed me. And the guilt would continue to overwhelm. I'd jerk, cum, get guilty, and recover — a cycle I would repeat until I turned 19.