Thursday, February 7, 2013
When I was a boy...
When I was a boy, I had a real complex about sex. I guess looking back everyone has some growing issues, but for me they seemed particularly disabling.
I naturally experienced sensations, just like any young teenager does. I found things arousing, but without a father at home for 8 months of the year, and a brother five years older than I, more interested in sports, music and girls than his naïve, distressed brother, I had no-one to talk to. Not that that should matter, many people manage just fine without guidance in that particular area, but not all kids are me, and I could have done with a little mature advice.
The problem I had, you see, was that whilst I had no problem achieving an erection, I had a great deal of difficulty in achieving an orgasm. This had an awful lot to do with late night television and teenage paranoia. To begin with, I would be settled in my bedroom, lights off, door closed, watching late night TV, which at the time was limited to The Outer limits and The X-Files.
If I’m honest, Gillian Anderson’s cleavage didn’t nearly pop up as much as I needed it to. Come to think of it, I think that director had something against young boys, why put a beautiful big-busted sexpot like Gillian and not allow us even the smallest of erm… moments. Anyhow, there I would be, all prepared with toilet paper in the bedside cabinet, remote control on the bed for volume control, and Vic’s Vacorub on the table to support my story of having the sniffles. There would also be a small towel under the bed in case of emergencies. I don’t quite remember what kind of emergency I was expecting, but my youth was filled with movies like Police Academy and Airplane, so anything was possible.
Try as I might though, every time I would get a rhythm going, perhaps because Scully was tied up ready to be sacrificed by some deep-south santanist coven, the channel would switch to adverts, which at that time consisted of Gay Sex Chat lines. One minute I would be completing the final strokes of my own 50 meters breast stroke, the next second I had gone completely still, like I was drowning in the pool with cramp. Without some form of stimulation though, I would never get much further than firm wood. Wood, incidentally, that didn’t go away. I mean, it just never went away. There was absolutely nothing I could do to get rid of the damned thing. It was like a stray dog, or a bad smell. I had a stalking stalk! Needless to say, I had to pass on the “giving my mum a goodnight cuddle” for fear of my solid shame being revealed.
The best I could do was to sleep face down, but even that wasn’t good enough. Lying on your belly allows you two choices, up or down. Pointing it upwards was pretty embarrassing, as you could guarantee the kind of sheets that mothers enjoy telling future girlfriends about. Pointing it downwards meant lifting your bum up, and sort of leaning forwards to put pressure on it, causing some pain in the hope that it would go down enough to allow me a nights’ sleep. I generally picked option two, but after a while my paranoia kicked in. In the years to come I would convince myself that in some way, this practice of squishing self-harm had ‘done damage’ to my meat and potatoes once and for all, and that I was destined never to have my glory moment.
In fact, so traumatic was this to me that I didn’t have my first orgasm until I was 19, in a car park with a friendly young lady who found herself holding a whole lot more that what she was looking for in my boxer shorts. I will never forget the way she told me so sympathetically,
“It happens to lots of people”. She tried so hard to be supportive, giving me gentle encouraging words (and I’m sure wondering if there’s a faucet nearby), when all the while meanwhile I wanted to scream “IT WORKS!”
The truth is that if I had someone to talk to about some of this stuff, I would not have suffered the years of nightmare worrying and late night panic attacks over sex. I wouldn’t have spent so long fretting that I must be gay, and losing a good friend in the process. Instead, I would have had the same kind of teenage years as everyone else. What I needed was for someone to tell me, it’s going to be okay, and that some things just take time to figure out. What I needed was someone to say keep trying, and learn what works for me, because if I don’t figure out how my junk works, then how will I know to tell my future wife what works.
And that’s why I think throwing a party is such a healthy thing to do. It gives people a chance to talk about sex in an open way, without shame. It allows people to play with ideas and equipment, and it helps us all open up about our sexual fantasies, pleasures and individual preferences. And a good host is one that will allow you to talk about these things openly and honestly whilst at the same time having lots of fun. Lindsay is perfect for this, she has always had that slight touch of rebellion that you can’t help but admire, wrapped up in a genuine, sensitive and caring shell.