Friday, January 9, 2009


This is not so much an erotic story as it is a story about the development of eroticism.
In 1964, I was ten years old. I lived in a small Midwestern community where my father worked as the town doctor. The town had about 1,200 inhabitants in it, and everyone heard you fart in the morning.
I developed a friendship with another boy, which is not unusual. Actually, there was a small pack of us who used to run through the woods, along the creek, and play "cowboys and indians." One of the group was a bit more adventurous than the others and he, and I, spent some hot afternoons playing naked in the creek. We would just float in the cool water, while the air above us was thick with humidity and mosquitoes. I will always remember the sensuality of it all; the cool water rushing around my unclothed skin, the grinding sand on my bottom. We had great fun. There was nothing sexual about this. I still had never had an erection and didn't know what it was. It was all about doing something a little naughty but, oh so fun.
This friend had a "dirty" magazine that he had found somewhere. It was full of 8"x 10" black & white photos of women in provocative poses. In the mid-60's, full frontal nudity was forbidden in most publications. There were no crotch shots and, certainly, no penetration shots. These photos depicted woman sitting, lying, standing in poses that, mostly, showed off their breasts. But, it was pretty racy stuff. My friend gave me the magazine. I felt a buzz of excitement, even though I had no clue where it was coming from. I took the treasure home and hid it (as all resourceful children would) under my matress.
My bedroom was on the second floor of an old wood-frame house. Walking across the floor caused a chorus of creaks and groans that resonated in the spaces on the first floor. This was how I was busted.
At night, when I was quite certain everyone else in the house was soundly asleep, I would turn on a small table lamp, pull the "dirty" magazine out from under its secure hiding place and turn to a photograph. I would sit on the wooden floor, with the photo in front of me, and try to mimic the pose of the woman on the page. It was exciting to try to experience what she may have experienced, there in front of the lens. I was too young to have an erection, and I certainly did not know what an orgasm was, but I felt something inside of me as I sat on the floor, naked, trying to look like the model. It all felt nasty and scary and exciting and fun. I knew it was wrong, but I could not have told anyone why.
One day, I came home from school. I knew something was up. My mother was acting a bit strange. Nothing really happened until my father came home from work. He was always the disciplinarian. When he came home, he called me into the kitchen. I entered, not quite sure why the tone of his voice was confrontative. I did not know that I had done anything wrong. He reached up and pulled the magazine off the top of the refrigerator. "Where did you get this?" he asked, in a rather angry manner. I was dumbstruck. Where did he find it, I thought. It was, afterall, under my mattress.
I 'fessed up and told him the name of the friend who had given me the taboo material. He promptly told me that I was never to associate with that friend again. The magazine was confiscated. I was shamed, embarassed, injured.
I look back on that and smile. I went on to become a sensual hedonist, an art and photo model, a writer of erotica. The experience could have scarred me, or made me stronger. The latter was the path I chose.

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