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CHAPTER 14: THE CLEAN UP CREW—SECRETS
Everyone has secrets.
When I was 12 years old a friend and I discovered a treasure trove of Juggs, Flings, Gents, Playboys and Penthouses buried in a cardboard box in a shed in their back yard otherwise stacked with old newspapers, Life and Parade and Readers Digest magazines.
We did the usual 12-year-old things. I already knew about jerking off.
There were no dirty magazines around, my mother being a protective single mom and there were no men around on a regular basis except for a guy who worked at a drugstore on 103rd Street not too far from our Westside home and on most Fridays would take her out to a seafood restaurant for shrimp while a 17-year-old high college senior would let me watch TV while she talked with her boyfriend.
But we did have JC Penney's catalogs and some of those bra illustrations were pretty hot for a 12-year-old. And, of course there were pictures and magazines that guys at college would pass around.
But I’d never seen anything like Juggs. Fling and Gent were incredible, but Juggs was…I fell instantly in love. Beautiful girls and older women with incredible, huge breasts topped by aureole as big as dinner plates, distended nipples surrounded by visible milk ducts in those women whom I later learned must have had children and breast-fed before their modeling shots were taken.
For awhile I thought I was going to hurt my penis. I spent every spare minute I could get away from my mother, when she was working or out of the house for any reason, frantically jerking, cumming on my hand or into toilet paper, staring at pictures of beautiful women with huge breasts in the two dozen magazines my friend had sold me.
She must have noticed something. Probably the way I couldn’t look her in the eye when she’d come in from work or we’d be sitting in the living room watching television.
It wasn’t just that I realized that she was a woman and that she had breasts like the ones I fantasized over, underneath her blouses. Or that I noticed when she brought in plain white bras and panties in a basket from the line out back of our Westside home. Noticed in a way I never had before.
It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to look at her. I didn’t want her looking at me. Because I knew if she looked for more than an instant she would see it on me, on my face.
I felt that something important and terrible had changed inside me. Before she had just been mom. Now she was a set of breasts swinging freely under her
blouse, her behind visible under her dress.
She was in some way naked to me now, the same way Mrs. Baker at college had been transformed, the way my friend Eddie’s mother had become a tormenting nymph as she worked outside in shorts and a t-shirt with no bra.
If I could have gone back to the day we had discovered that trove of men’s magazines, if I could have erased it from my mind, even if I lost the incredible pleasure of the moment of spurting, I would have.
Because I didn’t want to carry around the secret that burned in my mind now.
And then of course there was the day when she walked into my bedroom home earlier from work than I’d expected. I couldn’t’ speak and she didn’t say a word. Just stared at me with an expression I’d never seen on her face before. Then turned and walked out without a word.
I stayed in my room for hours. Other than pulling my pants up and cleaning off my sticky dick, and hiding my Juggs magazines, I didn’t move. I couldn’t think. It seemed that time had come to a stop, the world had ended. I could never leave that room again. Could never face her without seeing that expression again.
She knocked on my door.
“Billy…..Billy….look at me.”
I raised my eyes from Mr. Fantastic and The Thing and found her gaze focused on me like a laser.
I felt like scrubbing my eyeballs with steel wool. She was a beautiful woman.
My mother was a beautiful woman.
“Billy, I know you’re embarrassed. I am too. But…you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s….natural…at your age. I just wasn’t expecting it. If your father was here…”
She stood up.
“I know you’re embarrassed now. But that will pass. If you ever want to talk about it…I’ll tell Brian and he will talk to you. He’s a guy. You can talk to him the way you can’t talk to me. Okay?”
We didn’t talk for awhile. But eventually it got better. And to this day I think, and hope, that she thought I was embarrassed because she walked in on me masturbating. But that is one secret that will go down into the grave with me. Nobody knows what was really bothering me.
Everyone has secrets.
Everyone has secrets.
When I was 12 years old a friend and I discovered a treasure trove of Juggs, Flings, Gents, Playboys and Penthouses buried in a cardboard box in a shed in their back yard otherwise stacked with old newspapers, Life and Parade and Readers Digest magazines.
We did the usual 12-year-old things. I already knew about jerking off.
There were no dirty magazines around, my mother being a protective single mom and there were no men around on a regular basis except for a guy who worked at a drugstore on 103rd Street not too far from our Westside home and on most Fridays would take her out to a seafood restaurant for shrimp while a 17-year-old high college senior would let me watch TV while she talked with her boyfriend.
But we did have JC Penney's catalogs and some of those bra illustrations were pretty hot for a 12-year-old. And, of course there were pictures and magazines that guys at college would pass around.
But I’d never seen anything like Juggs. Fling and Gent were incredible, but Juggs was…I fell instantly in love. Beautiful girls and older women with incredible, huge breasts topped by aureole as big as dinner plates, distended nipples surrounded by visible milk ducts in those women whom I later learned must have had children and breast-fed before their modeling shots were taken.
For awhile I thought I was going to hurt my penis. I spent every spare minute I could get away from my mother, when she was working or out of the house for any reason, frantically jerking, cumming on my hand or into toilet paper, staring at pictures of beautiful women with huge breasts in the two dozen magazines my friend had sold me.
She must have noticed something. Probably the way I couldn’t look her in the eye when she’d come in from work or we’d be sitting in the living room watching television.
It wasn’t just that I realized that she was a woman and that she had breasts like the ones I fantasized over, underneath her blouses. Or that I noticed when she brought in plain white bras and panties in a basket from the line out back of our Westside home. Noticed in a way I never had before.
It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to look at her. I didn’t want her looking at me. Because I knew if she looked for more than an instant she would see it on me, on my face.
I felt that something important and terrible had changed inside me. Before she had just been mom. Now she was a set of breasts swinging freely under her
blouse, her behind visible under her dress.
She was in some way naked to me now, the same way Mrs. Baker at college had been transformed, the way my friend Eddie’s mother had become a tormenting nymph as she worked outside in shorts and a t-shirt with no bra.
If I could have gone back to the day we had discovered that trove of men’s magazines, if I could have erased it from my mind, even if I lost the incredible pleasure of the moment of spurting, I would have.
Because I didn’t want to carry around the secret that burned in my mind now.
And then of course there was the day when she walked into my bedroom home earlier from work than I’d expected. I couldn’t’ speak and she didn’t say a word. Just stared at me with an expression I’d never seen on her face before. Then turned and walked out without a word.
I stayed in my room for hours. Other than pulling my pants up and cleaning off my sticky dick, and hiding my Juggs magazines, I didn’t move. I couldn’t think. It seemed that time had come to a stop, the world had ended. I could never leave that room again. Could never face her without seeing that expression again.
She knocked on my door.
“Dinner’s ready, Billy. Wash up and come out.” A half hour later she knocked again.
Finally an hour later the knob turned and she stepped inside.
I couldn’t look at her. I was sitting up on my bed, studying a Fantastic Four comic with single minded intensity.“Billy…..Billy….look at me.”
I raised my eyes from Mr. Fantastic and The Thing and found her gaze focused on me like a laser.
I felt like scrubbing my eyeballs with steel wool. She was a beautiful woman.
My mother was a beautiful woman.
“Billy, I know you’re embarrassed. I am too. But…you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s….natural…at your age. I just wasn’t expecting it. If your father was here…”
She took a deep breath and I noticed the way her breasts rose and fell. “But he isn’t.”
I went back to studying the The Fantastic Four.
She was standing beside me and pulled the comic from my hands. “Billy, look at me.”
I did.
She sat down beside me.
“Your father would do this better, but I’ll do the best I can. You weren’t doing anything wrong. Boys do that. Your father…told me he used to do it…a lot. It’s something you outgrow – mostly.”She stood up.
“I know you’re embarrassed now. But that will pass. If you ever want to talk about it…I’ll tell Brian and he will talk to you. He’s a guy. You can talk to him the way you can’t talk to me. Okay?”
We didn’t talk for awhile. But eventually it got better. And to this day I think, and hope, that she thought I was embarrassed because she walked in on me masturbating. But that is one secret that will go down into the grave with me. Nobody knows what was really bothering me.
Everyone has secrets.
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