Wednesday, May 19, 2021

Finding a Private Place to Have Sex with Guys

Sometime in 7th grade:

I start to hear that guys' beneath-the-belt equipment turns into a gigantic baseball bat at random moments, with no prior warning.

The process is called "getting a boner," or "popping a boner," when it happens in an embarrassing situation, like when you are visiting your grandmother or giving an oral presentation in class.

I occasionally feel a stirring down below, but no baseball bats.

8th grade, around my 13th birthday:

I start experiencing my own baseball bats at random moments, in the locker room, in science class, at church.  They are usually easy to cover up with a hymnal or a science textbook, so no one notices.

I assume that other guys are covering up, too, since I rarely see any at school, or any tell-tale signs like squirming in your chair or suddenly looking for something to cover up with.  Occasionally I see one in the shower, and once a college boy at Olivet "pops a boner" while he is kissing his girlfriend.

Late in 8th grade:

I notice a pattern: baseball bats happen most often when I am looking at or talking to a cute guy, like my boyfriend Dan or Micah the Bible Boy.  Pictures of Korak Son of Tarzan in a Gold Key comic book will do it.  And Desi Arnaz Jr. on Here's Lucy on Monday night.  I begin bringing a giant math book to the living room with me.

Even thinking about a cute guy might cause a baseball bat, especially if you fantasize about kissing or hugging him.

Early in ninth grade:

The other guys are constantly talking about getting baseball bats while talking to cute girls.

Bill's big brother Mike tells me that you always get a baseball bat when you're having sex with a girl.  It's necessary to get the sperm into the girl's ovaries, so she can have a baby.

I figure that Dan and I are the only guys in the world who think about boys while it happens.

Ninth grade, around my 14th birthday:

I discover that if you continue to think about kissing and touching cute guys,  you can bring the baseball bat to the culmination that the older boys call "blowing a load."

Of course, it would be nice to have the cute guy there instead of just thinking about him, but when I approach my boyfriend Dan, he refuses.  So it's just me and the baseball bat.

The problem is, finding a place to do it, in a tiny house crammed with five people, including parents who never go out at night and a brother and sister who constantly have friends over.

Summer after ninth grade:

We move to a new house, considerably bigger, with a separate dining room, a screened in porch, a basement rec room, a double yard.    But still, finding a place to do it is a problem.

My bedroom: No, my brother and I share, and he and his innumerable friends could show up at any moment.

The bathroom: One for a family of five, right off the dining room, next to my sister's bedroom where she and all of her friends are constantly hanging out  Besides, my parents aren't aware of the concept of privacy.  They will walk right in while I am on the toilet, to put something in the linen closet or get clothes out of the hamper.

The basement: There is a large rec room, a laundry room, and an artist's studio belonging to the last resident, Mr. Kint.  No one has touched it since the day he died.  It freaks me out.   Besides, anyone walking into the rec room could look in and see what I was doing.

The attic! Just off our bedroom, there is an attic room, about 8 by 20 feet, unfinished, with one small window.  I could move the boxes and old furniture so that the back of the room is hidden from the door.

Now I just need my parents' permission it there.

"I want to make a little study in the attic," I announce.

"But you have a desk and a bookcase in your room," Mom says.  "What else do you need?"

"It's too noisy.  Kenny is always playing his music loud, or having his friends over, and I can't get any work done."

"But there's no heat or air conditioning in there," Dad protests.  "You'll freeze in the winter and burn up in the summer."

"It has electricity, so I can get a space heater for the winter, and a window fan for the summer.    Besides, I won't be there very long, just an hour or so before dinner, when I'm doing homework."

They finally consent, and I move boxes around to make a safe haven of about 8 by 10 feet.

 I put out a sleeping bag and some pillows, a small bookcase with some books and writing tablets (I am supposed to be doing homework, remember?), and some baseball bat aids, like this Tarzan comic.

10th grade, around my 15th birthday:

I have brought in an old chair, an end table, a lamp, a clock, and a radio.  A space heater for winter.  Some pictures of Tarzan and Bomba the Jungle Boy on the wall.

I have started doing homework there for real, and working on my heroic fantasy novel.

It is  my sanctuary, a "good place" of my own, free from the "what girl do you like" interrogations of the outside world.

I start bragging to a couple of my friends about my sanctuary, where I can do anything I want.

"I can't get any privacy at home, either," Tom tells me.  "Could your sanctuary sometime?"

"You can't bring a girl in there!" I exclaim, horrified.  "It's boys only!"

"No, myself.  I'll just bring in some magazines, know."

I think it over.  Watching a cute guy would be almost as good as kissing and hugging him!

"Ok, but you can't bring pictures of naked girls -- they're gross. And I have to be there, too.  My parents would get suspicious if some kid used my sanctuary when I wasn't around."

Eleventh grade:

Two guys come to my sanctuary: Tom and Aaron.  Not too often, maybe once every other week.  I discover that Darry has his own sanctuary.

Sometimes my brother is out in the bedroom, but he never gets suspicious.

Nor do my parents.

Twelfth grade:

Now it's three guys: Tom, Marty, and Aaron. Alternating, once a week, so each gets a turn once a month.

I don't get to touch anything, but still, I'm with a cute guy and his baseball bat!

See also: Dad explains the facts of life; The Most Underrated Sex Act; and the Preacher Pops a Boner.


  1. Later I found out that both Marty and Aaron were gay. Tom was straight, but he let me stay with him for a couple of weeks when I moved to West Hollywood.

  2. Trust me, Dad knew what you did. All men do the same.

    I was younger when I started. I actually taught a couple friends. Watching Baywatch with them, one had a TV in his room. The cool thing about Baywatch is you can think about Michael Berghin, David Chokachi, or my favorite Jaason Simms and not be sus because every other baseball bat there is up, out, thinking about the girls, and ready to blow.

    We also had a pond on our property. Dad built a wall so we would have some privacy for swimming, and a shed to hold our clothes. While there was a lot of talk about girls, it was the perfect baseball bat paradise; in retrospect, Dad built it this way when I was a little kid, probably foreseeing my friends and I using it for more grown up purposes.



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