RIP THE JACKER
by Dolphin Dan
*** WARNING ***
This story focuses on masturbation and sexual desire among members of the same gender. It also contains descriptions of sexuality. If it is illegal or morally uncomfortable for you to view such material, please do not continue. This story is a work of fiction. It did not happen.
My name is Kyle, and I'm the mysterious "Rip the Jacker" of Homer High School. It's a very long story and a pretty weird one. To dispel any doubts that it might raise about my sanity, let me say that now, a couple of years after the events described in this story, I'm a healthy, well-adjusted college student with a 3.89 GPA, double majoring in literature and philosophy (yes, I know I'm never going to get a job). I'm bisexual, and in fact am dating a perfectly wonderful guy right now, and our relationship is entirely normal. While I don't think anything I did in high school really crossed the line into anything scary, it was plenty weird, and I look back on it and wonder what possessed me to do what I did. It's certainly the strangest thing I've ever done in my life, and for obvious reasons the story can only be told in certain limited company.
I guess I ought to start with the subject of masturbation. I was always a pretty smart and precocious kid, but I was utterly ignorant about "the birds and the bees," and no one ever gave me "the talk" and what limited information I had about the puberty I was going through came either from raunchy whispers among classmates or the half-baked, politically-motivated drivel fed to us through elementary and junior high school "health" classes. Maybe this was the reason why, when I finally discovered masturbation, I mythologized it totally out of proportion. This is about as close to a real explanation I can come up with for why I became the "Jacker." I realize it's an unsatisfying one, but it's the best I can do.
When I was 12 during the summer my mom put me in some swim classes at a local health club, mainly as a way to get me out of the house, and this was my first experience with anything sexual. I had just begun to get erections, and sort of liked them--sometimes when I would get one I'd stop what I was doing and lay down on my bed, on my stomach, and enjoy the unique sensation of what felt to me like lying on a piece of heavy rope. But I didn't go the next step until after one fateful day after swim class. I was going back to my locker after swimming and noticed a boy there who I sometimes saw swimming in the afternoons. I had no idea what his name was, but he was about 15 I guess, tall, with blonde hair and a very nice body. That particular afternoon he'd been lingering in the shower after coming out of the pool, and I passed the aisle where his locker was, on the way to mine, and I noticed something strange. He was standing very close to the open door of his locker, almost right up against it. His towel was draped over the top corner of the open locker door and sort of hung down so its end was roughly at his waist level. He was standing very still, staring into the locker, and had a strange look on his face as if he was concentrating intensely. The weirdest thing was that, although I could only see him from the back, it looked like his swim trunks were loosened, because the waistband of them was hanging slightly down, far enough that I could see the crease of his butt. I had no idea what was going on but I understood immediately that I was seeing something very private and sensitive, and that I must not let my presence be known.
I stopped where I was and hung back by the end of the row of lockers, trying to be very quiet. This was the mid-afternoon and there weren't many people in the locker room. The loudspeakers were playing a local radio station, and above that I could hear a man whistling some distance away and the hum of the showers. I also heard something else. The older boy standing at his locker was panting like he was running a race or something. I peered around the side of the lockers again to watch him. I could see nothing even remotely indecent except the top of his butt crack, but there was a curious ripple in the muscle of his right shoulder blade that repeated over and over again and I realized he was doing something with his hand. Suddenly it made sense to me: he was playing with himself. He seemed to go faster, and then he closed his eyes and made a sound like he was sucking in his breath. His whole body seemed to quiver for just an instant. Then he relaxed. Literally a second later the wet swim drunks dropped from his hips to the tiled floor. He stepped out of them, snatched the towel from the edge of the locker and covered himself with it in one fluid motion. In the time it took him to do that--which was probably less than two seconds--I saw the boy's penis. It was pretty large, at least by my standards, and almost hard though not fully. It looked like there was something wet on its end but it didn't look like water. At the time I knew nothing about how the male orgasm worked so I didn't even think to look down into the swim trunks on the floor to see if there was semen on them but I assume there was. The boy went about his business, drying off, putting on deodorant and dressing himself as if there was nothing out of the ordinary. I got up the courage to move, and to pass by the aisle in sight of him as if I was just walking there from the door of the locker room and I don't think he ever knew that I was watching him. My own dick was as hard as a rock and my mouth was watering like I was very hungry. My heart was pounding. I was scared and excited at the same time.
On the bus on the way home my mind was filled with questions. Why had the boy done that? Wasn't he afraid someone would see what he was doing? I assumed he must have been, because with as close as he was standing to the locker, and the strategic positioning of the towel, obviously he was trying to hide as much from the world as possible. Yet whatever the reason for him doing that, it was powerful enough for him to take the risk of being seen or discovered. My own reaction was strange too. I had just begun to discover girls. I liked looking at the developing breasts of my female classmates as they began to poke under their shirts during sixth and seventh grade, and sometimes when I thought hard about them, or what the girls looked like without the shirts, I grew erect. Yet I had also been very excited by the idea of the boy at the swim club being so tempted by the idea of self-pleasure that he would do it in such dangerous circumstances. Even at that young age my mind was very methodical and I turned the questions over and over again like pieces of a puzzle. I had a lot of experience with puzzles; I loved doing word games, math problems, and mystery novels. When I was 10 I got into my mother's book shelf of dog-eared Agatha Christie mysteries, and it got so I could solve them even before reaching the last page. I treated this like a puzzle, like the pathology of a mystery. It was an interesting way to approach it.
After what I'd seen, most 12-year-old boys would go home, shut themselves in the bathroom, rip down their shorts and start jacking away in order to discover for themselves what the boy at swim class already knew about. But I didn't. In fact I didn't touch my dick unless it was absolutely necessary. It got hard frequently over the next few days and I longed to stroke it and see if my hypothesis as to the mystery of the swimming-class boy was correct--that playing with yourself was REALLY so pleasurable as to be irresistible--but I didn't. I wanted to do it right. I waited until swim class the next week. I wanted to put myself in exactly the same situation that the older boy had done it in. I wouldn't touch myself until I got to the health club, until after swim class; in fact I even had to have the exact same locker (I had remembered its position and its number, 743) that the boy had used that day. I even wanted the same swim trunks, and before swim class the next week I strategically pulled open a seam on my own swimming shorts and then complained to my mother that they were "worn out" and I needed new ones. The boy's trunks had been baggy O'Neill boardshorts, like surfers wore--this was in the mid-90s and surf fashions were making a comeback--and they were blue with red trim. We went to the department store and I picked out some I liked which were at least similar, but my mother said, "Can't you pick something cheaper?" I threw a fit--something I felt completely idiotic doing at the age of 12--but got my way. Unlike most boys who stumble across the act of masturbation casually, or even accidentally, my first experience was calculated, premeditated and very meticulously planned.
Alas, my first attempt that week was foiled. When I went into the locker room at the health club and eagerly walked back through the aisles of lockers, I was heartsick to see that locker 743 was already in use. A businessman in a suit and tie had it open and was just beginning to take off his shoes; an athletic bag containing a tennis racket sat on the wooden bench in front of it. Damn! I scrubbed my plans immediately. I could not and would not do it unless I had locker 743, and there was nothing I could do--my swim classes were at a certain time and I had to be back on a certain bus home, and I couldn't just wait for the businessman to finish his tennis game and clear out. Thus I had to postpone a week.
The next week I had success. 743 was unoccupied. I set up my stuff, got dressed for class and tried valiantly to hide the rock-hard erection I had during most of swim class. Then after class I retired to the locker room to dress and I knew my opportunity was at hand. My heart was pounding again, my stomach full of butterflies. When I got back to 743, opened it up and draped the towel over the corner of the door I was mortified. I heard voices from the very next aisle over.
"Hey, Larry, we need a fourth for racquetball on Thursday. You available?"
"Sorry, man, it's Christine and I's anniversary."
"You're still with her? I thought you guys broke up weeks ago."
"Well, we did, but she called and told me she was sorry, and the whole thing was a mistake..."
I thought again of aborting, but decided to go through with it. There was no one else on my immediate aisle, and the men were so absorbed in their conversation that I doubted they'd hear me at all. With trembling hands I untied the drawstrings of my swim trunks. I pulled them slightly down, reaching behind me to make sure that I was only showing a few inches of butt crack. I then took hold of my aching penis. At the time I realized why the boy had worn his shorts this way while he masturbated: with them pulled slightly down my dick was poking right out into the meshy undergarment portion of the shorts just beneath the waistband, which, when the strings were loosened, offered enough room to close my whole fist around my dick and still have it inside my shorts and protected from direct view. Plus the feeling of the slightly-damp mesh fabric brushing against the head of my penis was amazingly exciting; I didn't yet appreciate the third likely reason he did it this way, so that the swim trunks would catch his cum when he ejaculated. I started to pump my three-inch erection back and forth in my hand. The feeling was incredible, like nothing I'd experienced before. I was so turned on that I doubted it took me more than forty-five seconds to reach orgasm. I've always been extraordinarily fast at completion--a talent that would serve me very well in my career as the Jacker--and it was no different that first time. My first-ever orgasm was crushing in its intensity. It felt like my brain shorted out. Nothing came out of my dick of course because I was still too young, but it got so hard and the sensation was so explosive that I thought I'd done real damage to myself. But when I came down from the orgasm, my dick started to slacken and it didn't look or feel like anything was wrong, so my fears subsided.
"You're nuts, man. I told you when you started dating her that Christine is bad news."
"Yeah, but she says she loves me, and the sex is great."
The men in the other aisle hadn't heard or suspected a thing. I did exactly what the blonde boy had done: I shrugged off my trunks, grabbed the towel and whipped it around me so I would be exposed for only a second or two, not as if there was anyone to watch me. I felt like I was on top of the world. I had solved the mystery. Playing with yourself really DID feel so good that it was worth a little risk, and I understood exactly why the boy had done it.
Ironically, as I walked out of the health club that day, I passed the snack bar. Sitting at a table near the corner was the boy I'd seen masturbating two weeks ago, now fully dressed in baggy jeans, a flannel shirt and backwards baseball cap, sitting with a friend of his, a dark-haired boy who was also quite cute. They were laughing about something and eating sandwiches. I never spoke to that boy nor he to me, but I credit him with the greatest discovery of my life thus far. After that experience after swim class, it could be said that the course of my teenage years was already decided.
I haven't told very many people about having been the Jacker, but all of them are surprised to hear that I didn't masturbate all the time, and that in fact I probably jacked off far less often than most boys my age. The reason for that is because I never took it casually. Over the next couple of years I developed an entire personal mythology about masturbation, which for me was a sacred and almost solemn act that had to be treated with the utmost respect. When I started to cum, the whole thing went to a new level. I was absolutely fascinated with the phenomenon of ejaculation. It seemed to me that one simple biological act--ejecting sperm at the moment of orgasm--was full of spiritual meaning. It had three components: mental, physical and emotional. It was mental because masturbation has always been primarily mental; you have to think about something, or someone, and the more intensely you concentrate on them, the better it feels. The physical component was obvious, but it too was sensitive; I was fascinated by whether different grips or the speed of strokes could affect how quickly or how much I came, or the intensity of the orgasm. The emotional component was the most important one for me. At least for me, when I thought about someone while masturbating--and especially at the moment of ejaculation--it was like I had an emotional connection to them, an intimacy, even if I had never spoken to them. I felt that way about the older boy at the health club, and about the people I fantasized about over the next few years, whom I began to notice included both boys and girls. One of my favorite early fantasies was about thrusting my dick between the very pronounced breasts of Dee Francione, a girl in my eighth-grade chorus class. Another fantasy was centered around Chris Morgan, a boy who was on the soccer team, an acquaintance of mine (but not really a friend), and who was quite attractive though not in a traditional way. More on that in a moment.
I have never wasted my sperm. For most boys, "cleaning up" is the tiresome underside of masturbation, an annoyance that they must deal with as the price of their self-induced pleasure. Not for me. The idea of coming into a toilet or on the ground or into a handful of Kleenexes fills me with absolute horror. From my very first ejaculations, where and onto what I spewed my sperm became a crucial part of the experience. This was closely linked with its emotional impact. The best masturbations I ever had were those where I fantasized about a particular person, and where my ejaculation occurred had something to do with them, or "closed the loop" so to speak.
Examining in my own mind my fantasies about Chris began to make me consider the differences between my conception of boys and of girls. In nearly all of my fantasies about girls I was directly having some form of physical sex with them. In early ninth grade I got obsessed with a girl named Amy Grace, who was one of the nicest, most demure and most popular girls in our school. I had a deep, longing, physical desire to have very intense, hot, raw, nasty sex with her, especially on the floor. I did not fantasize about hurting her or demeaning her in any way; I just figured that, as nice and low-key as she was, she had to have a wild side, and what better place to bring it out than the bedroom? I was so hot for her that the words "Amy Grace's pussy" (I have never, and will never, say the word "cunt" aloud) were enough to turn me on. I had a very strange ritual regarding her. Class bored me to tears. I was smart enough that I usually could pass tests and make it through class by only paying half-attention, and I usually kept a sheet of notebook paper--"fuck paper," I called it--underneath my notebook, and I would pick a phrase, usually no more than five words, and spend class writing that phrase over and over again on the fuck paper in miniscule, inscrutable calligraphy, packed so densely that to a casual eye it would look just like a page filled with a very intricate but ultimately meaningless design. Sometimes it would take me three or four days to complete a single page of fuck paper, and when it was done, I put it to good use. During the time I was fixated on Amy Grace, the phrase "Amy Grace's pussy" became the basis of my fuck paper. Then, because I fantasized about fucking her on the floor, especially doggy-style, I would wait until a time when my parents and my brother would be out of the house for a sufficiently long time (which wasn't often), move the furniture in the living room aside to make a broad swath of carpeted floor as wide as possible, strip naked, get on my hands and knees, put the fuck paper on the floor under me, and jack off. I chanted those words, "Amy Grace's pussy," over and over again, faster and faster as I approached orgasm, and by the time I spewed my hot, pent-up cum onto the fuck paper bearing her name I was practically shouting it. This was a typical example of my bizarre masturbation rituals. I don't think any of it was harmful, although it was probably pretty obsessive.
It is important to note that my fantasies about women almost always involved having direct sexual contact with them. This was not true with regard to my fantasies about boys. Take Chris Morgan, for instance. When I jacked off thinking about him I did not envision him sucking me, or fucking his butt, or even masturbating together. In fact if Chris had directly approached me and told me point-blank he wanted to have sex with me I would probably have turned him down. What I really wanted to do was steal a pair of his underwear, cum into them and then return them to him, preferably by mail, with an anonymous return address. This fantasy got me absolutely pulsing with lust. Once in the hallway I had seen Chris bend over to pick up some papers that had fallen out of his locker. This was at a time when the baggy, unbelted jeans look was popular among teenagers, and when he bent over I could see his underwear, a pair of plain white briefs with the Jockey logo on the waistband. That was all it took. From that moment on I was obsessed with Chris Morgan's underwear. I schemed and plotted and stressed over how I could get my hands on them, even if only for five minutes. I tried to figure out what period Chris had gym class and when he went to soccer practice in the hope of coming up with some scheme whereby I could rifle his locker when he was in the shower or something, but of course there was nothing I could do. I even used various "people finder" sites on the Internet to look up the address of every family named Morgan in the school district served by Homer High, briefly entertaining some grandiose fantasy of sneaking into his house to steal his underwear--a crime which, if I had been caught, would certainly have wound up on Yahoo's "News of the Weird." When it was evident that I simply couldn't do it I came up with various rituals that I thought would satiate my lust. Numerous times I tried masturbating into a pair of my own underwear, with a little folded piece of fuck paper with Chris's name on it secreted inside, but deep down I knew it was fake, and thus was not satisfied. I tried it again after stealing a pair of my brother's underwear from the laundry, which was even worse. For one thing it was the wrong brand, the wrong size, and had vaguely incestuous connotations which disturbed me, and I didn't even get all the way to orgasm before giving that one up and returning the shorts to the hamper, unspoiled. As the months passed and other fantasies caught my fancy I became disillusioned with Chris. We have never really been friends, but I told my own friends I didn't like him, that he was a stuck-up jock and a total phony. My animosity toward him was based on simple frustration. I couldn't figure out a way to get ahold of his underwear, and it galled me. Luckily Chris and my passion for his underwear faded.
Most of my other fantasies about guys, at least in the early days, were similarly remote--i.e., the fantasy involved an object or act that was one step removed from actual physical contact with the boy himself. Sometimes I would commit petty little crimes in order to provide myself with the necessary props to satisfy my fantasies. At the start of tenth grade I became interested in a boy named Ryan who was in my social studies class. He too made the fatal mistake of being careless about showing his underwear--one time during an exam he yawned and stretched, causing the hem of his T-shirt to creep an inch or two above the waist of his jeans, exposing the waistband of a pair of red and green plaid boxer shorts--but I did not become fixated on them. Instead I became fascinated by his hands. He had lovely hands, with very long fingers and was very nimble with them. I knew he played keyboards for a rock band that had played the party circuit among the denizens of Homer High. My mind immediately filled with images and estimates of the sexual uses to which he could put such grace and dexterity. I didn't even fantasize about him jacking me off, though I guess that could have been in the back of my mind; it was sexier to imagine him stimulating a girl to orgasm with those long fingers. I watched Ryan's hands obsessively. One day when he appeared wearing a silver ring on the third finger of his left hand--it was just a plain silver ring with a little design on it, like you get at Silver Street at the mall--I grew so aroused I almost shot a load in my pants right there in class. Ryan always took notes with a silver pen that looked exactly like the kind of commemorative gift that a distant relative might give someone upon their birthday, or eighth grade graduation, or getting good grades or something. He always stuck it into a little pocket in one of the zippered chambers of his Eastpak backpack before leaving class. One day in mid-January I got very lucky. We were doing something in social studies in discussion groups, and the teacher had groups of four or five students push desks together and do a little assignment. Ryan, who sat near me, was naturally in my group, and at the end of the task he was elected to go up and give our finished paper to the teacher. It was the end of the class and people were gathering up their belongings to leave. Ryan's backpack was sitting on the floor next to his desk which was right next to mine. My dick was rock-hard and suddenly adrenaline pumped through my veins as I saw the silver pen lying on the desk next to his spiral notebook. In half a second I had concocted not only the crime, but the means of accomplishing it and the structure of the elaborate masturbation ritual that would exorcise me of the endless erotic ruminations on his hands. In a pretense of putting away my own books and folders I pushed my binder across my desk so that it made contact with Ryan's spiral notebook. Using that, looking entirely unconscious of any design, I gave it a "careless" little push which had the effect of sliding the notebook across the desk and dumping Ryan's pen on the floor. At exactly the same moment I had dropped my own pencil. I bent down to pick it up, and no one saw me snatch up Ryan's pen at the same time. I put both into my own bag and zipped it shut. Ryan came back from the teacher's desk. "Anybody seen my pen?" he said. No one had.
The pen was very nice. After school in private I examined it carefully, holding it only by the ends so as not to mar any fingerprints or the slightest molecule of "Ryanness" that resided on its silvery shaft. I estimated it to be worth about twenty or thirty dollars, and whoever had given it to him even had his name, RYAN UNDERWOOD, engraved onto it. I used a rubber glove--my mom kept some under the sink for when she cleaned with bleach or other substances--to handle the pen, and lay awake until two-thirty in the morning with a flashlight under the covers, writing Ryan Underwood's fuck paper with his own pen. The phrase I wrote was, "Ryan's Hands are Kyle's Playthings." I was thinking of the old phrase, idle hands are the Devil's playthings. I'm not sure why I wrote that. I waited two days until the requisite time when everyone was out of the house. In my bedroom I took off my clothes, took out the fuck paper and grasped Ryan's pen with my own unprotected fingers for the first time. I rubbed it over my erect penis. The coolness of the metal against the skin of my dick was curiously pleasurable. As masturbation is mostly mental for me, I concentrated intently on the thought of Ryan's hands and how he could use them sexually on a woman, or himself, or me. The pen had a smooth rounded end, and as I approached orgasm I inserted it barely a centimeter into my butthole. My orgasm was explosive, and one of the best ones I had yet had. With my fingers I took some of the semen from the paper and rubbed it over the pen. When I was done, as was usual, I burned the cum-wet fuck paper in the fireplace and then very carefully washed the pen, using two different kinds of soap and even some ammonia I found under the sink. I did this for two reasons. First, obviously it was disrespectful, and probably unhealthy, to return Ryan's pen stinking of spunk and shit. Secondly, the washing eliminated any remaining "essence of Ryan," so that it became just an object, dead and inanimate, no longer connected with sexual connotations. It was a ritual. I wasn't just cleaning the pen, I was cleaning my own spirit of my crush on Ryan.
I had homeroom in the same classroom where I later had social studies class. At the end of homeroom I used another carefully premeditated machination to drop Ryan's pen on the floor and move it with my foot so that it was right up against the rubber-sheathed baseboard where the wall met the linoleum floor of the classroom. My plan worked like a charm. When we filed in for social studies class in fifth period, Mr. Jenkins opened his desk and took out Ryan's pen. "Ryan, somebody in Mrs. Elling's third period found your pen," he said. Ryan was amazed, and said he'd been looking for it for a week. Even this gave me a curious kind of satisfaction, like I imagined people felt when they smoked cigarettes after sex. I had stolen Ryan's pen, used it as a tool of my pleasure, but then rehabilitated it and returned it to him, all without ever being suspected. All was well, he had his pen back and I was satisfied. This made me happy because at that time I was beginning to become conscious that my fantasies and my whole approach to masturbation was what at least some people would consider abnormal, perhaps even disturbing. The Ryan episode proved to me that I could indulge my fetishes without hurting anybody. That became an important element of the Jacker business that came later.
You must also understand that I was aware I had at least some homosexual tendencies, and I was deeply ashamed of them. I never told anyone that I wasn't anything but 100% straight. I did not even look at porn of the hetero variety, much less same-sex porn, so it wasn't as if someone was going to find magazines under my bed or sites I visited on the Internet and guess that I wasn't straight. I didn't date much in high school, but I did have a girlfriend during tenth grade, for a period of about six weeks. We did not have sex and in fact I wasn't even that attracted to her, though she was fun to hang out with. My fear of gayness, which is a phase that I think all non-hetero people go through during their teens, was a very powerful motivator. It, too, played a role in what was to come.
*** TO BE CONTINUED ***