There are moments when you stand on the brink. The chance not taken. The gift not seized. This was one of them. In the empty school art room, Peter stood opposite me.
"Go on," I said, "It's a dare."
He looked around, then reached down to his trousers, pulled down the zip and fumbled with his underpants. His limp white penis nestled inside. A hot furtive feeling came over me as I suddenly had an erection. I unbuckled my belt, unzipped my black school trousers and pushed my own stiff cock into view. Peter's eyes widened, his hand flew to his mouth and he gasped, with a laugh. We quickly buckled up again. But we had crossed a frontier.
It was the nineteen seventies. We were teenagers. There was no internet, no videos. For Catholic schoolboys, women meant mothers, aunts, sisters, cousins and nuns. We were too embarrassed to buy the lurid girly mags on the top shelf. Sometimes a well-worn copy of Forum magazine would be passed around for scrutiny late at night. Most of us would graduate to that dreamy land of tits, nipples, aureoles, cunts, clits and moist, warm labia. But not just yet. For now we just had ourselves.
I'd been masturbating for a while, thanks to another boy called Kevin, a spiky-haired sports star. One boring afternoon in biology class, Kevin had been boasting about tossing off.
"How do you do it then, Kev?" I asked.
Kevin made a ring with his thumb and index finger.
"You think of a girl's pratt. Then you hold your knob like this and move it up and down" - he gestured, helpfully - "then after a while your balls go all hot and you feel like you really want to go to the toilet and then the spunk comes right up and out," said Kevin.
"Ahem!" said Miss MacFarlane, the dowdy biology teacher, looking over at the noise.
"Sorry Miss," said Kevin with a winning look.
Afterwards we stood pissing together at the urinals and I looked as Kevin shook the last drops off the end of his short pink dick. He caught my glance and laughed. The moment passed. Later on, Kevin enjoyed a well-oiled reputation as a stud but I wonder how many of the ladies were just a little bit disappointed.
That night I locked the bathroom door and performed the experiment as Kevin instructed. I was just about to give up when a tingling and a shudder announced a swift spurt of jissom into the bathwater. I was fourteen and a late starter. But from then on I never looked back. Soon I was locked nightly in the bathroom, hunched over the basin with my right hand flying, watching the reflection in the mirror as my sperm shot out. My mystified parents seemed pleased that their son had become so fond of hygiene and bathing.
Soon solitude palled. This was tricky territory. Although we lived in pitiful ignorance, boys like Kevin were quick to spot imaginary 'poofs' at every turn. The thought of being labelled was enough to sink your stomach. Yet there was a subtle undertone of sexual activity at school if you chose to detect it. Things were obviously going on. Besides, we weren't poofs, were we?
Some boys were shy. I wasn't. I discovered early on that I liked to be seen naked. I had played around with another boy scout in harmless pre-pubescent naughtiness. My most daring moment came when I invited a friend to watch me taking a shit in the woods at the bottom of his garden. He gave an excited commentary as I squatted and the turds uncoiled from my bum onto the grass. I was transfixed.
Frankly, I was an unattractive proposition. I was skinny. I had wavy hair. And, horror, I wore glasses. But I had something between my legs that attracted admiration in the changing room. It wasn't that I was bigger than average, just that I had developed a bit faster than the others. A thick dark bush of pubic hair crowned my glory.
So here we stood, Peter and I. He wasn't the brightest chap but he was friendly. A fringe of lustrous black hair fell over his eyes. He was pale and of average build. Sometimes he larked around with silly noises and voices. And God, did he have a dirty mind and ice cold nerves. We parted in the art room in silent agreement to meet again.
So it was that a few days later I found myself standing alongside Peter at the same urinal near the science labs in a quiet breaktime. I didn't know what to expect, except that I was suddenly hard once again. Peter did. He briskly pulled down the front of his trousers and underpants to expose his cock. This time it was rigid, long and thick. A generous foreskin covered his glistening knob. It was my turn to gasp.
"Squeeze it - really hard," he said. I did. For the first time my hand closed around a mixture of silk and steel, warm to the touch. Scared to death that we would be found, I faced the urinal to get my cock out. Peter grabbed it and gave it a friendly tug.
But what was this? Within seconds, Peter was groaning and rubbing his dick between his palms as if it was a sausage-shaped piece of pastry.
"You don't do it like that," I said, "you do it like this."
I risked turning away from the urinal to show off the Kevin technique. Whether it was the fear or the excitement I don't know but within thirty seconds I ejaculated a few jets of sperm. Peter copied me and, while I cowered in fear, happily shot his load out of my sight into the pisser.
From then on we just wanted more. We weren't friends. We hung out with different people and as far as I knew none of my friends guessed at our regular rendezvous. From time to time I'd sidle up to him and ask: "do you want to have some fun?" His lazy grin always gave the same reply.
It went on for a year or more. Teenage lust is amazing for daring and invention. As winter drew on we returned to the toilets. The first time, he shocked me by revealing a perfectly shaved cock and balls, which he pushed down between his legs to imitate a cunt. "If only we had a woman," he sighed.
From then on we took huge risks. We adjourned to the cubicles, where Peter stripped off completely and masturbated into the toilet bowl while I looked on in fear of discovery. Only the jolt of desire could get me hard and swiftly coming before we slipped out.
Then it went further. One day I cunningly obtained a key to the first floor geography room during lunchbreak. Peter lurked in the corridor until I let him back in. We picked a row of desks far back from the windows. Then we pushed our trousers down and let our underpants drop to our ankles.
Peter was hard and wet. He stroked my cock. We hadn't done this before. Our penises jostled each other. He pulled his foreskin forward so that it captured the tip of my dick and brought the two crowns together. It felt glorious. We turned round and rubbed our bottoms together. Then he quickly reached under my bum and squeezed my balls. A second later I felt his thick penis pushing between my legs below my arse cheeks and up against my scrotum, then moving back and forth. All sorts of never experienced feelings gripped my lower body. He didn't seem to mind when I turned him round and did the same thing. A few seconds later I couldn't stop myself from rubbing my dick until gobs of spunk dripped onto the geography room floor. Giggling, Peter came in a flurry of gasps and wanks.
From then on, frankness ruled. We sought out a new refuge in the Music Building, with a warren of unfrequented rooms.
"Do you put things up your arse?" he asked, as we sneaked away to it one day, "I love pushing rods up my arse."
I didn't. My virginal teenage bum was unacquainted with anything of that kind. The etiquette of successful anal intercourse was unknown to me. Let alone sticking things up there. Wouldn't it hurt?
In the music house our wankings led to near disaster. Locked together in a toilet cubicle, Peter was whispering a fantasy while we began rubbing ourselves when the door to the toilets was pushed open and an authoritative voice demanded; "who's in there?" It was Dave Smith, the hypocritical hippie music teacher who pretended to be liberal. I knew he would take only one view of two fourth formers masturbating in his toilets. Expulsion and humiliation loomed.
"Alright, how many of you are in there?" the voice boomed.
"Just me sir," I muttered, "I'm not well." I could see his pair of boots under the door. I felt a weight on my shoulder and realised that Peter had climbed up onto the toilet bowl to avoid his feet being seen. His pants were still around his knees. I felt paralysed.
"Hurry up and get out of there" commanded Mr Smith. By some miracle, he then turned and left the room. Peter giggled. Did he have no fear? I was shaking.
"We've got to get out" I said.
"No way" said Peter. To my amazement, he began a vigorous wank and ejaculated a splodge of semen onto the cubicle wall, down which it trickled like an indictment of sin. "That'll do," he gasped.
I shook my head, pulled my trousers up over my limp dick and shrunken balls, and fled first. He followed a couple of minutes later. Months later the trail of his spunk could still be seen on the wall.
It was never quite clear to me what Peter wanted, except to talk dirty and enjoy copious ejaculations. He liked being squeezed hard and treated 'roughly' as he called it. Beyond our encounters, which were always chatty, we hardly communicated.
Summer came. We went on a family holiday to France. On my return I at last had a literally dirty story to tell Peter. Most days, I had taken out a bicycle and pedalled around the country villages. One hot afternoon I was overcome by a double need. I pedalled into a field and dropped the bicycle by a hedge. Nobody was in sight.
In the shade, I dropped my pants and squatted. It was one of those shits that is a glorious relief. A neat, smelly pile of turds lay beneath me. Wiping my bum on a few bits of grass, I suddenly felt that glow of forbidden yearning that illuminated my trysts with Peter. I looked down and saw that my prick was throbbing and wet with juice (as it is while I write this, forty years later). I looked around. All clear. I stripped off my shirt and knelt, naked. Then I masturbated long and hard, aiming carefully. My balls tingled at the telling moment and four or five spurts of my cum splashed all over my warm shit.
"Cool," said Peter when I told him this. He had experimented with bottles and other objects, although it wasn't clear whether he had penetrated them or they him. Either way, my unviolated anus quivered nervously at the thought.
In the hot weather we adjourned half a dozen times to a bower deep in the local park, behind a thick screen of trees and bushes. The first time is still etched in my erotic memory.
We dropped our schoolbags and blazers, then loosened our grey shirts and ties.
"Ooooh, do it roughly," pleaded Peter as I unbuckled his belt. I shoved his trousers down. He turned to me. His cock formed a big bulge in his y-fronts. I ripped them down at the front and it bounced up. He turned round and I yanked the undies down over his white bum cheeks. I was already stripped, with a raging erection. Hmm, I thought, enticing. What would he do?
Nothing, it turned out, as I rubbed the head of my prick across his butt. There was no question of more, the crack between his cheeks remained uncharted territory, as was mine. We turned back to our symphony of hands.
At various times we shot our sperm over tree branches, against a wall and in great dripping globs on the fallen leaves. I noticed how his face contorted with pleasure. But gosh, was he noisy.
I never knew how far it might go with Peter, nor even what we both really wanted. But one afternoon we pushed it.
"I've got some plastic sandwich wrapping," I said conversationally, "how would you like it if we used it as a Durex round your prick and I sucked you off?" The things teenage boys will do.
Peter was enthusiastic. I dropped to my knees and wrapped the clingfilm around his sticky knob. Then I took my glasses off, as they seemed rather ridiculous. Opening my mouth wide, I slid my lips around the head of his dick and began licking it. There was only the taste of my lunchtime sandwiches and a sensation of yielding warmth.
"Uuuuuh, the spunk's coming," said Peter in an urgent tone. That was a bridge too far for me. I hastily pulled back and stood up. Peter was frantically rubbing his shaft. I leaned back so that my cock and balls were pushed out towards him.
"Come all over my balls" I commanded. He did so. He squeezed his foreskin so that every drop trickled out onto my bollocks. It felt warm, wet and distinctly naughty. I was so excited that I began masturbating fast and was poised to reciprocate.
"I don't want you to come on my balls," said Peter suddenly. I turned just in time to squirt a load of cum between his feet.
What brought all this to an end? I guess some things naturally run their course. I wasn't worried about being gay or straight as a result of it. We were all still finding our way with such stuff. But Peter's recklessness frightened me. And I was beginning to realise that work and success might have rewards, while expulsion and embarrassment meant ruin.
One afternoon we adjourned to a room in the Music Building which I had persuaded a gullible teacher to allocate to me for a school magazine. The windows were blacked out. Joy of joys, it had a lock. It was ideal for smoking or sex, my two favourite pastimes.
Peter was in a horny, adventurous mood. Pants down, he lay back on a table, rubbing his cock like a true exhibitionist. I looked at it, while stroking my own.
"Yuk," I said, "what's that big round scab on your cock?"
"Nothing, just a cut," he said, turning back to pleasure himself. God knows what experiment he had tried. Whatever. I played at rubbing my purple cock head around his big smooth balls. Getting into the mood, Peter then swung his legs up, spreading his bum and exposing the inner sanctum for the first time. He grinned. He had never seen mine.
His bum hole was neat, wrinkled and light brown. It puckered as I pressed the tip of my dick against it. Nice. But what next? I had no idea. Except that a mighty surge arose in my testicles and shuddering silently I ejaculated all over the table, a chair and the floor.
While I was clearing up, Peter stood up, pulled his underpants half way up and embarked on a prolonged and loud wank. He was gasping and groaning. I would have said it was like a porno movie, except that I'd never seen one. This was more like a disaster movie. Was Mr Smith lurking again?
On and on he pounded, fringe flying up and down above his scarlet face. Finally with a great groan, he pointed his (it must be said) enormous penis into the flap of the Y-fronts between his legs and I watched as dollops of warm spunk filled them up. Then he smiled contentedly and pulled up pants and trousers, quite content to sit in lessons all afternoon marinating in his own semen. Well, he got away with it. What a guy.
I have no idea what became of him. We drifted apart after that with not a word of either affection or recrimination.
By then I was already happily masturbating regularly with my best friend, who was a real soulmate. We never touched, but entertained and aroused each other with naughty stories to spur on our ejaculatory contests. Our scorecard included trains, a swimming pool, the local woods, bedrooms, the au pair girl's knickers wrapped around my shaft, and a monastery cell in which I excelled in my own delight at being watched and came six times in succession in front of him. Eventually, girls came along.
The things you do when you are young.