I've documented this prior within previous posts, and I'll say it again. When I was a teenager, my parents' home at 197 St. Augustine Dr. had the most publicly accoladed landscaping / hardscaping within our 'hood. The summers, in particular, is when its beauty peaked. Bob & Darlene poured hours and hours each weekend (during the Spring / Summer months) into keeping it perfectly manicured.
Their house's lot was on a prominent corner, therefore that 50% of frontage provided ample opportunities for gawkers to inspect. And even our backyard was easily viewable from the street, thanks to the traditional picket fence gapping. But upon nightfall, like most backyards of its day, it was bathed in darkness unless there happened to be moonlight to illuminate one's surroundings.
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I've no idea where my idea to masturbate in the backyard originated from. Back in the late '80s, I'd no access to "solo sex" videos / photos of guys masturbating by a pool or sprawled out on a bed. But I do believe there was an instinctual pull towards unabashedly presenting my scrawny frame towards the heavens, all the while taking a wait & see approach as to whether or not I might be struck dead for doing so.
All and all, there's no denying that I did want to take enough of a calculated risk to experience the ramp up in intensity (excitement) that I expected therein. And when I refer to that specific risk, my only fear was being shamed by my father (upon getting caught).
Years earlier (during middle school), my dad had covertly spied on me in my room in an attempt to catch me semen-handed. And he achieved success. From there, he intensely shamed me for masturbating while I believed to have been home alone. Therefore, a precedent had definitely been set if I were to be caught (again) doing this, yet not only did I feel it worth the risk of facing Robert, Sr. again, but too some semblance of newfound dignity needed to be cultivated via this risk. Dignity that harkened back to what I atmospherically referenced earlier.
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The absolute weirdest truth to how the majority of fathers rear sons is their insistent avoidance to extensively / unashamedly dialogue relative to masturbation. Dads simply refuse to discuss it. They'll tell you from one end of the spectrum to the other what their experience is / has been with every other topic under the sun, but they'll never mention one word about masturbation. Why is this? What is the big deal?
My only guess is there's so much implied shame baked into the topic that the thought of broaching the subject feels monumentally emasculating. And this especially seems to be the case if the man is in any way religious.
On the opposing side of this instructional vacuum is the MIND-BLOWING PLEASURE that's at the fingertips of every adolescent boy. A pleasure that's fueled by his physical self as it rapidly & awkwardly develops into a man.
But I digress.
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Summer nights is when I mainly remember sneaking out the back door of my parents' abode to masturbate on the wooden swing (which was within 50' of the rear facade of the house).
What's hilarious (to me) about these numerous escapades is what I chose to wear.
For Xmas one year, I had received an extremely lightweight, just barely over the knee, cotton bathrobe. The fabric was graced with a tightly repetitive candy-striped pattern, and it had a matching tie looped in around the waist. This along with a pair of flipflops was my attire (until it wasn't).
What was it about being buck naked on that swing in the dark, gazing up at the stars?
I think it was my way of getting out from underneath the ignorance of my earthly father, and from there, attempting to make peace with myself under the watchful eye of my heavenly father. Or, to loop back to what I commented on prior, it was my attempt to find my dignity in spite of a familial situation that had taken it from me.
In closing, these adolescent experiences proved to me that sexual release does not have to be tied to sexual fantasy / lust. And this was a marked truth that's remained with me to this day.
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