Continued from Chapter 4 of Aching: Memoirs of an Unrequited Sex Addict

The excerpt I posted earlier this week continues below with more about my perverted youth.

From Chapter 4:

Another family connection helped me further explore my burgeoning horniness. My cousin and I started spending time together while we were both colliding with puberty. I’d stay at his house for a week at a time during the summer. Part of my motivation for going was his father’s collection of pornography. We dug through his stash, uncovering dozens of magazines and movies. Looking at the filth got to both of us. I recall sitting in the wooden-paneled den of my uncle’s house watching grainy VHS porn with my cousin. We each wore sweatpants. We each got erections. We showed one another through the fabric. Later that evening, we took turns dry-humping a stuffed animal. The moment was homoerotic and incestual. We never revisited it. I don’t speak with him as an adult, so I don’t know if he even remembers.

I didn’t start properly masturbating until close to thirteen. In the months preceding this, I’d taken to dry-humping my pillow. Kids at school shared this perception that masturbation was something shameful or deviant. Most of us didn’t really know what we meant when we talked about it, but we agreed that something was wrong about it. Not only did this not stop me, it might have helped encourage me. I wanted to do it. I just wasn’t sure how. A small part of me felt I’d be doing something dangerous if I jerked off, but a bigger part of me needed it. That bigger part overshadowed my fears. I’ll admit—a still-intact part of me just wanted to do it because it was forbidden.

When I finally started jerking off, I got hooked quickly. Hooked might be an understatement. I built my life around masturbation. I had other hobbies, but jerking off really was what I did with my adolescence. I couldn’t come enough in a day. I didn’t have enough time to jerk off to all the fantasies swirling within me. My school was sadistic, teasing me with sex all day while not letting me do anything about it. The girls around me dripped with sex. Coming home didn’t always give me a true break from my desire. Watching television only gave me more fantasy ammunition. I couldn’t distract myself from it. Being alone was all I needed. I had to cope with my yearning and little else mattered. The bus ride home excited me because I knew I could soon jerk off. I actually quit the soccer team so I could have more time home alone. My bedroom was small. If I had to jerk off while my parents were home, I had to do it quietly. I learned to come in silence. Usually, I came on a shirt, but sometimes I did so in a corner. Between the semen-encrusted shirts and dried globs in the corner, the room began to reek of a sickeningly sweet semen stench. When I couldn’t find privacy around our tiny house, I took to jerking off in the woods and at lonely parks. I did anything I could to satisfy my habit of stroking as many as ten times per day. I’m sure I damaged myself in the process, but no warnings about my future sexual performance would have stopped me.

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