When I was 11, I learned to masturbate from my childhood friend Joe. In a tent while on a Boy Scout camping trip. With my older brother no more than 10 feet away in another tent. Where I’m sure he wasn’t learning to masturbate
Joe told me about reading his father’s Playboy. Or maybe it was Penthouse. Whichever, I got the impression this was an illicit act on Joe’s part despite his father letting him drink beer. He read the “how to” technique and promptly knew I needed to know too. And so he described what we were supposed to do. And rather than touch ourselves which is dirty, we touched each other. Or more accurately, Joe touched me. He kept prompting me to “think of the hottest girl in class” and the he said "Dana." So I tried thinking of her…I saw her in my mind’s eye and try as I might…nothing happened. No precum. No cum. But oh did it feel good!
Believe it or not, after that night in the tent, I kind of forgot about my lesson until what was probably a couple years later when we were in junior high school. Joe and I had a different set of friends and rarely saw each other. One night, I woke up with a hard on. I remembered the lesson so I began the exploration and tugging, thinking about Dana. Then about Barbara. Then about Wendy. Then about that unnamed girl from English Class. And yet….nothing. Just when I was about to give up, the memory of lying atop my sleeping bag buck naked, eyes closed, Joe’s hand on my dick leapt to the forefront of my mind. I started thinking about Joe, he of the hair the color of dried leaves. He with the slight Southern drawl although he was California born and raised. He who sprouted a dusting of chest hair before the rest of us. He of the beefy build who went on to become a half-way decent high school football player.
I left the stain on the ceiling until I was 16.