The Teenage Years

“Hot holy shit!” My cousin cussed in disbelief.

“I told you rotten motherfuckers!” I puffed lying on the bed as a small milk-white dollop dripped from the ceiling.

A week after strolling by Vadim’s house looking for a repeat after he’d stirred my hunger followed by another week of boldly knocking on his front door whenever I didn’t see his dad’s truck in the driveway, I finally gave up in defeat. Although I never told a soul that a strange white boy with a thick accent invited this big black boy to fuck him, my third favorite cousin pieced together I was no longer a virgin, and that I was hurting because I wasn’t getting any anymore.”

“Some chicks are like that, P. They’ll break you off, and then get scared to do it again.”

He said this a few times over before he rolled through one day with an old dirty magazine (he found behind a liquor store dumpster) and his well-used pocket pussy. The former was tattered and torn except for a centerfold of a pouty naked blonde bimbo. The latter was stretched and worn like an old tire on its last leg. In saying this, while it wasn’t tight-tight, like my first new one, it did a spectacular job in getting me off. Setting aside having a previous owner, the second drawback was after a while these small little pestering balls of dark skin collected inside the tunnel. I cleaned it, and me, frequently, so I knew neither of us were dirty.

I was too young to understand that creamy Vaseline was still Vaseline and the oil with jelly rubber weren’t the best of friends. However, I got some of my best rub-outs from that combination!

I quickly learned if I could rub out two good ones like that before the start of the day, I didn’t have to worry about toting around an undying erection throughout the day. I still got hard, but it wasn’t like David Banner about to rip through my jeans hard.

One morning, I was lying in bed. It’d been about three days before I had some time to myself to do my thing. So, I’m going at it, going for it with my pocket pussy and I blasted off!

I don’t mean some cum jumped out of my dick and fell back on me. I mean I shot to the fucking moon! I stained the fucking ceiling because it got in the fucking way!

To be fair, the house I grew up in was pretty old. The ceiling may’ve been about eight or nine feet high and the bed raised by a few books on each leg. I still got it on the ceiling!

It took a couple of repeats for me to skip a day, to build some up in the tank, but once I did, I did it again.

I told my cousins about it. They didn’t believe me, of course.

Out to prove a point, I held back for about five days and put on a little show for them that got their undivided attention.

The good news, I hit the ceiling. The bad news, I’ve never been able to blast a load like that ever again. Like shoot up to the high heavens or shoot out in a yard. The closest I’ve ever gotten remotely to that was about fifteen years ago, and it shot up about a half a foot from the tip before it stained under my chin.

The day my cousins admired my handywork, one of them tossed me a bodybuilder magazine. In the ad section in the back was Adam & Eve, and through it I ordered my new pocket pussy with 4-to-6 weeks delivery.