My parents' living room, when I was growing up, was a hodgepodge of furniture jammed at angles. Tables lay next to sofas sat next to bookcases sat next to spindy antiques inherited from my great-grandmother. Books were everywhere—my parents' research books and textbooks and class notes mixed with my mother's stacks of murder mysteries and my own library books that I'd leave scattered all around the house. Somewhere in the sheer mess of it all, I'd found a patch of clear space on the carpet in front of the television set, and contorted myself into the position in which my mother found me when she walked in from the kitchen. Cigarette in hand and crossword puzzle in the other, she gazed at me for a moment. "What are you doing?" she asked at last.
Thirteen-year-old me was curled in a ball on the floor , my shoulder and neck against the carpet, the small of my back resting on an ottoman above them. My knees were curled so far up and around that they were practically scraping the carpet. I looked as if I'd attempted a somersault, gotten stuck, and decided to watch television that way, anyway.
"Yoga," I replied smoothly.
My mother had been part of the big wave of women in the post-Summer of Love days of the early nineteen-seventies who'd gone to community centers nationwide to contort themselves into the lotus pose and to breathe deeply while wearing tie-dyed dashikis and mentally adding wheat germ to their grocery lists. She thought about it for a moment, shrugged, and took a drag on her cigarette. "Okay," she said, before she went back to the kitchen for another cup of coffee.
My parents were accustomed to seeing me doing all kinds of limbering-up exercises in those days after I found myself trapped without my clothes in the church sacristy. I'd discovered the notion that perhaps, maybe, I could get my own dick into my mouth if I learned how to be bendy. It didn't occur to me at all that at the age of thirteen, my own physiology was against me—it wasn't my flexibility that was the issue, it was the size of my dick. I simply wasn't long enough.
Oh, I strained, and contorted, and bent with determination, driving all breath out of my lungs and causing cramping around my sternum. My back would make odd cracking noises and my ribs would compress painfully as I attempted to navigate my lips and my tongue closer and closer to the head of my erect dick. It didn't work. I'd jack off and shoot the load directly into my mouth, which was hot. Ever since I'd first attempted that feat in the sacristy, I'd developed a taste for it, so to speak.
And men liked to watch that, too. "Look what I can do!", I'd say to the random strangers I was hooking up with, when I was in a place where I could lie down safely and not get too dirty. Usually it was after they'd already shot a load in one of my holes. I'd do one of my shoulder stands, let my weight fall over until I was twisted and curled, and then I'd stroke myself until a boy-sized load would come shooting out. Most of the men at least had the decency to look surprised and amused by my performance, though they probably were just humoring me until they could make a get-away back to their cars and jobs and wives.
Not until I was close to fifteen did my dick catch up with the rest of my body. One summer afternoon I was shut up in my bedroom at home in an orgy of self-abuse when I decided to give the autofellatio thing a try. My dick had grown considerably in those two years, shooting from twiglet to mighty branch, so much to my surprise on this attempt, my tongue dipped right into the slit of my swollen cock head. It took a moment for me to realize that I was actually scooping the precum straight from the source. My lips puckered out, once I'd gotten over the shock. They could actually cover the head.
The discovery started a frantic and obsessed few weeks in which I did little else but push the limits of my self-sucking. I stretched and contorted and bent myself more furiously than ever, trying to get more and more of my dick in my mouth. There were nights when I was so sore in my upper chest that I couldn't breathe. I still blame the sciataca I had a dozen years ago on latent injuries I caused myself in my teens.
But I could do it. I got to the point at which I could expertly fellate the top third of my dick—and if I pursed my lips way, way out, I could give the illusion that I was getting fully half of it in my mouth. That was enough for most men. The same guys who'd humored me and ruffled my hair and called me cute when I'd merely jacked off and let the cum drop into my mouth went fucking nuts when they found out I could suck myself. It was as if I'd graduated from promising student to sex freak cum laude. If I was whoring around in the picnic shelters of the park, after dusk, there was sure to be someone who'd say, "Hey, make that kid do that thing! That thing he does!" And then there I'd be, butt-naked on the splintery picnic tables, illuminated only by Bic lighters and perhaps the glancing light of someone's headlights, gulping down my own dick until I'd pull out and shoot a load all over my mouth and lips.
Earl found out my capabilities early on. I don't think he was as turned on by it as were other men in his circle—he had bigger fish to fry—but he'd exploit it. "Want to see what the kid can do?" he'd ask. Then he'd nod, and I'd drop into an increasingly more familiar position and start slurping on myself.
The men loved it. But you know what? I didn't. The couple of years it had taken for me to grow into it, accompanied by all the bending and stretching the act required, had heightened my expectations of how awesome it would be at last to give myself head.
And it wasn't that great. Not really. It wasn't nearly as good as getting sucked by some other man. Getting blown always created all kinds of tingling and shivering. Sucking myself didn't give me that feeling. It was less like sex and more like a homework assignment. I could get it done, but it gave me no pleasure.
Still, I kept getting it as an assignment. Autofellatio was my signature trick for a very long time, in my teens and even into my twenties. Earl made me do it at parties. Fucks who'd seen me do it once made me do it a second, third, fourth time. Sometimes—and this was my own fault, of course—I'd use the promise of it to lure in a guy who'd otherwise not find me attractive enough to sleep with. Everyone wanted to see the freak, the performing seal with one good trick up his sleeve. In a way, the novelty act became a burden, and not a burden I was willing to bear.
I have to confess: I haven't self-sucked in about six years—and the last couple of times it's happened, it was because I was curious whether or not I still could. (I could.) I get asked to do it a lot, particularly when I go on my web camera. Perhaps it's the way I sit, which is similar in form to the position I used to assume before I'd lean over and chow down on my own meat. But guys and gals alike both ask me to show them I can.
My reply's always the same. I might be able to, but that doesn't mean I want to do it. Not anymore. I'd infinitely rather have someone else do all the work.