Monday, July 2, 2012

A Sexual Education: Mr. Goldberg, Part III

This entry is a continuation of Mr. Goldberg, Part II.

To repeat what I said at the beginning of that essay: I'm applying some basic ground rules for this series of memoirs. You may not agree with what happens in them. That's fine. I don't agree with everything that happens in them, either. Expressing that sentiment in a rational and adult manner is okay. 

What's not acceptable is over-reacting to events that happened thirty-six years ago with fear, alarm, name-calling, and cries for someone to be lynched or castrated or prison raped. These are sentiments that have been expressed in my comments section before, and this time around, I won't tolerate them.


The afternoon we’d awkwardly kissed in his classroom, Mr. Goldberg drove me home and parked his hatchback in the alley behind my parents’ house. Most of the houses in the neighborhood had had shrubbery dividing their back yards from the alley. We could sit there for a long period of time without being observed. My parents weren’t due home for a couple of hours.

We’d ridden without a word between us. Once he’d pulled out of the faculty parking lot, he’d driven for a quarter-mile before he reached over and tousled my hair. Then he rested his hand on my knee. Not my thigh. My knee. And he left it there, like it had been super-glued. I wanted that meaty hand to travel up my thigh, to prod at my hard and raging dick. I wanted it down my shirt and touching me all over my skin. But not while he’s driving, I reasoned. Once we were in the alley behind my house. That’s when we could do stuff.

Once he’d turned off the motor, he coughed nervously. “I don’t want to rush this,” he told me, once he’d turned off the motor. “I know you’ve got to be feeling overwhelmed.”

Perhaps I was, but it wasn’t stopping me. I pulled myself closer to him. Ever since he’d kissed me, all I’d wanted to do was taste those lips again. He smelled like Old Spice and spray starch. The three o’clock shadow on his face had turned his skin into sandpaper. He could’ve left me raw and burned from that stubble for all I cared. I just loved the feel of his lips surrounding mine, of his tongue slipping between them. I had no practical training in kissing and I knew that this open-mouthed avec tongue method was the exotic, French kissing I'd heard so much about, but it came so naturally and felt so very good that it could’ve been Scandinavian or Yugoslavian kissing or something all the way from Easter god-damned Island and I would’ve been okay with it.

I don’t know how long we made out, in the overgrown shade of the alley. It seemed like an afternoon, or a year. It wasn’t long enough. His arms surrounded me and his mouth seemed fixed on mine, immovable, unshakable. Then, like the little would-be slut I was, my hands wrestled themselves out from his clasp and tried to undo his zipper.

Instantly I found him pushing me away. He pressed himself against the driver’s side door almost as if he were contemplating escape. “Hey, hey, sport!” he protested. He raised his hands and patted the air with them. “Cool it, now! You don’t know what you’re doing.”

I knew exactly what I was doing. “I know how to do stuff,” I said, thinking all the sexual activity I’d witnessed on one side of the campus glory hole.

“How?” he sounded alarmed. “Did someone else—? Have you—?” I knew what he was asking me. I shook my head. “Are you still a virgin?” He spoke the last word with a certain hush, as if it might shock my tender sensibilities, and as if we hadn’t been macking on each other like madmen not thirty seconds before. I told him I was. “Then how do you know?”

“I just do,” I assured him. My inner observer, in its infancy as it was, somehow intuited that he didn’t want to hear about my voyeuristic public sex adventures.

I’d shocked him, though. He remained plastered against the door as he readjusted his zipper. I wanted more of him, though. He’d lit the flames. It seemed only fair he dealt with the wildfire he’d started. Even if it was just kissing, I wanted more. I was hot, and greedy, and my youth had me moving like the cartoon Tasmanian Devil—all purpose and motion and fury.

Mr. Goldberg was astonished at how hard he had to work to fend me off. It was for all the world as if he were the virginal young thing and I was the dirty old man. “Gosh, sport,” he said. “Slow down. Let’s both enjoy this. Okay?”

I thought we both had been enjoying it. With reluctance, and a haze of sex-clouded confusion, I agreed.

“Now, let’s cool off,” he suggested. His shirt was rumpled; the hot car and the passion had given him sweat stains at the pits. He tried smoothing things down, but it wasn’t really any use. His voice became more gentle as he reached out and stroked my face. His fingers trailed down my cheeks, as he looked me in the eye. “I want it to be special. A first time’s supposed to be special. Will you let me do that for you?”

It took me a moment to answer. My heart pounded hard. In my head, it sounded like a herd of rhinos had invaded the alley. I was afraid if I opened my mouth, the tell-tale thudding would betray how very badly I wanted him, and how desperately I was thinking about what he’d said, just then.

He wanted to give me my first time. Mr. Goldberg wanted to take my virginity, and he wanted to make it special.

More than anything in the world, I wanted him to have it. And soon.


(To be continued next week.)

37 comments:

  1. Hot...and very well written....as usual.
    Like the old radio serials, we will wait in suspense for the next installment.

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    1. I think you just dated yourself, with the radio serials reference, Nate.

      At least you're better than me. I would've said, "Like the Rosetta Stone...."

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  2. Reading this and being left hanging, I think I know what it must have been like waiting for another chapter of a Dickens novel to come off the boat!!

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    1. Is this Edith Wharton? Were you around back then? Awesome! :-)

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  3. I'd be lying if I didn't say that this series of posts is going really well and are very well written. I'd also be amiss if I didn't say that a big draw of them for me is remembering you telling me this story while holding me after we'd had sex, but that's another thing altogether.

    -Ace

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    1. Lying around and swapping stories after sex is always a good thing, isn't it?

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  4. The naysayers will scream pervert and child molester. While I am not advocating in any way that it is OK for an adult to make out with a pubescent boy, your recollection shows that psychologically you were not victimized in your mind. You knew you could end it at the snap of a finger. Not all kids have a psychological cognition to process such an event. When I was 12 I was having sex with adult men and women decades older. Today, I do not feel sexually abused. I was eager to use the fact that at 12 I was more than ample to amaze adults. Cognitively, I was much older than 12. As always your writing is amazing.
    Matthew Darringer

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    1. I keep saying again and again that while such a relationship is inappropriate, it's not automatically traumatizing; characterizing my experiences, or yours from the sound of them, as abusive does a disservice to kids who truly were abused and wronged.

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  5. Another well written post - I can feel what you were going through, if that makes sense.

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    1. That's all I need to hear, A.S., to know I told it right. Thank you!

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  6. Rob,

    I am so glad that you are willing to share your memories from the past and you always write the past so well.

    Thank you,
    VRPB

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  7. "He’d lit the flames. It seemed only fair he dealt with the wildfire he’d started."

    Love that. I've been on both sides of that coin and it definitely is only fair to follow-up, especially at such an eager age. I remember that only too well.

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    1. Blue balls is blue balls at any age, Joey.

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    2. Agreed. Though it's definitely much more piercing at around that age.

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  8. Why do I have to wait for next week? Haha this is phenomenal writing man. Keep it cumming

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    1. I'm glad you're enjoying it, Albert.

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  9. Perhaps this is beyond the scope of what you are recounting, or are willing to share, but I'm wondering how often Mr Goldberg pursued other boys in your general age bracket. What triggered that question is how surprised he was to find someone your age who knew a few things -- and who had the vocabulary to not only know he was being pursued, but to respond with such clear desire of his own.

    --Y.P.

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    1. I don't have a definitive answer for you, Y.P., but I do address some of the issues you bring up in the last installment, when I talk about what prompted me to write this series of essays. (Other than my usual oversharing, anyway.)

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    2. Ugh. Please don't end it with something along the lines of "I always wondered what happened to Mr. G. I hadn''t been able to find anything out from the Internet. I subsequently found out at my 30th reunion that Mr. g died tragically in a car accident just 2 years after I graduated from high school..."!

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    3. To be totally upfront, I don't know what happened to Mr. Goldberg. Maybe he's a blog reader. (Twice now I've had guys recognize themselves in my entries and write me.)

      I will also say that a lot of the fault of that is mine. I have completely forgotten what his first name is, and his real surname, the one I've substituted with Goldberg, is so common that it's impossible to stalk the guy on the Internet.

      There's no real tragedy in store, though. And I don't go to high school reunions.

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  10. 1) As always, I love your writing.
    2) Making out is, was and will always be one of my favorite things to do.
    3) Can't wait til the next installation.

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  11. Oh, gosh, why do these installments only come out on Mondays? You made the rest of my week painful!

    Sigh... I'm addicted.

    anonymous tony

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    1. Hey, at least I didn't space them out over the course of two years like I did with the Earl series!

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    2. You're right; but i guess i'm addicted to your erotic stories that leave me breathless at the end - not because of the wank-off, but because your entries are full of heart.

      never thought i'd say this, at least not in an x-rated blog, but your writing inspires me.

      anonymous tony

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    3. Anonymous Tony, that's one of the best compliments I've ever had. Thank you.

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  12. Loving this series. It brings back memories of a similar incident from my own teenage years. So hot! And, like you, I felt totally in control and wanted him desperately. Your writing is bringing back the thrill of it. Unlike you, I had little previous experience (no gloryhole watching for me). But it still got to the stage where, like you, I was in control. Can't wait for more!

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    1. I'm always glad to hear that others had experiences that made them feel similarly. I'm always baffled when I encounter a reader who disbelieved these things happen--it's common enough that the concept shouldn't be alien to anyone, even if it didn't happen to them personally.

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  13. Had similar experience but not as early as you. Mine was a college professor. Hate waiting each week to find out what happens next. Keep it up...actually you're doing a good job of keeping me up!

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    1. Thanks Rex! I had my share (and then some) of my college professors, but I was kind of a hardened whore by then!

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  14. OMG!!! Can't you make a Monday and Friday schedule with this story?! Its so mean of you to make us wait!!!

    -Madd Man

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    1. I really don't intend to be mean! Besides, once a week give me a little bit of a break in my writing routine!

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  15. Well written and very hot. Makes me eager for the next installment.

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  16. You had me at Thalhimer's in Part I. It was my mall men's room of choice in junior high; the off-the-beaten-path bathroom behind Gift Wrap had been recommended to me by the Young Men's clerk who always felt me up when I tried on corduroys in his 3-way mirror. (He'd suggest much-too-large waist sizes for me to try on to allow more room for his probing hand. I accepted his suggestions, the bigger pants, and his gropes.)

    This was all several years (and a move from my boyhood small town) after my own similar encounters with my fifth grade teacher. Like your Mr. Goldberg, my Mr. P wanted to take it slow; he was "old school" and gentle and romantic. At 10 I was already playing with a more-experienced cousin, knew what-was-what (like you), and went straight for his zipper. Needless to say, I'm anxiously looking forward to the rest of your story.

    Mr. P kept things at the level of kissing and touching while I was his student; it didn't get majorly sexual until our "reunion" when I was 16 and he was 32. But back to you at 11—soon, please!

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    1. You've already heard this story, throb!

      I used to have a Young Men's clerk at Thalheimer's who didn't so much feel me up as nudge me very firmly and definitely with the back of his hand whenever I would get new pants there—and my parents liked taking me to Thalheimer's and to that clerk because he was always so meticulous about measuring and giving good service. That clerk had a really good racket going.

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