This entry is a continuation of Mr. Goldberg, Part III.
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 day a man first touched me—when a hand swung out sideways and glanced on the tiny bump in my pants in People’s Drug Store where I’d stood browsing the magazine rack—I went home and masturbated furiously and repeatedly. I still hadn’t figured out at that point that it was possible to use my hands to get myself off, so all I could do was rub. I donned a pair of my tightie whities and straddle my pillow and fuck it into senselessness until I came. A dry orgasm, it was then. I went into the bathroom and humped the porcelain tub side, using the bathmat as cushioning. I grabbed onto a support beam in the basement and frotted it for dear life. A record seven times I came that afternoon and evening, thinking about that man and what could have happened.
I matched that record the day Mr. Goldberg and I made out in his car, in the back alley behind my house. By then, though, I was a master of efficiency when it came to masturbation; I could go from zero to orgasm in thirty second flat, if I put my mind to it. My sixth-grade homeroom teacher had left me in overdrive. It seemed that the slightest touch to my dick would set me off, and there I’d be again, wrapping my hands around my tiny dick and jerking it until I shot a juvenile load all over my knuckles. Seven times I came that night, pausing only for dinner.
My brain was afire with all the possibilities. I dreamt of Mr. Goldberg inside of me, fucking me, shooting in me. Calling me ‘sport’ as he held me tight, after. I fantasized about the two of us going off together, living our lives in some remote place where no one knew where we were, or came knocking at our door. I alternated between the sweet and salacious, fantasizing about him wearing my watch while we made tender love one moment, and then imagining him savaging my little boyhole the next.
I know he thought about me, too. Here’s the closest, most intimate and precious memory I have of Mr. Goldberg, after the day we kissed. It was perhaps a couple of weeks later, in the few minutes after school when the hallways were a rapid current of movement as students spilled from their units in the direction of the exits, and filled with noise of cheerful babble, lockers slamming, and the shrieks of the liberated. It was as ideal a situation to have a quiet conversation as a solitary room, for all the notice either of us were afforded. Mr. Goldberg stood with his arms crossed, so that his meaty forearms seemed even bigger than they were.
“You know what I think about, sport?” he asked, speaking softly and intimately. “If only I could get you over to spend the night. You know, maybe after school, you and me go out and get something to eat, then go see a basketball game or something and, you know. Then you spend the night over at my place. A sleep-over.”
The idea made me melt. I wanted nothing more than to spend the night with him. The car had done us well that first time, and for the two or three make-out sessions we’d had since. I knew from television, though, that doing it in bed was the proper way of having sex. It’s what they did on Fantasy Island, anyway.
Mr. Goldberg had been staring at the floor and talking, but then he looked up and met my gaze. “You think . . . you think your folks would ever go for that? A sleep-over?” Before I could answer, he shook his head and sucked in his lips. He spoke with such yearning. “Of course they wouldn’t. God. I don’t know. Maybe I could tell them it was a class thing. Something all the school was doing. You think that might work? If they thought it was a class outing? I don’t know. But I think about it. I think about it a lot . . . I think about it whenever I think about you.”
Thinking about Mr. Goldberg over the years, I’ve realized that the day I recognized his attraction to me was the day I started becoming a conscious being. I don’t exaggerate a whit when I say it was the first step I took toward adulthood—and I don't make that claim because of the illicit sexual tension between us. When I discovered the world of underground gay sex two summers before, I began having to maintain a separate inner monologue that no one else would ever hear. With Mr. Goldberg in the picture, that inner monologue blossomed, and in my head was a running commentary on what was happening between us. I was analyzing things, and judging them, in ways I’d never before known possible.
I can’t recall ever having that third-person observer in my head before that moment, who knowingly managed the appearance I was trying to project, as well as parsed through my interior stream of consciousness and tried to make sense of it all. Even in the midst of the school's noise and chaos, as Mr. Goldberg made his confession to me, that burgeoning new awareness had an insight far beyond my actual maturity: I realized that this little speech, this moment together, was going to sum up all of our time together.
I understood with a certainty born of I-don’t-know-what that while Mr. Goldberg was hopelessly romantic and totally infatuated with me, in the end, he was going to be utterly unable to bring himself to do anything about consummating our affair. If I wanted anything to happen, I was going to have to make it happen myself.
If I’d been a little wiser, I might have understood that self-realization would sum up the rest of my life, as well.
We’d had two sessions a week in his car for the three weeks after that first kiss. We’d climb into the back seat, sink down below the seat backs, and make out like sixth-graders—only one of us was the appropriate age for that, though. Usually he would lie down and I’d be on top of him. I’d hold down his arms on the seat and aggressively kiss him deeply. Through his pants I could always feel the rock-hard bulge within. I’d rock back on it with my ass and grind there, getting my reward in increased passion and wet spots. At some point I’d be bold enough to grab for his cock, to try to massage it through his trousers—and then he’d protest, tell me I was going way too fast, and that I needed to cool my jets.
At first, I did. It was tough. My body was on fire for him. At school I couldn’t think about anything save for when I might see him again, smell him, feel his arms around my little body. I stumbled through the school day, getting my work done somehow, responsibly moving from task to task. I had an easy facility with schoolwork without actually learning much that served me well during this period. At home I’d lock myself into my room and moon about him. I wrote poetry and masturbated, because that’s what kids did in the days before the internet and video games. Us geeky kids, anyway.
And I snuck a broom into my room. I was a fairly neat kid anyway, almost to Felix Unger-like proportions; it wouldn’t have surprised my parents to find a broom in my closet. They would assumed I was trying to keep the wave of their untidiness from crossing the threshold. What might have surprised them, though, was the notion that I was using the rounded wooden broomstick end as a makeshift dildo. I’d drag myself into the empty house after being forcibly ejected from Mr. Goldberg’s car, panting and erect and desperate for any kind of sex, and then I’d lock myself in my room. With a jar of petroleum jelly I’d snitched from the bathroom, I’d lube up the broom handle, and then try to impale myself with it.
My first few times were spectacularly unsuccessful. I worried about splinters, and I wasn’t all that clear about how flexible a hole could be. But the more unconsummated sessions I had with Mr. Goldberg, the hornier and more desperate I got. It only took a week for me to learn how to take an inch of the broom, and then two. It was hard and unyielding, and hurt like hell, but when it was in me I could close my eyes and imagine it was him violating me. That broom handle was my Goldberg stand-in, and when it fucked me, it was thick and brutal and it made me cum three times as hard as when I masturbated without it.
I didn’t enjoy the broom handle dildo, exactly. But I wanted to be ready for the real thing.