I used to only read on the way to somewhere. My mom used to have dreams of a child actor. We lived in Las Vegas and she’d drive me to Los Angeles for auditions. That’s too long of a drive to do as often as we did, but I got a lot of Goosebumps reading done.
Then we moved to Southern California to be closer. My dad didn’t want to. He hates California.
My reading dropped off since the drives were shorter. I do remember reading one of my dad’s books. I think it was his, anyway. He sometimes gave me westerns, usually Louis L’Amour’s, but this one that I found in the garage wasn’t. It was thick like a packaged roll of American minced sausage, probably the biggest book I’d attempted to read at that time. The cover had an ocean. I can only remember one part . . .
The main character, a lawyer, fucked some girl in the ass. He forced it in or she begged for him to drive it home, either way it was memorable anal sex education for a kid who until then didn’t know what sex was.
I told my mom. We were on the scene of a film or commercial. I told my mom everything back then. This was way before she kicked me out and sent me and my sister to a 3-day a week boot camp. I even proudly told my mom about my first pube. She had asked to see it when I’d ran up and down the stairs singing and cheering after first discovering for myself that it had sprouted.
You might be thinking . . . hey that’s not fair . . . didn’t you ever confide in your dad about anything. Well, reader, I did. Just not as much. He was at work half the time. But I remember one time, when my mom wasn’t around, that I did. Let me tell you about it.
We were at my grandma’s in Louisiana. I’d just stepped out of the shower, dried myself off, and noticed some red spots on my pecker. I didn’t know what they were, the sores of some sexual disease maybe, but that seemed odd at the time because I knew you had to have sex with someone to get one of those . . . Unless I’d given it to myself?
At 13 or 14, like every one else, I was a fervent masturbator. Sometimes back then I even prayed to Christ before falling asleep. Perhaps, I reasoned, my affliction was one of his punishments for masturbating and ejaculating on my stomach after prayer and wiping it off with my shirt instead of shooting in a sock. No wonder my mom said my room stunk and that my dirty clothes hamper got full too fast.
Anyway, I called my dad into the bathroom and told him about the red spots on my dick. He told me to show him, and I did. And would you believe it? . . he touched me.
He grabbed a speck of red and said: “It’s just towel fuzz, you horse’s ass.”
Anyway, my mom got real mad at my dad for me having read about anal sex at such a malleable age. He claimed the book wasn’t his. I asked him about it a couple of years ago, if he remembers it, but he said he didn’t. So I don’t know who’s to blame for the fascination I used to have of putting it in a girl’s ass.
My interest in anal sex was rekindled. My friend Frances messaged me the other day and said he’d just done it with his barely legal girlfriend. He said it’s more of a dominance thing than anything. He also said at that moment there couldn’t be too many men happier than him. So that got me thinking about it again.
I told Francis that for me to put it in a girl’s ass, because I’d made the last girl bleed and the one before cry and get hemorrhoids, she’d have to be a superfreak like Winston’s Tinderr girl who came over on the first date with a bottle of vodka and lube and asked for it in the ass. Winston’s in Thailand now, hangs with Frances once in a while, and I’m sure Winston going on about how awesome it was is why Frances finally tried it.
“Are you calling my girlfriend a superfreak?” asked Frances.
“Well the girl doesn’t have to be a freak for you to put it in her ass.”
“Yes she does. Did you read my Tanuki post about the time I tried to have anal sex?”
“I’ll read it later. But you just have to start slow, you know, like with your baby finger.”
“Believe me I’ve tried. I’ve even had a thumb in there. I’ve had shit come out under my nail twice. But I’ve never been able to get my dick in a Japanese ass-virgin.”
“Is your dick that big?”
“It’s thick like a packaged roll of American minced sausage. I understand you’re an Englishman and that you can’t grasp a size that big, even after as much as I’d allow you to try, but just know that no Japanese girl takes a shit that thick.”
That’s all I have for you, reader. I read 100 books last year. I’d aimed to share with you my favorites but starting the post with my early history of reading made me recall that ass-reaming lawyer and go on a tangent that’s long enough to be its own post. I still have to write down the rest of my bicycle trip across Thailand. And I have to tell you how I’ve found myself back in Japan for now. Until then, this is good night. It’s almost 1am and I have to read more of my favorite rapist, Harry Flashman.