After a while the Varga pictures bored me and I became more inventive. The best answer came in the Sunday funny papers. I had a real thing on Aleta, from the Prince Valiant comic strip. Also, some of the girls in the comic-section ads were pretty good. I especially liked the ski-sloped sweaters of the Doublemint Twins, and for a while they augmented my sperm-filled reveries.
It was at about this time that I discovered a foolproof method to avoid staining my sheets, the guilt from which was beginning to bother me considerably. I started using white wool sweat socks. I would take one and double it in on itself, pulling the toe up to the neck of the sock. It was soft enough to feel just great and thick enough not to let anything leak through. I was in heaven; I could give Aleta or one of the Doublemint Twins a good screw, and then just go blissfully to sleep. My penis would shrink and pull itself out of the sock and there would be no telltale yellow stains. In the morning I would hide the sock under my mattress and nobody would be the wiser. The only problem was that after several accumulations of sperm had dried in the wool it would become quite stiff, and when I entered it, it would hurt the hell out of me. Also, the sweetish smell became noticeable after several days. I began throwing the socks in the clothes hamper more often and the problem was solved.
Then one day I came into my first real information on cunts. By this time I had convinced most of my friends that a cunt was indeed a round hole in the middle of the pubis bone, so we all were probably masturbating to the same satisfying, if inaccurate, fantasies; that is, until George, one of our sex-maniac compatriots, came running up full of excitement. "Hey, guys! I saw one! I saw a real one! So help me!"
"What did you see, George?" we asked, feeling his exhilaration.
"A cunt! I saw a real cunt! And it don't look anything like we thought."
We all crowded around, everybody asking questions at once. Finally George got the story out. "I had to go to the John, so I went to the upstairs bathroom and opened the door. And guess what?"
"What?" we all whispered hoarsely.
"There was my mom, squatting over the toilet, right in the middle of a piss." He giggled. "And guess what?"
"What?" The tension was unbearable.
"It isn't a hole at all! It's a goddamn crack!"
"A crack?" We were incredulous.
"No shit, a crack. I goes from about here to about here, and the piss comes out about here." He drew a line with his finger on his own jeans.
"No shit?" we said.
"No shit!" he said.
This new bit of information threw me into a real tizzy of confusion. "Well, if it's a crack and not a hole, then where are you supposed to put your prick?" I asked.
"I'm goddamned if I know," George answered, shrugging helplessly. "All I know is what I saw, and I saw a real cunt."
He then filled us in on where the hair was and restated that he had gotten a damn good look, because his mother couldn't move to hide herself with the urine still coming out of her, and because he was too shocked to move or close the door.
Old George's burst of knowledge played hell with my fantasies. Instead of picturing a nice, neat hole, I had to imagine a rather nefarious crack that I wasn't sure what to do with. Also, the idea of mothers having cunts seemed strange to me. I had never thought of them as being equipped with such paraphernalia. It all was most unsettling.
The question of knockers also still remained unanswered. In my fantasies they were usually murky images, standing straight out like Egyptian pyramids. I never thought about things like nipples, and don't think I was even aware that girls had them.
Then came the moment of glorious revelation. I was selling Cub Scout raffle tickets to a nice middle-aged lady who wore a dressing gown. We were in the kitchen and she bent down to get some money out of her purse, which was on the floor. As she leaned over, the miracle happened, her left breast fell out. All of it. Right there in front of me, great big brownish nipple and all. Of course, she was embarrassed and tossed it right back in, but too late. I had seen everything.
When I told the guys the following day, I was a hero, held in awe by my less enlightened contemporaries because I had seen a real, live knocker.
Several weeks later an event occurred which, in my wildest fantasies, I would not have dared to hope for. My cousin Bernie, after a game of penny-pitch, had come into possession of a pornographic novel-, illustrated. Bernie often came over with his parents to visit, and occasionally stayed overnight. The instant we got to my room he told me to lock the door, which I did. He then produced from beneath his shirt what appeared to be a small, beaten-up magazine.
Bernie, who was my age, could scarcely contain his excitement. With a flourish he showed me the cover, which in faded print said, Slave Master. In the book were seven or eight photos of a man and a woman in various stages of copulation. Although they were blurred photos, they left no doubt as to what either a cunt or a knocker looked like, or where you were supposed to stick it, or how.
This was such heavy stuff that neither of us said much. We just sat on my bed, our hard-ons straining against our pants, and lusted over the pictures. Then we turned back to the first page and read the book thoroughly, giggling self-consciously when the sexual passages got very explicit. The book was written in the old porno style, and contained passages like, "He shoved his hot, throbbing tool deep into her clasping, juicy pussy and drowned her with torrents of his burning, evil cum." I mean, it was really pretty hot.
Later, after we had both gone to the John, for obvious reasons, Bernie told me that his mom often searched his room, and asked me if I would mind keeping Slave Master in my room. Mind? Was he crazy? I was ecstatic. Forgotten were Varga girls and Prince Valiant's sexy wife. I had pictures of a real cunt and knockers to use anytime I wanted, except when Bernie was around.
During the next few weeks I must have spilled ten gallons of ejaculate over that damn book. However, I was still a little puzzled because I couldn't figure out how that guy got his round prick into that straight crack. There was too much hair and the pictures weren't clear enough.
The book did have one good effect, though. After my initial infatuation with the pictures, I began transferring my mental images to real girls for the first time. And for the first time I thought about what it would be like to screw girls who I knew. Almost overnight, girls became attractive to me.
In the sixth grade, some had already developed large breasts, others had two little points sticking out of their blouses, and many others were still flat.
By the time I entered junior high I had become an expert in the art of mentally undressing girls. Under my intent gaze, dresses, blouses, and sweaters would disappear; bras would peel off and panties would drop. I would examine the vagina, the pubic hair, the ass, and the breasts. I spent so much time hard that my Levi's were developing a permanent bulge in front. Sitting in class, I would pick a girl, usually Jackie, who had an awful face but a great body, with large, pointy breasts. While supposedly studying the lessons of the day, I would slouch down in my desk chair and slip my hand into my pocket. Then I would mentally fuck Jackie, or whoever, until I had stroked myself to a quiet orgasm in my pants, knowing that the dark, heavy material of the Levi's would not show a stain. The wet even felt good in my underpants, and I didn't mind the smell.
Where we lived, in the Richmond district of San Francisco, the houses were built right against one another, with the garage on the ground floor and the living quarters upstairs. Because of the long garages, many people built rooms at the back and rented them out, all illegal, since it was usually done without benefit of a building permit from the city. Our backyard touched the backyard of the house on the next block and from my rear bedroom window I could look at the bedroom windows of that house. The people who owned the house had built a room downstairs, which they rented to two young working girls, and had put Venetian blinds on the windows.