Wind Him Up He Can't Stop He Keeps On Going Like a Clock that's Winding Its Second-Hand Up

I enjoyed masturbating by climbing poles for what seemed a good long while, but then when one's that young, even weeks seem an eternity. I only tried talking about my secret once. I had a classmate who was also a bit of a naughty boy. I tried explaining how he could make himself feel like a girl, and how good it feels. He showed no interest. In fact, I recall he ran away from me as I tried to coach him on how it would work.

Just as well. I liked my secret. The urge would come on me suddenly. The best were times when I couldn't immediately act. I'd sit in class daydreaming, counting the minutes until I could "feel like a girl." Time dragged as anticipation grew. I waxed layer upon layer on the growing fetishes inside me. Eying my precious classmates I ached for a bow in long hair cascading over shoulders and down my back. "I want to feel like a girl." I envied shiny patent mary-janes. "I'm going to feel like a girl." I stole looks at thin bare calves decorated with lace ankle socks. "Being a girl feels so good."

And then we were unleashed. I would race away and climb. "Please let me be a girl. Please let me be a girl." Disappointment usually followed. Oddly, success or failure, my libido was satisfied. Still I lamented. Girls had it so easy. They got to be pretty AND feel like that without even trying. It just wasn't fair.

I don't remember when it worked the last time. Second-grade? Finally, I stopped trying, but I never forgot. I still caught myself wishing for the days when I could make myself feel like a girl. My misfortune didn't drive me toward the impossible dream of becoming a girl. I didn't fight my lot. I accepted it. I was a boy, and I kept my interests toward boy things.

It's funny, my memories of feeling like a girl are so clear, but I have no recollection of discovering manual masturbation. I'd guess it must have occurred sometime in junior high, probably the seventh-grade, but I can't be sure. I do remember I hadn't started growing yet and initially didn't ejaculate. No one showed me how, that's for certain. It was derisively referred to as "Beating off" and treated with utter shame and ridicule, but the taunting, both good-natured and bad that boys tossed back and forth made me aware of the concept that there was a substitute for "fucking."

Somehow I settled on rubbing my dick between my hands, sort of like rolling out a piece of dough. I concentrated on the head, and could have made good proof for why it's called self-abuse. I wore myself raw, literally making myself bleed. It would hurt, but I'd have to do it again anyway. I remember a certain amazement at how fast my penis healed. Much faster than a wound on another part of my body. Sometimes the excitement got so great and my efforts so aggressive I thought I'd done myself some real injury, and maybe I did. As it developed, my penis had a pretty severe left-hand bend.

I'd go at it again and again without rhyme or reason. Once, I was on the couch watching TV while I could hear my mom and sister talking in the kitchen. I would have had no way of hiding what I was about. Of course it probably didn't take much longer than the time it would have taken for either of them to walk from the kitchen. Another time, I was playing basketball in the drive after dark. The urge hit. I sat on the ball, pulled myself out of my nut-hugger shorts and took care of business. I was at it multiple times per day, even going for records. How many times in an hour? A day? A week?

Then some real magic happened. Somehow I rolled my hands lower on my shaft and masturbation had a whole new purpose. The stimulation wasn't nearly so intense. Now getting there was as much a part of the fun as finishing. Masturbation became much more of a ritual. It could be planned and anticipated. Visual stimulation became a crucial element. There was time for exploring.

Through all those orgasms, I never once recognized "feeling like a girl" as I had climbing those poles. Because the orgasm was from masturbation rather than intercourse, what Steve's Dad had been trying to explain didn't click either. By the time I finally had sex for the first time, I was recreating the experience of masturbation, so there was still a disconnect. I don't know when or why the light finally came on, but I was in my 20s before I understood "what a girl feels like" really meant.

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1) Olivia once more. Her images from adolescence are not as strong as those from my childhood, but she still gets me going. 2) Little girls in my class dressed a lot like these young women. From time to time I wished I could be one of them and join in their games instead of playing with the boys. 3) That's the sort of material appearing in my brother's Playboys. 4) Joan Delaney. I remember recently seeing with Amanda one of those makeover shows and a woman was severely chastised for her terribly out-of-fashion cut, but I still love a dutch-boy. On the right girl, like "J.", it's absolutely killer! I'm also reminded, when little, with my eyes I didn't undress women to nakedness, but down to their undergarments. I really liked slips, and I have no idea where it came from, but I also pictured them in bra, panties and cowboy boots and hat?!?! 5) I was fascinated by those soft feathers hiding mysteries of the world.

6) When better to go out en-femme the first time than a rainy day? A soft cotton dress, colorful rain hat, matching plastic boots and bare legs. When things got uncomfortable, an umbrella could easily hide a multitude of flaws, including broad shoulders and a masculine face. People hurrying by, trying to stay dry, how closely would they look?

The rain like an airbrush softening the view, a blurred vision might fire imaginations. Who might be excited by what they see? What feelings await stepping from concealed safety, each step drawing one further and further into vulnerability of discovery. Could it in any way mimic the genuine feelings of a woman? Knowing one was mistaken by many as a female, would an overwhelming urge cause disclosure to an unsuspecting woman?

Could I? Probably not, but it's exciting thinking so.