I had managed by that age to figure out a way to make myself orgasm, but because of the way I figured it out I never made the connection between ejaculating and sex. But, when I put my penis inside my sister, and quickly ejaculated as a result, that was when the «aha!» hit me. (Consequently, when I told her I had come inside her, she turned white, and that was to become the first and last such «experiment», with her at least.)
My first orgasm came at the hands of a military pediatrician, in an examination room at Madigan Army Medical Center (Ft. Lewis, Washington). As I mentioned, I was thirteen. But, even though I had been taught the hard way that hard-ons are «bad bad bad», I had yet to discover how «good good good» they could make you feel, for a few heavenly but fleeting seconds, at least. It seems this doctor decided to remedy my ignorance directly, though I'm still not sure to this day if I was being willingly molested, or medically examined; not that knowing would make any difference now. (But knowing back then would have made all the difference in the world! If someone --- the doctor, I suppose --- had explained to me what had actually happened, then it would have saved a lot of painful confusion for me; confusion that carried over into the rest of my adult life, and into a lot of other people's lives as well!)
My mother had dutifully taken me in for a full medical examination after a counselor at school had suggested she (my mother) do so because she (the counselor) thought I might be having some «developmental issues». If I'm remembering correctly, this was right after I had attacked an older and larger boy in the hall at school because he accused me of writing down his locker combination after he had shouted it to a friend so everyone could hear --- which I had, even though I denied it to avoid the shame of being called a thief. After he had shamed me and made the mistake of turning his back to me as he walked away, I pounced on him. Long story short; we wrestled for a few minutes until a teacher came and broke it up, and we were both taken to the «principle's office», which of course was really the «school counselor's office» in those days, and, well, the rest is history as they say.
The «history» goes like this: My mother scheduled an appointment for a full medical exam to determine if there were any medical issues that might have caused the «outburst». Of course, if there were no medical problems (and the doctor reported none), then it could be safely assumed that I was having psychological «development issues» which would be addressed according to the standard practice of the day (which happened to be «youth counseling», where I met other «delinquents» for the first time and quickly identified with them --- what other choice did I have? After all, if the adult «experts» said something was wrong, well, then something must have been wrong; right?).
In hindsight, after all those painful years of confusion I mentioned a moment ago, I eventually came to realize that there was nothing «wrong» with me at all, physically or psychologically (or neurologically either). But that's an arguable point that only I will ever really know the answer to, so lets move on with what actually happened in that doctor's office.
Being still very much the child, I was simply there doing what I was told. The doctor asked my mother to wait outside in the hall before he began his exam. He then went through the normal procedures, looking in my ears, at my eyes, down my throat. He hammered my knees with his funny little triangle mallet, then asked me to lay down on the padded paper-covered exam table. I don't recall if he had me pull my own pants down mid-thigh, or if he pulled them down himself --- but they definitely ended up down, and I ended up uncomfortable «exposed», as he fondled my genitals ostensibly as part of his exam.
I remembered this next part very clearly, because it ended up becoming my «masturbation fantasy» for many months after (I fantasized about everything the doctor did to me because that was the only way I could make the «feeling» happen again later --- classic circumstantial association, which for most boys involved something inanimate like a picture, other boys, or if they are lucky an actual girl; for me it was this completely anonymous doctor).
He instructed me to keep my eyes on a piece of paper that was taped to the ceiling over the exam table with a black (or red?) dot drawn in the middle of it. Perhaps this was so I wouldn't see what he was doing. He could have had his own dick out for all I knew at this point. All I know is that I was concentrating really heard on not getting a boner as he kept fondling me. I didn't know what boners were for, or why I got them in situations like this, but I knew well that it was shameful to let anyone see you with one. So, I tried hard to not get hard, but that was a mental skill that I wasn't even close to mastering yet.
The doctor wasn't helping me at all, which in hindsight was clearly his intention for whatever reason. He put two fingers (or so it felt) on one hand beneath my scrotum and told me to, «squeeze again...» and, «relax...». He repeated these instructions a few times so I would get the idea, and then just told me to keep doing it on my own... squeeze, relax, squeeze, relax, etc...
I don't know if it is what he intended, but I was concentrating so hard on remembering to look at the dot on the ceiling, squeezing and relaxing, and all the while trying to not get an embarrassing boner, that I was totally unprepared for what happened next. He began stroking my penis between the thumb and two fingers with his free hand (or so it felt) while still feeling my «contractions» with his other hand beneath my balls. Of course I came, and I came hard! It was my first and to this day i believe best orgasm ever. I suddenly felt like I was floating on a river of ecstatic pleasure eminating from his hands into my body through my groin! I had no idea I was ejaculating all over myself, nor even of what was happening, or even if the doctor had any idea about the pleasure he was giving me.
The doctor didn't say a word. He simply stopped masturbating me, removed a glass slide (for a microscope?) from a nearby shelf and seemed to collect a sample directly from the head of my semen-wet penis. After that he whipped up the rest of the mess, mostly all over my stomach and groin, with a paper towel, and then he told me he was finished and I could get dressed (i.e. pull up my pants).
That was that. No explanation, no clue whatsoever from him, my mom, or anyone about what had just happened. As I said, I repeated everything he did, while laying in the tub naked at home that night, and fantasizing that my hands, and fingers, were the doctor's, even staring straight up at the ceiling as I did so, and whoa! I discovered the greatest secret pleasure known to boykind. The only problem was that I still had no idea what it was I had discovered. I only knew that it felt really good, and that I felt ashamed for doing it (thanks to our culture, not the act itself).
Over the next several weeks and months my «fantasy» of being fondled by the doctor slowly morphed into almost predictable variations. I still remember these very early fantasies as they evolved on their own according to the basic laws of evolution. I, of course, associated the shame with the pleasure, so early adaptions to the basic fantasy invariably involved more shame. I remember clearly fantasizing even about being masturbated by the same doctor as I lay completely naked on an exam table in the school gym with the entire school (Mann Jr. High School --- which is how I know this didn't happen until I was at least 13, since I didn't attend Mann Jr. High until the eighth grade) watching me ejaculate. It was extremely humiliating, and of course pleasureable at the same time. That's what the doctor taught me, whatever his intentions were.
To this day I still get pleasure from humiliation, though I've learned to conceal this fact (most of the time at least) since the humiliation can be very inconvenient when I'm not thinking about sex (which, despite what some would like you to believe, is not all the time, nor even most of it; though I admit it is more than most people seem to think about sex, but not much more). I'm not trying to suggest that this doctor is to blame for my crimes or my «perversion»; he's not to «blame» for my crimes or my «perversion»; he's not to «blame» for anything. It simply doesn't matter why he did what he did. What does matter, as a lesson to be learned from circumstances like this by all of us (so we can avoid tragedies like the ones I'm on death row for now) is that I only became confused, and acted out of my confusion, because our culture does not allow open communication with childrne about sex. If someone, anyone, would have explained to me that there was no reason for me to feel ashamed about what happened, that it was in fact a natural milestone, then my sex life, and my entire life would have turned out completely different. Yes, in many cases, children usually figure such things out by piecing together the clues, from T.V., books, sex-ed, and other children. But, in some cases, an alarming and unnecessarily large number of cases, such as my case, that doesn't happen. If our culture didn't make it so necessary that sex be a puzzle for children to solve however they can, then cases like mine wouldn't happen. And that's the only reason I write about it, so we all can learn «what went wrong», or more correctly, «what wasn't allowed to go right». It's not about blame --- blame can't stop ignorance, and never will --- it's about understanding.
[J.D. February 2, 2016]
P.S. For more on how our culture ends up doing more harm than good by suppressing open communication with children about sex, see Judith Levine's 2002 landmark book, Harmful to Minors: The Perils of Protecting Children From Sex, which, of course, has been lambasted by the same kind of ignorant people who lambast this blog without ever reading it (or, if they do read it, they do so only to cherry-pick the parks --- invariably taken out of context --- that they can use to support their own emotionally charged but intellectually empty views).
