A first orgasm is a frightening concept for a developing boy. When you get used to the one-tube-one-liquid construct, anything outside of that workflow is about enough to make you spill green army men all over the living room floor – and have Mom yell at you to pick them up.
And you do pick them up, except for the ones in crouching positions with machine guns because they always slip undetected under the radiator until two months they clog up the vacuum cleaner and mom screams, “WHAT DID I FUCKING SAY ABOUT PICKING UP YOUR GOD DAMNED ARMY MEN?”
To which you tartly reply from the bathroom, “CALL A DOCTOR! I THINK MY PISS CURDLED!”
Now, to be fair, in most cases the first time that semen emerges from the depths of a young man's penis, it hardly comes as a surprise. Rather, it's often the endgame of years of tireless provoking. Nonetheless, when you're so used to your dick serving one purpose that first time is sort of like finding cupcakes in a sewage canal. You never look at that sewage canal the same way again.
My first orgasm was anything but an exception to this. I was 13 and in the seventh grade, and at the time I was infatuated with this girl Elizabeth. In retrospect, I don't really understand the appeal. She was kind of mothy, and wore glasses even knowing full well the existence of contact lenses. But alas, she was the center of my 13-year-old universe. You may see where this is going.
At 13, I also loved horses. Don't judge me. [EDITOR'S NOTE: Too late.] Horses are majestic creatures, and if they could fly no one would dispute their place as the No. 1 animal on the planet. And to clear things up, I only had them pasted on three of my notebooks. [EDITOR'S NOTE: Judged, judged, judged.]
Anyway, one weekend I took the natural step of bringing my two loves together by inviting Elizabeth to ride horses with me at a ranch just outside of town. I went there almost every Saturday to ride my favorite horse, Freckles. Freckles was getting old, which made her perfect for me because when a horse has one foot in the grave, they tend to mellow out.
Elizabeth and I set off on a private trail, and I was immediately nervous. “Better make a move, Ross,” my little brain repeated. So I pulled the reins a bit and sidled up closer to her horse.
It was about this time that the trail changed from dirt to gravel, and Freckles didn't like it one bit. She started to rile up and even bucked a couple times, and it took every ounce of my nonexistent upper-body strength to stay on her.
Well, the friction of my wool shorts, combined with the nerves, humidity and, yes, the horse's writhing shoulders, were enough to pop the top on my Yoplait.
I busted my first nut in front of the girl I liked, and she had nothing to do with it.
I never went out with either of them again. I was too embarrassed to see Elizabeth again, and it turned out that Freckles' reaction stemmed from an undiagnosed hoof disease.
My dick and I didn't talk for weeks.
[EDITOR'S NOTE: I suspect a bit of embellishment here. So I'm taking Ross to a ranch in the valley and seeing what happens when we start cantering.]
Image: bk images.
Advertising disclosure: We may receive compensation for some of the links in our stories. Thank you for supporting LA Weekly and our advertisers.