I rack my brains to find the source of my homophobia. Clearly it wasn’t my friendship with Bill Broadbent, my best buddy during my early teens. We were very close, so close in fact that we both used his bed at the same time to make ‘love’ to our girlfriends. I was paired up with his sister and Bill with his sister’s friend.
On another occasion, propped naked on smooth rocks inside a mountain cave overlooking the city, we held a masturbation competition. A small waterfall cascaded over the mouth of the cave, forming a curtain between us and the hum of societal norms in the city far below.
Our relationship was very much like David and Jonathan of the Old Testament―we wrestled, practiced judo moves on each other, hiked mountains, did many crazy things and tried to make out with girls together.
I do remember showing another friend how to masturbate. I don’t recall how the conversation came up, but I’m sure it was pretty brief and matter of fact.
“Have you ever whacked off?”
“What d’ya mean whack off?”
“C’mon, I’ll show you.”
And show him I did. He had no clue that his body could experience such wonderful feelings. I gave him a quick demonstration and then coaxed him to give it a go. He succeeded on his first try and I happily left him to his own devices.
To be continued . . .
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