A Peek into a Twisted Mind Pt. 03

IMPORTANT NOTE TO READERS! - As an official disclaimer, it must be noted and strongly emphasized that no sexual relationships between "underage" individuals and adults—either consensual or non-consensual—ever actually takes place within the descriptions and the general narrative of this literary work. As you read this story, you will come to realize that the brunt of what is being described deals with fantasy, but mostly with the psychological development of this human's mind on the subject of sex.

So, what you are about to read is a self-confessional/self-psychoanalytical short story—an autobiography of sorts—which attempts to explain the development and nature of a personal obsession, while also describing points of early fantasy.

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PART 3 - Come è dolce fare niente - How sweet to do nothing.

To best describe, in further detail, my state of mind and behavior during those tumultuous stages of uncertainty is in essence a somewhat easy task. For the most part, my experience is not unlike many others.

I had hit that "acceptable/moderator-approved," and I might add, "forced-Christian-moral-code/precept" legal age of "18 years-old-or-above" period of my life; and what a mixed bag of biological and emotional development it was! Along with the fast-paced, forever-confusing, ever-changing anatomical and physiological landscapes of that period of adjustment—as is the case with most all young people—came the arrival of whom I'll call for legal reasons, the "sex urge fairy." But in my case, she seemed to have come with a vengeance!

She didn't arrive quietly or with any measure of subtlety. No. For me she came accompanied by the harsh sounds of tolling bells, locomotive steam whistles and blaring car horns. It was twelve o'clock midnight on New Years Eve for my ever-rigid dick, and the party was just beginning!

My fairy ushered in this new era donned in a sexy Sorelle Fontana laced bodice, sporting a tight black skirt and wearing the hottest stiletto heels from Fredrick's of Hollywood on her feet. She immediately set about her work, holding a lit Kent cigarette perched daintily between two fingers of one hand, while sprinkling her potent magic dust over my stiff wand with the other.

Both my libido and my vivid imagination seemed to go into high gear coordinately. With more frequent, uncontrollable erections cropping up—and while happening at the most inopportune times—my trips to the loo for relief grew in number. These impromptu 'jaunts-to-jerk' more often were goaded during the altogether customary cake and coffee klatches which took place almost daily in the kitchen and dining room at my parents' house.

To put these gatherings in a clearer perspective, and to better explain their unique significance—not only in social and cultural terms, but in relation to my frequent trips to the bathroom to empty my aching testicles—I guess I should diverge momentarily to describe my heritage and upbringing with a bit more detail.

As I had mentioned, I am full Italian. I was raised to love life and all the pleasures and pains which it brings. I experienced all of this bounty on a narrow inner-city street crammed with brick row homes in a tight-knit, working-class Italian community; a neighborhood located just blocks from the same type of community in a Jewish section of town.

I mention this last point because in essence there are very few differences between the cultural components of the Jewish-American and the Italian-American social experience on the same economic strata.

And by the way, there were many neighborhood Jewish women and girls—especially those of whom smoked—who ranked high on my facial sperm target list, believe me! Oy vey! Brenda Moskowitz's lovely face, along with her sexy mother Ayla's face (and her fabulous breasts), were constant recipients of pent-up lust within my self-abuse musings. To this day, images of them sitting submissively and smoking—their eyes clenched shut, their painted lips in mid exhale—while I stood directly in front of them beating off and drenching their lovely puckers in ribbons of my admiring goy semen, still haunt me...

*ahem*...Sorry, but I digressed again, didn't I?...

Anyway; in poorer-to-lower-middle class Italian metropolitan neighborhood homes such as the house in which I grew up, this coffee/cake/gossip ritual was commonplace. Our home, like all of the others on the street, had an unwritten "open door policy." Because of that, daily life activities hummed with social calls. People were busy, but there were breaks in the day. Here and there, neighbors sat out on their front steps chatting during non-toiling moments, really doing nothing but enjoying being alive.

Ah! How sweet it is to do nothing! Full enjoyment of life is attained by jumping in head first. However, as for contentment; there's something to be said for just sitting back and taking 'it' in!

Along with the clamoring chorus of voices from the kids shouting while they played stick ball out in the street, the aromas of Cacciatori, rich tomato sauces, sausage and Braciole cooking on kitchen stoves mingled with cigarette smoke and perfume in the city air . It was a daily festival for the senses; one beyond compare.

Eventually, more passers-by would arrive at our little step, and the social call would inevitably move inside for fresh coffee, Italian coffee cake, or my mom's home-made Cannoli and sweet ricotta cheese-stuffed ravioli. So, just to complete this scene; more often than not, in inner-city Italian-American homes like mine, those rooms—the kitchen and dining room—were the social centers, as opposed to, say the parlor or living room.

Although seemingly ritual and predictable, these gatherings were serendipitous by nature. In our house, they were happy and cozy events catered by my mother which would spontaneously evolve as people dropped by.

Oh, and I should mention at this point that most of my relatives lived within close proximity. Aunts and uncles, cousins, their offspring and siblings—through immigrating happenstance and a desire for family unity—all seem to coalesce within the same few blocks; some living within doors from each other. With all those family-related eyes and ears tightly grouped within a three block radius, it was a wonder I had any secrets at all!

Quite often in the evenings just after dinner, the gatherings would form again; sometimes with the men sitting around the dining room table shooting the proverbial shit, or playing cards, while the women tittered, gossiped, debated and smoked in the kitchen. Whenever that happened, you could always find me in the kitchen with them! With a constant aching erection in my pants, I'd sit there quietly, periodically adding to my mental image file, and frequently running off to the bathroom to "go pee."

Every so often one of my aunts or cousins would nonchalantly execute an extremely sexy drag and exhale. Cut! Print!...And off I'd dash up the stairs, tearing ass passed the framed picture of the Pope...running to the seclusion of the bathroom; a frequent excursion that would end with my cum spurting all over the toilet seat while I ran the "rushes" of that latest scene in my head!

Oh, and believe me, mishaps occurred as well. There were those times when viewing a particularly overwhelming hot fucking exhale in real time, and while already in a heightened state of arousal, my nuts would just start to explode. It was scary! I seemed to have no control. My quaking balls allowed me no time for a quick retreat up to the bathroom. So, I had no choice but to ride out the storm. And there I sat in the grip of ecstasy and fear, slumped down in the chair, vulnerable and quivering... my body struggling against the tide, feeling my treacherous cock pulsing out wad upon wad into my shorts as I watched the smoke stream out in a perfect cone from between sexy, tight pursed, female lips.

My exit to change shorts was a challenge, but I somehow always managed to evade detection. At least I think I did...

But most of the time, I would just be sitting there between "bathroom breaks" with an erection throbbing insistently behind the fabric of my shorts, as my mind's camera collected scenes and emulsified footage for more movie making. I tried my best to meld into the background while I took in the intoxicating scent of perfumed-saturated smoke, but heaven knows, it was difficult! I could feel my body shuttering, and prayed in fear that it wasn't noticeable, while watching the beautiful red lips of my desirable female relatives pucker, drag and blow sexy streams of blueish smoke up toward the ceiling light.

Christ, was I jacking off a lot back then!

I'm reminded of an old saying. It's an axiom, or a parochial school edict, if you will, told in so many words to young Catholic students like me. Its sole purpose was to frighten us into submission, or to at least lay the seeds of guilt about the pitfalls of beating off. There were many of these little sayings, but this one went; "...Every time you masturbate and have an orgasm, you are murdering EIGHT MILLION POTENTIAL CHRISTIANS!!" I've always liked the comedian and National Lampoon writer Chris Rush's response to that..."I was the Eichmann of my block!"

Yep, that describes me...pretty much...

Did I feel bad about all of this? Did I fret over the thought that my poor, unsuspecting relatives had a contemptible, wretched little deviate in their midst; one who harbors thoughts and desires of the most perverted, least understandable, and totally unacceptable nature? ...A sick young man whom they most certainly should shun and banish from the family if they ever discover what is really going on in his twisted little brain?

Hell, yes!

Most of the time, I was consumed with guilt and fearful of being found out. Sure, both guilt-ridden and afraid, yes! But still horny as all fuck!

Did I stop?

Hell, no!

The devilishness went on unabated. Editing and production on future films went forward. The pace increased and the tone continued to get darker. As the director and screenplay writer, I had my top-pick actresses and favored scenarios.

END OF PART THREE

...to be continued

*Bonus joke, also from Chris Rush (and I'm paraphrasing):

"You could always tell the guys who were masturbating the most...one arm was bigger than the other, you know? They barely had the strength in their left arms to manage pulling down their zippers. But, with the right, they could crush a Volkswagen!