Chapter 8

Once I discovered masturbation, I was hooked. I couldn’t stop doing it.

I was almost late for school the next day because I didn’t get out of bed immediately. I awoke and rubbed myself over my pajamas like the night before. It felt so good to lie in the warm confines of the blanket and leisurely touch myself. As the feelings urged me on, I slipped my hand inside the pajama bottoms, but on top of my panties. I was new to masturbation and still experimenting. Or rather just doing what felt good at the time. Of course, as the pleasure built, my hand moved more rapidly. My hips humped as I bounced on the mattress. And then my body shook violently, overcome by a powerful orgasm.

I had just settled down, enjoying the afterglow of the orgasm, when my mother barged into my bedroom.

“Julie Marino, get out of bed right now!” she shouted. “You’re going to be late for school.”

I was frozen like the proverbial deer in the headlights. My hand was still inside my pajama bottoms, thankfully hidden beneath the blanket. And then I noticed my mother studying me. Could she tell what I had just done? My heart pounded. And my breathing stopped when she suddenly rushed to the side of my bed. I panicked, still powerless to move my hand. Thoughts of her flinging my blanket off and seeing where my hand was paralyzed me even more. But she placed the back of her hand on my forehead and then touched my cheek.

“Are you sick?” she asked. “You don’t feel like you have a fever, but you look flushed.”

“No, Mommy, I just overslept, that’s all.”

Whew, that was close!

Later, as I walked to school with Debbie and Gina, I so much wanted to tell them how to get an orgasm. Debbie’s sister was right. It was the best feeling in the world and I wanted my best friends to be able to experience it. But I couldn’t. I was too embarrassed to admit that I did it. I knew it was wrong.

All through my morning classes, I had a burning desire to rub myself. But, of course, I couldn’t. I did squeeze my thighs together and rock a few times while leaning forward on my desk. One time I even pressed my elbow between my clamped thighs trying not to be obvious. But when a teacher spotted me rocking and asked me if I needed a pass to go to the girls’ restroom, I almost died. And I turned bright red when the class burst into laughter. I shook my hanging head and stopped rocking. By the time it was lunch period, I was a wreck.

In the cafeteria, Debbie was trying to get me engaged in a conversation about something, but I didn’t really hear her. The sexual tension that had built up in my body was too great. If an orgasm was the best feeling in the world, needing one and not being able to have it might have been the worst. So I wolfed down my lunch in record time and told my friends I needed to pee really badly. I fled the cafeteria while Debbie and Gina were still eating, both staring at the back of my running body as if I were a crazy person. Maybe I was.

I hurried to the girls’ restroom and went into a stall where I hiked up my skirt and tucked it under my chin. I plopped down on the toilet seat with my knees spread and rubbed my pussy through my panties. The more I rubbed, the wetter my panties got. I closed my eyes as I reveled in the feeling. The tingling. The fire burning between my legs. The better it felt, the faster I rubbed. My orgasm was almost there.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Someone was pounding on the metal door.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing in there?” a girl shouted. “Other people need to pee, too.”

I jerked my hand away as if the world was able to see what I was doing and let my skirt drop. I even glanced at the top of the door and at the gap between the bottom and the floor to see if anyone was peeking. Letting the air out of my lungs when all was clear, I stood up and flushed. When I exited the stall, a girl almost knocked me over as she shoved past me and slammed the door shut. In a moment, I heard the gush of her stream splashing in the toilet water. The other girls gave me dirty looks. I ran out without even washing my hands. I could imagine what the girls said about that.

In my next class, I was sexually frustrated. I had learned a new lesson. Bringing yourself close to an orgasm and not finishing was worse than not doing anything when you had the urge. Exasperated, I placed my elbows on my desk and cupped my face in my hands.

I jerked my head back.

My fingers were damp. And there was a smell. I brought my fingers under my nose and sniffed. They definitely smelled. And I knew what that odor was. I squeezed my hand under my armpit and then pulled it out and sat on it. Could others smell it?

That was the longest class of my life. When it ended, I rushed to the girls’ restroom and scrubbed my hands. I didn’t dare go into a stall and try to bring myself to an orgasm. That would have to wait until I got home.

I couldn’t concentrate in my remaining classes. I couldn’t sit still either. I guess I did look like I needed to pee, squirming in my seat, but I couldn’t stop. I needed to get home. I needed relief. And then I finally had my last class of the day—Band class. In my condition, seeing Mr. Roman was torture. I kept missing my notes playing my clarinet and my teacher kept stopping the class to correct me. I was so embarrassed. And then he actually told me to stand up after stopping everyone from playing and walked up to me. I was in the front row near the middle.