I have no clue why I went for it, as I’ve never done that before. Oh, I’ve masturbated, usually to orgasm, any number of times before, just ... not...

Let me start more from the beginning.

Everyone was home in the middle of a sultry mid-summer Alabama Sunday. Thank, God, for AC! And thank God I didn’t have to pay the cooling bill, although Mom didn’t allow the AC thermostat set in summer at less than 80º. At least it took much of the moisture out of the air.

I could just hear the rest of the family – Mom, Dad, older twin siblings (Tina and Julio). Don’t ask. I have no clue why two black parents would name their only boy “Julio.” But they’d done it. I suspect it had to do with someone they used to know, but that’s mostly conjecture built on flimsy evidence. Anyway, I could just hear most or all of them kicking around in the house elsewhere. I was in my bed. Naked.

I know, I know. My door was open, or mostly so, but for some reason, I was so turned on right then, so had divested myself of clothing and slid onto the sheets on my bed in the room I shared with no one. Yes, the door was ... well ... half-open. Perhaps that’s the way I wanted it. At least, it would have been almost nothing to have stood ... or leaned well away from the bed to push the door closed or, at least, more closed.

I didn’t. I simply went for it, because that’s what I did these days. I’ve heard that boys do that a lot at my age of a few months shy of being 16. In fact, if what I’m led to believe is true, most boys do it an incredible lot. However, my name is Sharlessa, Lessie, for short.

I went, at first, slowly after an orgasm, feeling somewhat like if I got there, that’d be great, but it was the buildup I wanted most. Oh, I knew that if I got far enough along, I’d get to a point where neither Hell nor high water would keep me from going after the prize.

Yeah, that’s the problem with masturbating and, from what I understand, all types of sex. It’s hard to stop when you get close enough that your mind has very little part of the activity the body’s enjoying, and the body wants that ultimate pleasure at the end.

So, yeah, back to my first point: I have no clue why I started down that road with my door partly open and everyone else being awake and active elsewhere in the house.

My mind’s still awhirl at the ... consequences of just going for it, but at the time, my left hand just went for it ... hard. My right hand helped where it could, but my left went for the high, middle third of the ... podium? Sue me. It’s an Olympics year and it’s everywhere. Even, apparently, in my sexual subconscious. I went for the gold.

Perhaps I was a bit too loud. Perhaps I let out a squeak that I should have kept behind my teeth. Back to point two: It’s difficult to stop an activity the body’s thoroughly enjoying because the mind is no longer focused on threats to the body but on that gold medal that’s approaching so quickly.

“Did you want an audience?”

Holy, fucking Hell. There’s nothing quite like being busted by your mother when mere tens of seconds away from mounting the top step on the podium. While my left hand quit moving, it didn’t leave the scene of the crime while my body tried to kick-start my mind, my brain back into action.

“Gah??”

“Oh, so you were close and your brain’s not working. All the better.”

Because of that non-working brain, my mother mentioned, I understood nothing of what she’d said from her first word. Do you hear that Jaws soundtrack? If so, why didn’t you warn me? Thanks, a lot.

“Come on. Get out of bed.”

When those words tracked as equally well in my brain as all of her previous words, Mom put her hands to the work of her words and began, gently, pulling me to the edge of the bed. When she got me there, my mind still not working, but the primitive portion of my brain ... Which was that? The amygdala? I think it was screaming into my mind that there was trouble, existential trouble, and my mind shook itself aware.

“Wh-what?”

Too late, I found myself on my feet, my feet within the arch of my doorway, and my right hand in the hand of ... my mom ... being pulled from my room. With that awareness, my brain resumed full operation, but before my voice could react, Mom spoke.

“No arguing. No complaining. Come along.”

How do they do that, my brain queried, getting side-tracked again from the problem barreling toward me. How do moms know what you’re going to say and when?

I managed to refocus my brain on the more immediate problem, but before I could generate a counter-argument ... or even an argument, my brain interpreted the signals from my eyes that we ... little ol’ naked me and my semi-clothed mom ... were in the living room and the subject of surprised looks from the rest of my nuclear family. She semi-forced me onto the love seat, then pushed me onto my back on it, while my brain ... no, while my mouth stuttered in the confusion my brain felt. Mom moved my right leg, the one on the other side from the back of the loveseat, outward and placed the foot on the floor, then moved my left hand back to the scene of the crime.