Chapter 1: The Forward

The Forward

I started keeping a journal on my sixteenth birthday after reading an article in Boy's Life about hanging on to your adolescent experiences so you can have a clear view of the influences on your adult personality. I kept the journal for sixty years. In the notebooks I wrote down the experiences that led to my rather notorious life. I kept the books well hidden. The books contained precise details of my life that many would have paid dearly never to have to read about.

My wife died five years ago, and when I was moving into a condo I had the notebooks put in a locked cabinet in my bedroom. Starting through the first books I read the story of my life. I quickly saw that my autobiography could have some interest. I lived through a very active part of the history of the United States, and even influenced some of it.

I haven't used a ghostwriter. The words here are all mine. Anyone who asks if all the events are true can be assured that the events are as I have detailed. I'm sure that any who could be harmed by what I say here are already dead. If I surprise many innocent children, now grown, then I apologize at the beginning.

As I transcribed my teenaged thoughts I realized that the experiences might interest other people. This started a five-year project of organizing my life into this book. Much thought went into how I should tone down the content. The text in the notebooks was graphical in the descriptions of my life and the acts described beyond the usual activities of a boy's. I knew that leaving in all the details might render the book unsuitable for normal bookstores, but I didn't need the money a bestseller would bring. I have altered the style of much of the early text so it wouldn't seem so juvenile. I wanted my life to be remembered as it was. I lived a great life and a terrible life, and here it is-in all its detail.

Calvin Coolidge Anderson
March 23, 2005

May 28, 1943, Friday

I turned sixteen today. This came on the first day of summer vacation. Turning sixteen during World War II meant we were in the middle of a global history lesson. My friends were old enough to know what was going on, but too young to fight. Most of my classmates had older brothers who had rapidly signed up after Peal Harbor, now seventeen months in the past. I have two older brothers and two older sisters. Marty was 23, Stan was 21, Andrea, 19, and Polly, 18. They were all married except Polly who was engaged to Freddy Allen, not the guy on the radio, who will get married tomorrow. Freddy just turned eighteen and planned to ship out on Monday, so there's not going to be much of a honeymoon. My mother, Helen, raised us alone, after my father died in 1939 trying to overcome the Great Depression personally. He worked himself to death trying to feed us and keep the house they had owned since they were married. My father lived a very hard life, and for that, I am eternally sorry. His reward, I understand, should be in heaven. I hope so. From my time with him, and the stories my older brothers tell, he was hardened by the life he took on.

I lived in a town on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. The St. Joseph River flowed north from Indiana and emptied into the eastern shore of the lake where it began the southern curve that arched to Chicago. The river's mouth divided two cities, Benton Harbor and St. Joseph. The Twin Cities, as I grew up to know them, never cared for each other. Benton Harbor was a dirty backwater port town. Lake freighters stopped to unload and load cargo destined for the world through the escape hatch of the St. Lawrence Seaway. St. Joseph was gentile, refined, wealthy, and they knew it, and never stopped rubbing it into the faces of the citizens of their poorer sister across the river. I grew up outside of town along a busy street, but my bicycle connected me with my world of the refined and the refuse.

Nothing's better than arriving home after school on the day of your birthday. Our white house gleamed brighter as I rode my bike around back. My spirits rose higher when I saw my mother's car parked behind the house. She didn't usually get home from work until after five. She worked in a defense plant making a small part that was shipped to other defense plants. It was a secret what it did. I ran by the giant cottonwood tree in the back yard that shaded the back entrance to the house. From the back you entered through a storage room. Dad meant it to be a bedroom, but he died before it was finished. Stan and Marty meant to finish it, but hard times held up the money and then the war sucked them up. I tried to hold back my excitement as I opened the door to the kitchen. With its heavy use feeding three boys, the linoleum was cracked and the fridge made a funny, grinding noise when it ran. No Mom. I walked into the dining room and heard voices from Mom's room to the left. I yelled, "Mom!" I heard her cry of, "Don't come in, Calvin," but in my excitement didn't hear the first part. I just heard my name behind her bedroom door and flew in.

My sister Polly gave out a screech and covered herself. Mom was sewing on Polly's wedding dress and she was standing on a stool in her white bra and panties. A skinny girl all her life, she didn't have much more of a figure than I did, but she covered her national treasures as well as she could and screamed, "Get out."

"Mom, what's going on?"

"Calvin Coolidge Anderson, you get out of this room until your sister is dressed." Mom rose talking around the pins in her mouth.

Calvin Coolidge Anderson, the one thing I will never forgive my father for. You can take being a life-long Republican just too far-not that he was around now to take it out on.

"Oh, Mom, she ain't got nothing I ain't seen before." I gave her a good look. "She ain't got nothing worth looking at anyway!"

"Calvin, you get out! Right now!" When mom handed down the law there was no appeal to a higher court. As quick as Polly covered up, I slipped out the door.

"Mom," shouting through the door, "What's up for tonight?" I didn't smell a cake baking when I went through the kitchen.

"We're all going over to the church to rehearse the wedding. Dinner will be afterward, maybe around seven. So go down and get something to tide you over until then."

I heard giggling inside and decided I was getting no birthday congratulations on my birthday from my mother or sister. The excitement about the wedding had caused birthday amnesia. Coming up the basement stairs was my older sister, Andrea. Now no one could ever think Andrea was my sister if they saw Polly first. Andrea was fat, roly-poly fat, a little over five-foot two, she always had a smile and Lenny her husband had left two-weeks after Pearl Harbor for basic training. She hadn't seen him since. He mailed her letters about once a week, when his destroyer was in port.

She always had a, "Hi, Calvin," for me, and a big hug, never having any idea what those giant breasts of hers did for my nighttime amusement. They pressed into my chest like two giant pillows and spread out as she squeezed me. I kept my bottom far from her when buried in her soft tits so as to not frighten her with my immediate hard on. We were fighting the Krauts and the Japs for those two magnificent tits. To preserve and protect the tits of the women of the United States, at least that's how my copy of the Constitution read. Not that I had ever really seen any tits-except once.

It's funny, that a year ago, I'm not sure I thought about tits all that often, but lately it's all I can think of, especially Andrea's. Polly's, you couldn't notice, but Andrea's made you believe that breast-feeding should extend to your high school years. Now a fine set of tits like hers sent me off to my room and the Sears catalog I had hidden under my bed. The spine was broken on the ladies underwear section, the girdle department. Any guy who's ever made the study of girdles I have knows that the chief attraction of this restrictive piece of ladies wear is the dark space between the legs. It was obvious from the pictures that the garment had no crotch, but at sixteen I had no idea what the shadow always hid there. I would turn the book at all angles hoping a ray of room light would shine up this blank space and give me the secret. My best buddy, Carl, told me he saw his mother in one, and that she had on panties under it, so there was nothing to see. I hope Carl was lying to me. Carl's mom was built like Polly so any hope of education on tits from him was slim.

I set a chair under the doorknob of my bedroom door. Mom didn't believe in locks on doors, except hers. I pickup a towel and laid it next to me on the neatly made bed. I picked up the catalog and turned to the first pages of interest-nightwear. The baby-doll nighties were a good start. The young models looked prettier than the women of my family, but they shared all the important parts. One model had larger breasts than the others, and I spent a minute imagining her opening my bedroom door (I would quickly move the chair for her). This was enough to cause my cock to ache from the confinement. I set down the catalog and unzipped my jeans that I pushed down far enough to have working room. My white briefs bulged with my pride and joy. I have a big dick. I learned this when we began to have to shower after gym class a couple of years ago. I knew it wasn't cool to stare at another guy's cock, but I rapidly took a survey of my classmates and learned that my cock was twice the size of the next biggest. A few weeks into the year one of the smaller boys got a hard on while showering. I felt bad at the ribbing about being queer the boy got. He probably still has nightmares about it. Then near the end of the year the same thing happened to me. I was soaping up and daydreaming about the view I got of my mother that morning when I walked in on her in the bathroom while she was drying off from a bath. I saw everything, for a couple of seconds, until she shooed me out. My first view of a pair of plump tits was burned on my brain. I didn't notice that my dick had begun to grow until the noisy shower room grew still. I looked down at eleven inches of wood and looked up waiting for the ribbing to start. No one said a word. The guys took nervous stares at it and fled to the locker rooms. Mr. Patterson, the gym teacher, walked by at that point and saw me. He stopped and whispered, "God damn!" and moved on. This quickly killed the erection, and I moved fearfully out to the locker room. Again, no one ever said a word about my now faded hard on.

I worked my dick and the catalog through bras, panties, and I unloaded over the girdles. I had to be careful about getting my spunk on the catalog. Sears didn't send them out often enough to let the pages get all sticky. I wrapped the towel around my dick as I came and imagined it was shooting into the dark spot on the model's girdle. After wiping off my dick, I gave it a final stroke and thanked God about giving me this magnificent tool. I just wished I could find a girl or a lingerie model to use it on.