Chapter 1

My first time was a mercy fuck. Well, sort of. Not only that, but what made it worse was that all I could think while it was happening was that this could very well be the greatest fuck of my life, possibly of all time. What would I possibly have to look forward to after this?

Then again, I was young and stupid at the time, too.

I had finished my first year of university at State and was spending the summer with my Dad. There was a University extension program located in the town in which he lived and I wanted to take a summer course or two. As I was a full-time student at State, it didn't cost any extra for the summer school, and as long as I could stay at his apartment for free, it would be a cheap way to get some of the required courses out of the way.

What I didn't realize was how boring it would be. I didn't know anyone in town and the other summer students were pretty much self-absorbed. Of course, I didn't try all that hard to get to know them, either, but still, they were the only human contact I had for the most part.

My Dad was working long hours that summer, so I never saw him much either. He had moved out of state to live here when I was beginning high school, about five years ago, I guess. It was hard on the whole family, being so far apart like that. We were just another family living the average American Nightmare. Dad was working really hard to support us. He was doing that because it was the right thing to do. It was voluntary on his part, not court-ordered, and it was especially a strain on him. But that's the kind of guy my Dad is. So if I could get some cheap courses and maybe finish college before my brother started, I figured a little boredom was a small price to pay.

You see, it was my fault Dad had left Mom and us kids in the first place. Yeah, I know all kids in divorced families feel that way sometimes, but I was pretty certain I was at fault here. Or, at least, my condition was. It was pretty clear to me from early on that Mom didn't deal with my condition very well. Deep down I think she thought I was a pervert or something. Dad, like most fathers, just tried to ignore my condition and treat me like a regular kid. During that time he was still living with us, he used to enroll me in sports programs and we worked on model cars and planes together. Stuff like that. Oh, and he introduced me to heavy-duty, reinforced jock straps probably before most boys get them. In a way, I wish Mom had just ignored it, too, but given her strict religious upbringing, I suppose it just wasn't possible for her to look the other way.

I had been a fairly normal kid until I hit puberty. Then, on the first day of sixth grade, the first day of Junior High Scholl, "IT" happened. I still remember that day as if it had happened yesterday...

Debbie Grogan, my girlfriend from the fifth grade, had sprouted a good-sized pair of tits over the summer. I guess she was pretty proud of them, because she was strutting around like a peacock, shoving them at everyone. Unfortunately, my hormones chose the very moment she was thrusting them at me to kick in and I got my first public woody. As it was the first week of September, it was hot and like most of the kids and teachers, I was wearing a pair of thin nylon shorts. On top of that, Mom had been expecting me to have a growth spurt that year and had purchased all my clothes a little large. OK, a lot large. My under shorts included. 'Baggy' is the term that comes to mind. As I hadn't started the anticipated growth spurt yet, I was, for all intents and purposes on that first day of school, hanging free. And of course, when I went stiff, I headed for the wide open spaces. The path of least resistance, so to speak.

When sweet innocent Debbie came over and rubbed her brand new boobs all over my arms and back, I was left standing there with what felt like a hardon to rival a great Sequoia. Debbie, my sweet little innocent Debbie, just happened to notice my dick sticking out the leg of my shorts and she started screaming. Like, what? She was the only one who had been able to grow something during the summer? I still think, as I look back on that life-altering moment and all that followed, that she was screaming in excitement, not fear.

The so-called education professional assigned to encumber our learning process that year, Miss Blechert, however, misinterpreted Debbie's reaction, or quite possibly substituted Debbie's reaction with her own, and immediately slapped me. In the nuts. Hard. Twice.

The only reason she couldn't knee me in the balls — believe me, she tried - was because I was by then rolling on the ground holding my hands over my crotch, screaming louder than the both of them. I was in serious pain, and that was before she had played handball with my family jewels. I had no idea a hardon could hurt this bad. All I could think as I rolled around on the floor was how tough my Dad must be to get it on with Mom three or four times a week and not let us hear him screaming in pain.

All together, it was a memorable first day of school.

But the worst was yet to be discovered. After everyone else had calmed down, I didn't. I couldn't. And it still hurt. I just barely managed to stand semi-upright and Miss Blechert was so incensed that I was still at full staff after all of her ministrations, she sent me to the Principal's Office. I tried to walk out of the room with that log sticking out of my groin, but it was painful and awkward. I obviously wasn't fast enough for her, so she aided my progress by lifting me by one ear (she had voted for LBJ), the one protrusion on my body furthest from my engorged prick.

It was humiliating enough to be hauled down to the Principal's Office, much less literally dragged there by one ear. Miss Blechert made the trip even better by loudly castigating me and all filthy men everywhere for the entire length of the normally silent hallway. Several of the other teachers poked their heads out of their classroom doors to see which deserving child had managed to be sent to the gallows on the very first day of school. That was something that was almost unheard of, so they were wondering just what heinous crime was committed and by whom. Some of the curious onlookers seemed rather impressed I was able to occasionally touch the ground with a toe or two as I was escorted to my doom.

Principal Moffett yelled at me for a while, with no visible effect. I was still as outstanding a student as before he began. He was a giant of a man, still retaining some basic upper body musculature from his high school and college football hero days. He loomed over all of us kids, in a benevolent sort of way, usually. I think that it worried him, however, at my lack of a suitable reaction. He wondered that he might be losing his touch to make us all obey him instantly. Or it could have been that, being a guy, he could sympathize with me, though he probably had no idea about the pain I was in. Normally he could scare the shit out of any of us kids by simply glowering at us. That morning, however, I just stood there staring down at my throbbing woody, now decently covered and tenting out my thin shorts, with no apparent physical response to his presence but the tears streaming down my face. It eventually began to concern him.

After several minutes of manly silence, both of us standing in his stifling office waiting for a retraction that never came, he finally called in the school nurse. Already informed by Miss Blechert of my crime, Nurse Black came into the Principal's office and stood there with this horrified look, staring at my bulging crotch, a reaction with which I was to become extremely familiar.

Next came... 'the finger.' That long, bony digit that all mature women seem to develop, and Nurse Black's seemed very well developed to me that morning. The finger is used to express their extreme displeasure and disgust, especially of naughty little boys who can't control themselves, by shaking it in their faces, wagging it like a pendulum, coming as close to the eyes as possible. That tactic of intimidation didn't work either and she had to resort to other, more direct means to try to reduce the swelling.

First I was subjected to an extremely cold ice pack. She refused to touch me "down there," so she took an Ace bandage and wrapped one, then two chunks of dry ice tightly to my crotch. It looked like I was wearing a smoking diaper. The pain suddenly went away after about an hour, although I was as swollen as ever. I nearly got frostbite she kept the ice pack on there so long, but the swelling never went down. In fact, it was longer than before, if that was possible.

When that didn't work, she pulled out the big threat. If I couldn't control myself, she said, she was going to call my mother. Normally this is when most kids buckle, piss in their pants and confess to nailing Jesus to the cross, but I didn't. I did wet my pants, but that was only because they hadn't allowed me to go to the bathroom for almost 3 hours and it was after lunch. If she was flustered before, after I piddled she went ballistic.

I never learned exactly what she said on the phone, but both Mom and Dad showed up at the school at about the same time, tires screeching and smoking, nearly colliding with each other as they braked to a stop in the visitor's parking spaces in front of the school. I watched it all unfold from a damp plastic chair in the Nurse's office as Nurse Black met them outside, arms akimbo, gesticulating and animated.

However traumatic the events of that day were, what I remember most about that day, what I have carried with me since then, was the look of abject shame on my Mother's face when she first came into the room to see her defective son. She never lost that look whenever she looked at me from that time until this. Yeah, I was still her baby boy, but now I was broken.

I didn't understand it. It wasn't that big of a thing. Really! I was 12 years old and it was maybe 3 or 4 inches long when fully blown, which, incidentally, I wouldn't be until much, much later. I honestly couldn't see what the big fuss was all about.

After several weeks of hospitals, clinics, staying home from school, lectures from three clergy men about the evils of masturbation, an exorcism or two and constant tormenting and heckling from the other kids in the neighborhood, a bright young doctor finally diagnosed me with priapism. Erectus Permanentus. Named for the Roman God 'Priapus, ' a happy-go-lucky sort that fucked everything and anytime.

I can imagine a lot of you guys out there are whooping it up, wishing you could be so lucky. And after your usual once-a-week five minutes of fame, some of your girlfriends no doubt are wishing the same thing, but for different reasons. But believe me when I tell you, you don't want this.

First, it hurts like Hell, or was supposed to. From what the doctors told my Dad - Mom had run screaming from the room - I was lucky. Whether it was from the ice pack or just the way I was put together, he couldn't say, but normally this condition was extremely - EXTREMELY - painful. It was rare, unheard of, in fact, that mine wasn't painful. About the only treatment for priapism is surgery, which would have left me essentially with a limp hose, only good for pissing. No procreational activities at all without a penile implant later in life. But, as the pain wasn't bothering me, he didn't recommend it just for cosmetic purposes.

Second, from that moment on, I had no social life. What father would allow his daughter, his little girl, to go out with a guy with a permanent hardon, much less be seen with him? Forget about going to anyone's house after school or their parents letting them come to mine.

Third, I couldn't participate in sports, which I had been showing a real flare for up to that time. Running was too painful, swimming was too revealing, diving made an after-splash that took points off my score. Bowling? No. Golf? Come on, get real. I would have gotten a penalty for having too many clubs. No one would wrestle me in my weight class. No one, that is, except Justin, and I wasn't the only boy in Junior High School that wouldn't go into the shower room with him. There was no way I was going to let him get his hands on me in a wrestling match.

The end result of all this was that I was terminally shy, which was more the result of being terminally embarrassed. I was continually humiliated by people's reactions to me rather than a natural shyness. I eventually just found it easier if I didn't draw attention to myself.

Dad took a lot of crap from Mom in those next three or so years. She may have been ashamed of me, but in twisted feminine logic, she blamed him like it was somehow his fault. I found out later that she freaked out whenever he got an erection, afraid she would find him in the same situation as I was in. He held out as long as he could, then finally accepted a job transfer out of state. When he left, I could tell he felt like he was abandoning me. He tried to get her to let me live with him, but Mom wasn't thinking clearly. So he just left.

Masturbation, the traditional pastime of youth, was absolutely out of the question for me. It wasn't until I was a senior in High School that I learned, to my great relief, in more ways than one, that I could ejaculate with digital stimulation. I had had wet dreams, for sure. But until that day in the shower, the only place safe from Mom's sudden and frequent inspections for impropriety on my part, I wasn't really sure I could squirt my juice and not be permanently damaged. Well, more damaged than I was, anyway. Boy, was I relieved.

I did a lot of weight lifting in the garage and I studied hard in high school. They were about my only outlets, as I had no friends and wasn't allowed to masturbate. I was reasonably good-looking, not that it did me any good, but at least I wasn't carrying that burden around, too. I had inherited my Mom's dark Mediterranean coloring. She said her father's family was from somewhere in Italy, but her maiden name was O'Rourke. Oh, well. Fortunately I had inherited my Dad's brains, not that Mom was dumb, but, well... Dad always told me I was smarter than he was at my age and that made me feel pretty good. Unlike my two siblings, who seemed to have gotten the reverse combination. Not that my Dad was ugly either, but it just didn't work for my sister. Even I felt sorry for her. Occasionally.

With my looks every new girl in school would eventually hit on me, especially when they figured out I was unattached and available. The whole process got to be predictable. The new girl would indicate her interest, I would try to blend in with the wall paper and avoid her attentions, she would persist and, in her mind, blatantly throw herself at me. Then some well-meaning soul would take her aside, sometimes right in front of me like I was a door or something, whisper in her ear and point at me. A couple of shakes of her head 'no' in disbelief followed like clockwork. It got to the point that the informers would hold up their hands, like they were telling a fishing story or something. I only wish I was that long or thick.

The doomed relationships usually ended with a tearful "How could you do this to me?" scene at the earliest possible moment, often very public. Always traumatic. Deep down, I never did give up hope of just being a normal teenager and it always hurt me.

After a couple of those wonderful events, I simply wanted to be left alone more than ever. I was successful, for the most part. Maybe too successful. By the time I had graduated and left town for college. I had no friends but the guys in the chess club. Those geeks all went to MIT or Stanford, places like that, and when the time came at the end of the first year for me to go back home for the summer or to go stay with Dad, I took the opportunity to not be with Mom.

Everything was going pretty good that summer, too. I was ahead of schedule in my self-taught courses. Not having anything else to do with my time I studied a lot and the summer school academic standards were pretty lame, besides. By July Fourth, I had taken my finals and suddenly realized I had the whole rest of the summer stretching out in front of me.

Believe it or not, I think my Dad understood a little of what I was going through. Of course, deep inside, I still think he thought I was just a really horny little bastard and that one day I would outgrow it. Like bed-wetting or something. I think that's what everyone thought, even the doctor who diagnosed me. Especially since the excruciating pain had never come back. I don't think he really thought it was a true priapic condition, other than the fact I was stiff 24/7.

I thought my idyllic summer had ended when Dad announced he was going to have to leave town for several months. He must have seen the look of panic on my face when I concluded he was not going to let me stay in his apartment alone for the rest of the summer and send me back home. The sudden prospect of going home was too onerous, especially after having lived with him the first part of the summer and without Mom's shame-filled eyes for even longer.

"I think we can work something out, get someone to look after you, John," he said.

"Dad, I don't need a babysitter! I'm almost 19! I lived all by myself at school for a whole year, almost."

"Yes, you did," he said. "And there was a cafeteria where you could eat, a janitor to fix the boiler when the heat went out, and a floor monitor to make sure nothing happened to you. You're in transition to be on your own, son. But not yet."

"But, Dad... ," I protested, not really being able to refute him.

He was right. Of the four guys in my suite at the dormitory, I was the most incompetent. I could burn the water making tea. Milk soured before I got it home. If I thought about making an omelet, the eggs would crack open in the carton rather than suffer the indignity of ending up in one of my creations. I won't even begin to mention the laundry.

"My secretary, Lisa, from work, has agreed to look in on you from time to time while I'm gone. With both me and my boss away from the office on this assignment, there won't be that much for her to do." He grinned sadly at the obvious look of relief on my face as it dawned on me that I didn't have to go to Mom's house. I wasn't even sorry I couldn't hide my feelings from him.

He continued. "She's interning with us this summer. If I'm not mistaken, I think she goes to State, too. You may even know her."

I for damn sure didn't know any girls at State, let alone someone named Lisa. "I don't think so, Dad. It's a big campus, and I don't get out much."

"Well, she just finished her Junior year, so she is a couple of years ahead of you. Maybe she can show you around town, introduce you to some kids your own age. She grew up around here."