A Confession by Jim Stanley
A Confession
By
Jim Stanley
The thoughts that follow are designed to enlighten and guide readers into my experiment with human sexuality.
My book, Juvenile Sexuality, is, in a sense, the story of my life. It’s embellished by lots of fantasy, based on unfulfilled desires. The facts about my relationship with my mother and father are what drives these fantasies into my very erotic memories of them. The first fact is witnessing my father masturbate. It always happened, or most always, when we were alone at home. My mother would be away for most of the day, shopping or visiting. I was about 10 the first time it happened. I was in my bedroom where I had a desk and chair that simulated an office of sorts. Anyway, as I sat there engaged in my own fantasy world, I sensed a quietness in the house and wondered where my father was. I went downstairs to look for him and noticed the door to the living room was closed. That seldom happened. So, I casually opened the door. There sat my father, totally naked, sitting in a chair facing the door, masturbating, as if expecting me to walk in and see him. I lingered a bit; it seemed like an hour instead of the few seconds that passed. His hand clutched his 4-inch deeply veined cock, his leg muscles taut, as he rhythmically stroked his very hard cock. At age 10, I was very aware of what he was doing, since, I myself was already masturbating with abandon. Needless to say, I was extremely aroused sexually and desperately wanted to go to him and love his cock. Unfortunately, I was also very naïve. Instead, I calmly closed the door and returned to my room. I spent the next two hours masturbating to the image of my father’s naked body and hard cock. That imagery persists to this day and remains as vivid today as it was when I was 10. Nothing was ever said about this encounter and life went on. These encounters happened several times. Another time was summer. I was in the yard weeding a “Victory garden.” My father worked nearby naked, clad only in shorts, occupied with one of his basket weaving projects. My mother was in the house busy making dinner. In an instant, my father stopped what he was doing and walked over to an old chicken house that was converted into a work shed and closed the door. My mind raced back to the other closed door event years back, and, intrigued, walked over to the shed and opened the door. As before, he sat naked and barefooted, facing the door, his shorts around his ankles, his toes curled outward, stroking his very hard cock and smiling. My reaction was as before. I closed the door and went to my room in a state of sexual frenzy and masturbated at least 4 times. At dinner, things went on as usual. There was no indication, on my father’s part, of anything happening.
At the age of 14, now a high school student, I came home one night from a basketball game at about 11 PM. I came in the front door of the house that led to the living room. A light burned in the kitchen and shone partly into the living room where my father lay in his boxer shorts, opened, his cock laying idly on his thigh. I made some noises to see if he were awake and there was no response. I tiptoed back into the room to catch a closer look of his flaccid cock and brazenly knelt beside the sofa and felt it. There was still no response. Nervously, I decided to go one step further and put my mouth on his cock. Seconds passed, and I took his whole cock into my mouth. With that he woke, seemingly startled and, I, in a panic, ran to my room, where I lay for about 20 minutes, wondering what to do next. I decided to head to the bathroom and see if he were still on the sofa. I peered into the living room noting that he had buttoned his boxers and, I assume, pretended sleep. As before, he never spoke of this incident and life went on as usual.
There was another incident when I was still in grammar school. I must have been 11 or twelve. I came home from school about 3 PM, looking to my mother to fix me a sandwich. Protectively and obviously agitated, she shouted, “Don’t go in the living room!” Without thinking, I ran passed her into the living room, and asleep on the sofa was my father and godfather, both in their sixties, drunk and passed out, with both their pants and shorts around their ankles, their cocks laying flaccidly on their inner thighs. I heard my mother groan and I realized I had gone too far. I could only assume that in their drunken stupor, they decided to masturbate. That led to my wondering what role my mother played in this scenario. Was she a willing witness? What was the extent of her willingness? I ran out to the yard and busied myself in the garage, mostly to relieve my mother’s anxiety and embarrassment. My mother and I ate alone that night while my father and godfather lay asleep on the sofa. Later, I went to my room and slept through the night unaware that my godfather had gone home. My father slept the night, alone, on the sofa. I never heard of any repercussions from that scenario, but I always fantasized, rightly or wrongly, that my mother had sucked the two off or was a willing participant in the sexual play.
Over the years, thinking about these encounters I’ve concluded that my father was bisexual. His bisexuality manifested itself in exhibitionism, primarily. But since he had sexual contact with my godfather, I decided that he was also gay. In fact, this didn’t surprise me one bit. It was just a conclusion that I’d arrived at and accepted without any rancor or hatred or disgust. He was who he was. During all of this, until his death, we had a very close and loving relationship. His actions also fit into the scheme of things in his life. Consider, first, his arrival in the United States. He left Poland, leaving his wife and three c***dren, to find work and send them money to follow him. After a year, he sent them the money and told them to come. My mother responded by asking him to send more money to bring her sister. He grudgingly agreed and worked another year before sending her the money. Think about that. He spent two years, like so many other immigrants, without sex. He needed sexual relief. He either masturbated or found an outlet. As with many other male immigrants, they shared apartments or homes and things happened. That was the case with my godfather, as well. My father’s closeness to him was based on need. They both married and raised families. In my father’s case, he raised 7 c***dren. But their need for sexual outlet remained constant.
I really loved my father and mother and have no guilt feelings about the i****tuous feelings I had toward them. If I’ve suffered in any way from these encounters, it has been a result of unfulfilled desires over these many years. On the other hand, I welcome those desires and magnificent fantasies as having enriched my sexual life. For me, this was not a tragedy but an epiphany. i****t plays a strong role in these fantasies and manifests itself in Juvenile Sexuality. But i****t doesn’t have to be immoral when the parties involved manifest a deep love for one another and is consensual. In fact, Margaret Mead, in her famous analysis of Samoan culture, described how lots of sexual foreplay existed between mothers, fathers, grandfathers and grandmothers and their c***dren and grandc***dren.
I’m curious about all readers’ sexual awareness as boys. I’ve talked to many people over the years about how they became aware of their sexuality and the form it took, and the answers are all over the place. Personally, I think the terms heterosexual, homosexual, and bisexual are useless terms describing who and what we are. To begin with, they’re 19th century terms that carry a lot of cultural baggage with them, mostly bad. To me, man is simply a sexual being on a broad scale of sexuality. In other words, sexual orientation in general — whether homosexual, bisexual or heterosexual — is a mixture of genetic, hormonal and environmental factors.
Interestingly, it was a retired, lesbian, gray haired ex nun who assisted me in arriving at this conclusion.
By
Jim Stanley
The thoughts that follow are designed to enlighten and guide readers into my experiment with human sexuality.
My book, Juvenile Sexuality, is, in a sense, the story of my life. It’s embellished by lots of fantasy, based on unfulfilled desires. The facts about my relationship with my mother and father are what drives these fantasies into my very erotic memories of them. The first fact is witnessing my father masturbate. It always happened, or most always, when we were alone at home. My mother would be away for most of the day, shopping or visiting. I was about 10 the first time it happened. I was in my bedroom where I had a desk and chair that simulated an office of sorts. Anyway, as I sat there engaged in my own fantasy world, I sensed a quietness in the house and wondered where my father was. I went downstairs to look for him and noticed the door to the living room was closed. That seldom happened. So, I casually opened the door. There sat my father, totally naked, sitting in a chair facing the door, masturbating, as if expecting me to walk in and see him. I lingered a bit; it seemed like an hour instead of the few seconds that passed. His hand clutched his 4-inch deeply veined cock, his leg muscles taut, as he rhythmically stroked his very hard cock. At age 10, I was very aware of what he was doing, since, I myself was already masturbating with abandon. Needless to say, I was extremely aroused sexually and desperately wanted to go to him and love his cock. Unfortunately, I was also very naïve. Instead, I calmly closed the door and returned to my room. I spent the next two hours masturbating to the image of my father’s naked body and hard cock. That imagery persists to this day and remains as vivid today as it was when I was 10. Nothing was ever said about this encounter and life went on. These encounters happened several times. Another time was summer. I was in the yard weeding a “Victory garden.” My father worked nearby naked, clad only in shorts, occupied with one of his basket weaving projects. My mother was in the house busy making dinner. In an instant, my father stopped what he was doing and walked over to an old chicken house that was converted into a work shed and closed the door. My mind raced back to the other closed door event years back, and, intrigued, walked over to the shed and opened the door. As before, he sat naked and barefooted, facing the door, his shorts around his ankles, his toes curled outward, stroking his very hard cock and smiling. My reaction was as before. I closed the door and went to my room in a state of sexual frenzy and masturbated at least 4 times. At dinner, things went on as usual. There was no indication, on my father’s part, of anything happening.
At the age of 14, now a high school student, I came home one night from a basketball game at about 11 PM. I came in the front door of the house that led to the living room. A light burned in the kitchen and shone partly into the living room where my father lay in his boxer shorts, opened, his cock laying idly on his thigh. I made some noises to see if he were awake and there was no response. I tiptoed back into the room to catch a closer look of his flaccid cock and brazenly knelt beside the sofa and felt it. There was still no response. Nervously, I decided to go one step further and put my mouth on his cock. Seconds passed, and I took his whole cock into my mouth. With that he woke, seemingly startled and, I, in a panic, ran to my room, where I lay for about 20 minutes, wondering what to do next. I decided to head to the bathroom and see if he were still on the sofa. I peered into the living room noting that he had buttoned his boxers and, I assume, pretended sleep. As before, he never spoke of this incident and life went on as usual.
There was another incident when I was still in grammar school. I must have been 11 or twelve. I came home from school about 3 PM, looking to my mother to fix me a sandwich. Protectively and obviously agitated, she shouted, “Don’t go in the living room!” Without thinking, I ran passed her into the living room, and asleep on the sofa was my father and godfather, both in their sixties, drunk and passed out, with both their pants and shorts around their ankles, their cocks laying flaccidly on their inner thighs. I heard my mother groan and I realized I had gone too far. I could only assume that in their drunken stupor, they decided to masturbate. That led to my wondering what role my mother played in this scenario. Was she a willing witness? What was the extent of her willingness? I ran out to the yard and busied myself in the garage, mostly to relieve my mother’s anxiety and embarrassment. My mother and I ate alone that night while my father and godfather lay asleep on the sofa. Later, I went to my room and slept through the night unaware that my godfather had gone home. My father slept the night, alone, on the sofa. I never heard of any repercussions from that scenario, but I always fantasized, rightly or wrongly, that my mother had sucked the two off or was a willing participant in the sexual play.
Over the years, thinking about these encounters I’ve concluded that my father was bisexual. His bisexuality manifested itself in exhibitionism, primarily. But since he had sexual contact with my godfather, I decided that he was also gay. In fact, this didn’t surprise me one bit. It was just a conclusion that I’d arrived at and accepted without any rancor or hatred or disgust. He was who he was. During all of this, until his death, we had a very close and loving relationship. His actions also fit into the scheme of things in his life. Consider, first, his arrival in the United States. He left Poland, leaving his wife and three c***dren, to find work and send them money to follow him. After a year, he sent them the money and told them to come. My mother responded by asking him to send more money to bring her sister. He grudgingly agreed and worked another year before sending her the money. Think about that. He spent two years, like so many other immigrants, without sex. He needed sexual relief. He either masturbated or found an outlet. As with many other male immigrants, they shared apartments or homes and things happened. That was the case with my godfather, as well. My father’s closeness to him was based on need. They both married and raised families. In my father’s case, he raised 7 c***dren. But their need for sexual outlet remained constant.
I really loved my father and mother and have no guilt feelings about the i****tuous feelings I had toward them. If I’ve suffered in any way from these encounters, it has been a result of unfulfilled desires over these many years. On the other hand, I welcome those desires and magnificent fantasies as having enriched my sexual life. For me, this was not a tragedy but an epiphany. i****t plays a strong role in these fantasies and manifests itself in Juvenile Sexuality. But i****t doesn’t have to be immoral when the parties involved manifest a deep love for one another and is consensual. In fact, Margaret Mead, in her famous analysis of Samoan culture, described how lots of sexual foreplay existed between mothers, fathers, grandfathers and grandmothers and their c***dren and grandc***dren.
I’m curious about all readers’ sexual awareness as boys. I’ve talked to many people over the years about how they became aware of their sexuality and the form it took, and the answers are all over the place. Personally, I think the terms heterosexual, homosexual, and bisexual are useless terms describing who and what we are. To begin with, they’re 19th century terms that carry a lot of cultural baggage with them, mostly bad. To me, man is simply a sexual being on a broad scale of sexuality. In other words, sexual orientation in general — whether homosexual, bisexual or heterosexual — is a mixture of genetic, hormonal and environmental factors.
Interestingly, it was a retired, lesbian, gray haired ex nun who assisted me in arriving at this conclusion.
5 years ago
