Saturday, December 19, 2015

Visiting My Past


After Thanksgiving, while coming back from the family gathering, I made a detour off the interstate and down an old highway. I wanted to cruise the town where we lived when I was a young teen. It was a busy place back then but time has passed it by. It’s gone downhill fast. The primary employer closed. People lost their jobs and moved their families away. It will soon be a ghost town. But there was something I felt I had to do there in honor of old times, something that only a person who used to be a boy could possibly understand.

I drove to the old junior high where I spent my pubertal years, the wondrous days when boys are just discovering what it's all about. Those days are big memories for me and I was looking forward to
enjoying my past while cruising that school. Unfortunately, actually seeing it was a real letdown, an absolute bummer. Kids don’t even go to school in that town anymore; they’re bus-ed to a bigger place. My old junior high is empty, condemned, falling to pieces. Plywood nailed over the windows. Trees and juniper bushes so thick around the steps that I could hardly see the chained and padlocked front door. Parking lot sprouting weeds. Birds nesting in the eaves. Graffiti all over the place.

I stopped and got out to walk around. Saplings and brush cover the football field where I once sweated out terribly hot August drills and then would jog to the field house to shower in lighthearted nakedness with dozens of other guys. Now the field house windows are broken and there’s not a kid in sight.

Next I committed a crime. The cellar door under the back entrance to the main building was standing partway open where somebody else had already forced their way in. By stepping through that door I “broke and entered” - I entered my past.

Lighting my way with my phone’s torch, I climbed across junk, past the rusted furnace, through puddles of water, up the stairs to the first floor. Books, chairs, old projectors and tape recorders were strewn up and down the hall. Smashed typewriters. Flatened world globe. Most doors kicked in.Walls tagged with spray paint.

Here's Miss Johnson's music room. The piano is on its back, keys and hammers torn to pieces. Mrs. Davis's social studies room. The big roller-shade type maps ripped into shreds and scattered among a senseless pile of rusty desks and mildewed encyclopedias. Every classroom, same story.

And now, the boys' restroom. Its outer door scrapes the warped floor, won't open all the way, but just enough. I slide through sideways. Then through the second door. How familiar this all was for three years long ago.

Some of the partitions have fallen loose from the wall. Some fixtures are broken. A load of ancient dried-out turds lie petrified in a dry toilet bowl. Mirror shattered. Chunks of ceiling plaster laying on the floor. Everything I see makes me sorry that I came, but there’s something I have to do.

 See, despite the desolation, this restroom is the one place I must visit, the one room I must enter, the one destination above all others in this dying town. I have to stand at the urinal in honor of the good days.

I unzipped my fly and pulled ol' Woody out. Ears alert for police boots coming to find out why there's a pickup parked outside this abandoned place.

I turned off the phone's light and stood in deepest blackness, feeling myself becoming erect and willing my boner to recapture the breathless anticipation of the years when I was in seventh, eighth and ninth grade.

Go ahead and do it, I tell myself. So I begin the time-honored rite of adolescent boys, blotting out the decay and rubbish, aiming my tool at the unseen trough on the trashed wall.

Pumping now. Actually doing it in this long-forsaken restroom.

Sammy, this is for you, in honor of the day when two extremely nervous seventh graders stood at this urinal and pretended that neither of us knew what the other was doing. That was my first encounter
with you, Sammy (hell, my first encounter with anybody), the beginning of many happy moments together. Moments when this room was squeaky clean and we were besties.

Gordon, this is for you. People called you a sissy because of the way you moved and talked. But you were very special to me, Gordon, a ninth grader sitting in a stall, showing off your erection, beckoning me to come close so you could give me an incredible blow job, the first of several that you kindly bestowed on my hard little stiffie. In this very bathroom.

Douglas, this is for you. You were such a nice, “good citizen” kind of boy, yet you watched me time and time again while I pumped myself for you, Douglas. You squeezed your fly, rubbed your junk, watched every stroke I took, but you were too nice to show me your own arousal. I craved your attention, loved every minute that you watched me masturbate in this room. I felt like I was giving you a thrill that you wouldn’t otherwise have, and that made it a thrill for me too. Right here at this very pee-trough.

Sammy, Gordon, Douglas, I’m about to ejaculate. This cumshot in the old junior high boys’ room is for you. You three and a bunch more. Some of you, I can't even remember your names. But I remember what we did to mutually satisfy our needs. We didn't realize it at the time, but we owned heaven for a minute or two in the junior high restroom. And now I stand here alone, reaching a solitary climax in a desolate place, feeling very strangely emotional.

I zipped up and made my way back through the cellar and out of the crumbling building, wondering:
Did I do that for Sammy and Gordon and Douglas, or did I do it for myself?

Who knows........



One thing I do know, and I haven’t completely figured it out yet: after leaving the boarded-up building, it took me twenty miles along the old two-lane highway to get the tears out of my eyes.

Anonymous Author

10 comments:

  1. Wow. Outstanding.

    I am not trying to compete with this excellent story, but my story is slightly similar. The church where I grew up has been torn down and replaced with a supermarket. Everytime I pass that block I remember boys sharing very special moments with each other in a certain restroom when nobody was looking. I refuse to patronize that supermarket because it stole a special part of my past from me.

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  2. Wow this is so powerful! I can imagine the damp, musty smell, and I think I would have done exactly the same thing that you did. For me, the last time I was back to my hometown, I saw that my junior high had been torn down and was now part of a church parking lot. I walked and stood in the lot to right about where the boy's locker room would have been.
    I closed my eyes and tried bringing back the beautiful visions and memories of many dozens of young developing xxcks of classmates I had enjoyed right there in that locker room and showers, a very long time ago.

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  3. I want to thank you for sharing such a great story. About what it was like for you when you revisited the old school you went to.

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    1. It was from a collection of abandoned West Texas Schools. You guys may have noticed the photos in this post all have a bit of work performed.
      I hoped these pictoral selections do this fine story a bit of justice. I have a multitude of thoughts how this story captures the nostalgia I believe many guys feel for those long lost days.

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  4. Very expressive picture. Do I dare ask if that is rural Kansas or perhaps Nebraska?

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  5. Enjoyed this one. Wish I'd grown up with you and your friends at that old school. Our restroom was right across the hall from the offices. Secretaries watched you go in and come out. No fun.

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  6. I hope this blog is well backed-up. Without revealing too much, let me say that I am attuned to good writing. If a person submitted the "Old Junior High" story to me I would first have to chew him out for writing about a taboo topic and putting both me and him in an awkward position. Then I would congratulate him on a really beautiful piece of work. The story is a fine piece of literature and needs to be preserved if only for this limited audience of a few grateful readers.

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    1. Thanks for your candid remarks, I take them as a compliment to our writer and essentially out content. Which is generally well focused on Taboo topics. Were telling what we would not talk about at the water cooler in the office. Sometimes those sensitive moments from the past stay hidden in the corners of our mind.
      As best I can tell this author has never submitted a story here before and he has reminded completely quiet since it was published. I feel he said what he needed to about the emotive visit to his past. Perhaps he is content with the release of those pent up memories. I invite all of you to visit those stories that have touched you in silence. If you can assemble any account, please share it with us.

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  7. In the town where I grew up, the old-old high school was now the "seventh grade building", and it has long been torn down. The old-high school was then the "eighth grade building". That building still stands, but about 20 years ago was sold and is now a private Christian school. I presume the boy's locker room and showers still exist, just like they did when I was an 8th grader there, 47 years ago. I never did in there what this writer did in his jr. high boy's room, but it was a place where I saw a lot of scenery that led to many exciting young wanks once I got home after school.

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    1. Your comment on 12/23 at 8:41 PM took my mind in an odd direction: How much do you want to bet that boys at a "private Christian school" need sexual relief just as much as boys in public school?

      Being good church kids is certainly a commendable thing, but when the moment of private need arises, boys are boys. Even the nicest and most holy of young dudes have to regularly take their situation in hand.

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