It had been a long week before Spring Break. I don't remember the exact circumstances, but all of sixth grade was bad for me. In a nutshell, my best friend was dating a girl in that sixth grade way and tried having sex with her as part of his initation to a gang called the "Little Blue Devils," which, as far as I could tell, existed in my hometown only in his imagination. When caught, he lied, saying that I had threatened to hurt him if he didn't. It didn't take long for the teachers and police to see past his lies, but it still meant for a few days that weren't fun.
And so that first Friday night of Spring Break, cut off from my best friend, my parents allowed me to stay up as late as I wanted, watching tv and eating junk food. I was in sixth grade, and this seemed like a real treat. I checked out a movie from Blockbuster, which I remember starting but not liking.
We had basic cable at the time, so there wasn't much on tv, and late night television was even less geared towards 12 year olds than it is now. I was still young enough to think that Leno was funny, and Conan was still in his awkward early years. I went through late-night reruns of Wings and other sitcoms and didn't enjoy them, and fiddling through channels, nothing really caught my eye. I was still wired from the soda and chips I was devouring, and wasn't ready to go to bed, but was getting kind of bored.
The American tryouts for the mens 200 m run were being rerun on some cable network, presumably ESPN. Muscular yet thin guys in singlets, and as they ran, their bulges bobbed, with visible penis lines. I don't think I fully knew why yet, but I was transfixed, and my right hand slipped beneath the blanket I was using.
I'd climbed the tree in our backyard a few times and ground my hips into the wood, not really understanding what I was doing but enjoying it nevertheless, but this was something different. This was my hand doing the work, and this was inspired by something, by the long legs and compact bulges, the closeups of sweaty brows and of men stretching. I wrapped myself in the throw blankets, worried that someone would find me, but no was awake.
I don't remember if I actually orgasmed or not, though I'm pretty sure I didn't actually grab hold of my cock, only rubbed it with my open palm. I was twelve at the time. But that was my first time, or at least the first that I can remember.
And if practice makes perfect, well, I'd be winning gold medals by now.
