‘She spoke to me last Saturday. So I’m not just a hopeless case, like my mother always says. I don’t have to die all alone and unshaven in some sordid garret. My mother’s just nuts. She’s always been trying her best to catch me jerking off, I swear. She probably wants to find me doing something “sinful”, then she’ll have a good excuse to bite my head off. In her bizarre mind masturbation is still a sin of the flesh.
Although my generation is being brought up by liberal parents, I’m the product of the last of the god-fearing folks. What would Freud think? Who cares? His theories are just as obsolete as the bible. I can’t get my mother to understand that self-abuse is a completely healthy and normal thing for a young man like me. It’s already hard to discuss because of the embarrassment involved – but my weird mother doesn’t even want to hear about it.
Perhaps a bit of her craziness has been passed on to me – who can tell? For me masturbation has become a kind of feat. How often can I do it without getting caught? Without actually saying so I’m challenging my mother. Again, what would Freud think? But masturbating in secret is pretty difficult when your mother’s a housewife and practically always at home.
Recently I performed my greatest feat. My mother had nipped out to the supermarket, so I had the place completely to myself. I’d set myself the task of entering every room in the house stark naked in the short time she was away, without being seen by the neighbours across the road or people that happened to pass by. It wasn’t easy. Near the windows there was no option but to crawl over the floor. The contact between my naked skin and the carpet gave me a slit-second boner (did I just say “slit-second” instead of “split-second”? It must be Freud – I can’t get the guy out of my system).
By now I’ve developed an exceptional alertness. Not a sound escapes me.
But however exciting this little game was, nothing can beat Saturday morning. That’s the day I go swimming. I spend an hour doing lengths. And the woman in the deep-red bathing suit is always there. A red one-piece bathing suit. All very proper. Not the least bit sexy, but it’s still a bathing suit – every curve is clearly visible. She’s older than me, easily twice my age. In her thirties, I’d say. But that doesn’t matter. When she turns at the end of the pool for the next length and her bum sticks up, I have to keep my mind on what I’m doing, otherwise I’d drown. Her bum’s the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.
She always gets out of the pool a bit earlier than me, which I don’t mind at all, for then I can spend more time watching her from the water while she showers herself off.
She’s the high point of my week. If I could have a go at her, I’d wouldn’t even know where to start.
One of my secret pleasures on the Saturday evening, when I’m sitting on the sofa watching some film with my mother, is to lick at my arm as unobtrusively as possible. Then the smell of the chlorine from the pool re-emerges from the pores of my skin. And then I often wonder how she would smell. I stop concentrating on the film, and if I close my eyes all I can see is a red bathing suit.
A few weeks ago there was an incident at the pool, which unfortunately I missed – otherwise I could have played the hero, and who knows what that might have led to. A man, some Chinese guy, had groped her in the corridor to the changing cubicles. I heard her telling the woman at the counter. I don’t know how they finally dealt with it. But I do know exactly which man she meant. That time there was only one Asian at the pool. I remember thinking “Must be a tourist – what is he doing here at this boring old pool?”
Once I’ve finished swimming, I can hardly control myself. And once I’m in the changing cubicle I can’t keep my hands off myself. I know she’s in the next cubicle. She can hear me if she wants to. When I’ve almost reached my climax, she climbs up onto the seat and looks over the top into my cubicle. I know she’s watching me and touching herself, but I won’t look up. I’m waiting for her to give me a taste of her middle finger. As soon as I’ve squirted my cum onto the wall the fantasy inevitably gives way to embarrassment.
I got dressed and, still aroused, I left the cubicle – and almost bumped right into her. It was a terrific shock, but she said “I can see you’ve had a good hard swim. Those red cheeks suit you. Always a good feeling, right?”
I turned even redder, if that’s possible, and didn’t know what to say, but that doesn’t matter – what matters is that she spoke to me. I’ll show you what I’m made of, and that I won’t run off at the first hint of trouble, the way my dad did.’