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Mark M Lichterman

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BECOMING 16: Gooey Stuff
By Mark M Lichterman
Posted: Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Last edited: Wednesday, September 05, 2012
This short story is rated "PG13" by the Author.

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Careful, masturbation scene here.

He looked at it, and it looked at him, and Mitchell Lipenskyís auxiliary brain, his newly developed brain, the brain between his thighs said, Go on! Do it! It ainít gonna hurt nothiní if you do it! Well, he rationalized, maybe that gooey stuff was just a one-time, kindía freaky thing, aní, he thought hopefully, it wonít happen again. Besides, everythingís workiní okay, ainít it? Besides, how would he know if it was broken if he didnít try it out?

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Starting at the window, working his way to the door, Mitchell sampled from each can, tube and bottle, and when he finished he went back to one of the three bottles of Teel and, careful not to touch it there, shook a few drops of the thick, red fluid directly onto his tongue.

Yup! Without a doubt, the cinnamony taste of Teel was his favorite.

Mitchell Lipensky’s sweet tooth satisfied, going back to bed, he promptly fell asleep.


Evansville, Wisconsin

January 19, 1944, to June 14, 1944

The Toothpaste Thief

His thoughts troubled and confused him. Why then, after all that time, why then did he continually think of Salvatore and Louise Ann and try to bring each minute detail of those few moments of looking through their bedroom window into such a mentally-sharp focus? Also, and even more disturbing, now his penis seemed to have a mind of its own, and now, for no apparent reason, even if he did not have to urinate, he might have an erection at any time, even, embarrassingly, in class.


Three days earlier he knew nothing of masturbation. Though no one had told him “You’ll go blind!” That, “Thou shalt not cast thy seed upon the ground.” Or even that “You’ll grow hair on the palm of your hand,” Mitchell somehow felt that “jacking-off” was wrong.

Three days earlier, when he watched Skorupski masturbate he’d thought the older boy looked ridiculous.

Yet, seventy-two hours since his first, unknown, nocturnal emission…


 After two nights of fighting the inevitable, an hour after taps, Mitchell could no longer restrain himself and he allowed his mind to go to where his mind wanted to go, and it wanted to go to Louise Ann’s breasts, and he allowed his hand to go where his hand wanted to go and it wanted to go to his engorged penis and, though he had no idea of what the outcome might be, he felt a compulsion to do what he seemed compelled to do…


Holding himself, he thought about Louise Ann’s breasts—Something dirty?—and moved his hand, and the more he moved his hand the more he was compelled to move it because the approaching juggernaut of heretofore unknown sensations registered in his brain as something that simply must reach its conclusion….


“Mmmm!” The involuntary moan broke simultaneously with the first spasm and Mitchell bit his lip in order to keep from being heard as the incredibly warm, sweet sensations started from between his rectum and testicles and fanned their way upward as, one after the other, the chain of penile contractions pounded deliciously throughout his body.


Catching his breath, the boy’s mind could not comprehend the impossibly sweet miracle that he’d brought onto himself, by his own hand: his first conscious orgasm…


But as the erotic heat drained his psyche, Uh, oh! Mitchell suddenly realized the prolonged sensation was a highly intensified feeling of the very first moment of relief when the pressure is released in a very, very full bladder after holding off urinating for a very, very long time.


Bolting from his bed, rushing to the bathroom, Mitchell, once again felt as though he’d urinated, but standing in front of the urinal he discovered that his pajamas were, as before, perfectly dry.


Left with a drained feeling and a slight ache in his testicles, back in bed, lying with his hands crossed behind his head staring at the muted ceiling, That’s what it was! He thought he knew what had awoken him three nights earlier. Maybe I didn’t dream I pee’d in bed. Maybe I did “that” in my sleep and just thought I’d pee’d in bed… Well, okay, he thought, I did it once, maybe two times. Also left with an illogical feeling of guilt, But I ain’t gonna do it again, he promised himself, ever!


“Ever” lasted until two nights later.

By then, rather sure that he would not urinate, still, though, having the feeling that, Maybe I might, because at the time of orgasm, to him, it felt as though he had urinated, and not wanting to take the chance, and also, truly not wanting to admit to himself that the reason he was getting out of bed and going to the bathroom, the real reason—only, though, after he was sure that everyone else was asleep—was to do it, Mitchell told himself that he was hungry and the reason he was going to the bathroom was to nosh’ on toothpaste, which he did, before, then after he went into the last of the four stalls, closed the door, dropped his pajama bottoms, sat on the toilet and thought of Louise Ann.


Mitchell, of course, still hadn’t the slightest idea, and couldn’t even begin to imagine, what a girl looks like there, so, as he had before, thought of what he did see and put himself in the place of Salvatore Diamond.

He enjoyed seeing his penis stir, jerk upward and, swelled to a rock-hard four and a half inches, finally stand straight up in his lap, and he was always amazed by the fact that he was able to perform this miraculous feat simply by thinking about “something dirty.” He would then take himself in hand and pump. Mitchell didn’t like the term jack-off and the word masturbation was unknown to him so he referred to it as pumping.


Well into his third week of toothpaste raids and pumping, in anticipation of his approaching orgasm, spreading his thighs, Mitchell arched his pelvis upward, closed his eyes tightly and…


This time the contractions were stronger than usual and the sweet, pulsing phenomenon suddenly gave way to a sharp pain and, looking downward, Mitchell became frightened because, “Oh, my God!” stuff was squirting out of his boner.


Pain and fear momentarily overcome by absolute amazement, he watched the trajectory of the stuff as seven bursts of creamy semen arched into the air and splattered onto the toilet door and his thighs and, “Oh, my God,” he said aloud for the second time, adding, “I’ve broken something!” Thinking, I gotta tell someone! Tearing a wad of toilet paper off the roll, he wiped his thighs and the door, pulled his pajamas up, rushed out of the bathroom and down the hall to Miss Stoldig’s room, where, fist poised, about to pound on her door, stopping, What am I going to tell her? Uh, that I was sittin’ on the toilet pumpin’ myself when all of a sudden this gooey white stuff came shootin’ ou’a my boner an’ shot all over the toilet door? His arm dropped. It don’t hurt no more, so I think that maybe I’d better just go back to bed an’ see how I feel in the morning. An’ God, he thought emphatically, if it’s okay then I really promise that I ain’t never gonna do it again!


The next morning he had a dull ache in his testicles, but by the time the boys lined up to march to the mess hall for breakfast even that was gone, so he’d decided that, Maybe I won’t say nothin to no one ’bout breakin’ somethin’ there, and, Okay, God, thanks for not makin’ me sick there, an’ I promise I ain’t gonna do it again… not ever, never!


On the third night of his solemn resolution, awaking with an erection, No I ain’t gonna do it, he vowed, but even as he thought this, Okay—his disobedient hand taking hold of his penis—so I’ll just hold it for a couple’a seconds. Just holdin’ it can’t hurt nothin’, he asked God, can it?


Gosh, he thought a few seconds later, I’m sooo hungry! As on those other nights, just in case he should run into one of the other boys, tucking his boner between his thighs, getting out of bed with his thighs held tightly together, walking somewhat like a penguin, Mitchell went into the bathroom, sampled from the shelf, then, looking longingly at the end stall, Maybe I ought’a try to poop. He went into the stall, closed and locked the door, dropped his pajamas, sat on the toilet, and… There it was!


He looked at it, and it looked at him, and Mitchell Lipensky’s auxiliary brain, his newly developed brain, the brain between his thighs said, Go on! Do it! It ain’t gonna hurt nothin’ if you do it! Well, he rationalized, maybe that gooey stuff was just a one-time, kind’a freaky thing, an’, he thought hopefully, it won’t happen again. Besides, everything’s workin’ okay, ain’t it? Besides, how would he know if it was broken if he didn’t try it out?


So, taking hold, softly at first, lightly at first… then, as though in a frenzy, his hand pistoned, till…

Oh, God!


The good pain was back, the Oh, God! so sweet, ecstatic pain was back, but…


It did happen again!


The ejaculation, but without the bad pain this time and, due to the way he was sitting, the semen shot straight into the air and fell, splattering, in a dozen or more heavy drops onto his thighs.


Sitting back, Mitchell looked at the wet spots and, Maybe, he thought, wishing there was someone, anyone, he could speak to about this, maybe this is somethin’ I’m just goin’ through. Remembering something that Skorupski had said,—Pee in a girl—the wisp of a thought formulated in his brain, his upper brain, And maybe, he further thought, this squirtin’ stuff is somethin’ that’s supposed to happen. But, as so often happens with the wisp of a thought, the wisp scattered to the wind because…


Thinking he saw something, lowering his head, looking closely, “I can’t believe it,” he said aloud, because there, in the fold of flesh between his pelvis and penis, were the tendrils of three barely-seen, black hairs.


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Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado 10/27/2010
Great story, well done, Mark!

(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in Texas, Karen Lynn. :D
Reviewed by Annabel Sheila 10/27/2010
I have to admit the title of this excerpt certainly allows the reader the opportunity to turn and run if you're shall we say "sensitive" about such things.....yet again, this story reads like a peek into a little boy's diary, Mark. giggle....hmmm!

Your friend,

Books by
Mark M Lichterman

For Better or Worse

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The Climbing Boy

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