Quotes
Chapter One
Dennis sat by the window of his second floor bedroom watching his mother by the pool. His phone was in one hand, recording
Dennis sat by the window of his second floor bedroom watching his mother by the pool. His phone was in one hand, recording
For a long time Dale thought there was something wrong with him. He thought about girls a lot when he was a kid. And then, no sooner did he hit puberty than he began to masturbate. His problem was his imagination. It was vast, and got him into all kinds of trouble. But what it never failed to deliver was an endless permutation of sexy situations and beautiful vixens sprung fresh from his fantasies, his mother's and later sister's lingerie catalogues, actresses, billboard models, classmates.
For a long time he thought there was something wrong with him. He masturbated a lot for a kid but slowly (painfully slowly), as he entered his teenage years and started working jobs and driving cars and dating girls, his masturbatory proclivities dimmed some. But then, of course, once he'd started working jobs and driving cars, the dating became much more involved. And the explosiveness of his sexual fantasies collided with his new, dripping reality.
He liked to imagine that it was simply the hormones in the turbulent air of his high school days that made the sex so glorious in the back of his car (or her father's bed, or the neighborhood pool, or broom closet). Surely women like that didn't exist anymore at his age. But he often looked back fondly on those later years of high school, and then college, despite his fear, that those women were the sultry hellcats he should have married.
What this boils down to is that Dale had sex on the brain at a near perpetual clip from the time he was about eleven onward. There was the rub, if you'll excuse the phrase. When the urge came over him and boiled in his stomach, his chest hot, his fingers tingling and his cock swallowing all the blood in his brain, he just couldn't think of anything else.
When Dale met his wife he thought she was the same. Or, rather, he wanted to believe she was the same, in their hurried romance as the girl of his best friend. His guilt over their stolen trysts fueled the fire of his passion for more time, more fun, more daring feats of affairs of the heart and whatnot. But many years later when they were married and Mary started putting on weight with their sex life secluded to a pleasant but all too comfortable once a week, Dale realized - too late - that his life had acquired stability at the cost of his libido. Not that his libido went anywhere, mind you.
For the first months of the later years of their marriage he was catching himself masturbating at every spare moment. At long last, in his late twenties, he finally decided to quit jerking off altogether. It wasn't easy. A
For a long time he thought there was something wrong with him. He masturbated a lot for a kid but slowly (painfully slowly), as he entered his teenage years and started working jobs and driving cars and dating girls, his masturbatory proclivities dimmed some. But then, of course, once he'd started working jobs and driving cars, the dating became much more involved. And the explosiveness of his sexual fantasies collided with his new, dripping reality.
He liked to imagine that it was simply the hormones in the turbulent air of his high school days that made the sex so glorious in the back of his car (or her father's bed, or the neighborhood pool, or broom closet). Surely women like that didn't exist anymore at his age. But he often looked back fondly on those later years of high school, and then college, despite his fear, that those women were the sultry hellcats he should have married.
What this boils down to is that Dale had sex on the brain at a near perpetual clip from the time he was about eleven onward. There was the rub, if you'll excuse the phrase. When the urge came over him and boiled in his stomach, his chest hot, his fingers tingling and his cock swallowing all the blood in his brain, he just couldn't think of anything else.
When Dale met his wife he thought she was the same. Or, rather, he wanted to believe she was the same, in their hurried romance as the girl of his best friend. His guilt over their stolen trysts fueled the fire of his passion for more time, more fun, more daring feats of affairs of the heart and whatnot. But many years later when they were married and Mary started putting on weight with their sex life secluded to a pleasant but all too comfortable once a week, Dale realized - too late - that his life had acquired stability at the cost of his libido. Not that his libido went anywhere, mind you.
For the first months of the later years of their marriage he was catching himself masturbating at every spare moment. At long last, in his late twenties, he finally decided to quit jerking off altogether. It wasn't easy. A
week or two would go by without incident and then all of a sudden, Mary out at the gym (infrequently) or shopping, he'd happen upon a scintillating advertisement on the internet or think of his dashing young secretary, Margaret, who was all of twenty-years-old and didn't seem to know how to buy a bra that fit her. And he'd be at it again.
Things went on this way for a long time. But one year, finally, his dick really exhausted of options, Dale managed to stop touching himself for two months. It was worse than quitting coffee and cigarettes. He still fantasized daily but finally, somehow, with so much progress behind him, he resigned himself to a more controlled existence.
Control. That was the problem. Dale yearned for the days of his youth that popped with the erotic antithesis of control. What he learned how to do with the brash, sexy (no matter how beautiful or ungainly) girls he'd known in the past was useless to him. Maybe he'd never been that upstart Lothario. He started off his marriage resentful of that. But as the years went by and Mary and he began to raise children he understood that it wasn't her fault. Mary didn't have his sex drive. Maybe no one else did. Maybe there had been something wrong with him all along. But he had a job, an office, a beautiful house and a beautiful family, three kids and a dog. And he hardly ever mastur
Things went on this way for a long time. But one year, finally, his dick really exhausted of options, Dale managed to stop touching himself for two months. It was worse than quitting coffee and cigarettes. He still fantasized daily but finally, somehow, with so much progress behind him, he resigned himself to a more controlled existence.
Control. That was the problem. Dale yearned for the days of his youth that popped with the erotic antithesis of control. What he learned how to do with the brash, sexy (no matter how beautiful or ungainly) girls he'd known in the past was useless to him. Maybe he'd never been that upstart Lothario. He started off his marriage resentful of that. But as the years went by and Mary and he began to raise children he understood that it wasn't her fault. Mary didn't have his sex drive. Maybe no one else did. Maybe there had been something wrong with him all along. But he had a job, an office, a beautiful house and a beautiful family, three kids and a dog. And he hardly ever mastur
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