The Perils of Masturbation

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Carry On Camping

Apart from those two Summer holidays, the only other times I was able to go away was at Scout camp for a week in the Summer Holidays. I have already related an experience at one of these camps when I was fifteen. I can't remember when the first time I went away was. We were not allowed to stay at camp overnight before the age of about 11 anyway so if it was very far, I probably wouldn't have gone but for the first couple of  Camps I attended, Luke was there as well.

The only problem was with money so tight, my Father wouldn't pay unless we could afford it ourselves with what money we had saved. That was fine for Luke as he had a paper round in the mornings. I didn't get one myself until I was thirteen. Even on this meagre sum, my Father insisted that some of the money, a third, went towards the housekeeping. As I recall that meant about a pound a week was lost.

In order for me to go to camp one year, which I was desperate to do, I had to get some money together. I resorted to lies and deception for which I still feel guilty.

 Bob-A-Job week, cleaning shoes!

It was the usual thing for Scouts to do jobs for money in the 70's. They would call this 'Bob-A-Job' week in which the money paid for the service would be collected by the troop and given to charity.

One year, although it was not the set week, I went out in my uniform knocking on doors and asking if they had any jobs that needed doing. My plan was to keep the money that I had earned and put it towards the cost of the summer camp, which was wicked of me.

All went well, until I unfortunately got an elderly man who it seemed, was wise to exactly when the allotted week would be and asked some awkward questions about why I was doing it now. My quick thinking saved me as I told him that I would be unable to do the actual week as I was on holiday so I was doing my share now. I am not sure if he was convinced as he handed me the fork to dig his garden and I kept seeing him eyeing me suspiciously from his kitchen window. However, when the job was done, which took a couple of hours, he duly paid the money and offered to show me his collection of football programmes!

This was another occasion, when I lay awake wondering if he had contacted my Troop to confirm my story and if I would be taken to task the following Wednesday when I got to Scouts.

My Father hated a thieving and lying and several times I had been punished for doing both. I am sure he couldn't really tell if I was lying to him or not as he would always disbelieve me even when I was telling the truth! Perhaps that was just his excuse to give me a whipping anyway?

 I was not a good liar, my Father always knew.

When the camp week came, I would organise all my kit into an orange rucksack. There was no light weight camping in those days. My rolled up brown sleeping bag weighed a ton and I would go plodding off down the road in my uniform with my patterned socks and sandals on my feet.

The Scout hut, tents, camping gear and boys all had a very distinctive smell. I am not sure what it was but if I smell it now, it takes me right back to those times.

It may have been the canvas or just the unwashed youth themselves but once smelt, it is never forgotten, a kind of musty smell.

Usually, the tents we had were of varying sizes sleeping two or four scouts. The leaders in their own tents. At my very first camp, I shared with my Brother but after that, it could be anyone although you would try to get in with your friends.

Sometimes we would be split up by the Leaders in order to avoid too much larking about.

Once I remember being in a tent with three other lads, one of whom was a boy called Andrew. We had the usual laughs and conversations that lads do when freed from the restraints of the Family well into the night. We must have made so much noise that one of the Leaders, Mr Shirfield, angrily burst into our tent and told Andrew to get his stuff as he would be spending the night with him. The rest of us were told to get to sleep without another sound or else which we did. Andrew had apparently been singled out because it was his voice that Mr Shirfield could hear above all others. He came back the following morning having spent the night on the floor next to Mr Shirfield's camp bed not daring to even breath to heavily!

 The best camp site we went to was in the New Forest which had purpose built toilets and showers so at least you could keep yourself clean and showering was encouraged in my Baptist run troop as 'cleanliness is next to Godliness' we were told.

The showers were, however invariably cold and not very inviting standing on wet concrete trying to dry yourself.

There were many different troops at that particular campsite which was very large and probably full to capacity on the two occasions I was there.

There were also Sea Scouts and Air Cadets as I recall and on Sunday morning the whole camp would get together for an open air Church service in the centre of the camp around the flag pole. The sound of a couple of hundred boys all trying to sing a hymn, all out of time and mostly out of tune was not pleasing. One of the attending leaders, probably a Minister of some denomination would conduct the service which would have a message of goodwill and friendship mixed in somewhere.

Scouts just wanna  have fun.

We did feel like we were one unit as well. If ever I have felt the presecence of God or whatever God means, it was probably one of those Sunday mornings at camp and not in a drafty church pew where I spent most of my Sunday mornings.

However,all we wanted to do as boys was to get it over with and get on with that days planned activities. More often than not these would be 'home grown' such a s nature rambles, night hikes and building camps as there was a lot of acreage surrounding the campsite in the New Forest and of course much of the woods to explore. Occasionally we would be treated to something really exciting such as canoeing.

The most frightening activity for me was the 'Hare and Hounds' a kind of paper chase where one lad would have to run off with some minutes in advance and leaving some sort of clue, usually in the form of paper or rice to indicate his trail.

The other Scouts would chase after, the 'Hounds' as they were known and try to catch up with the lead boy. I say this was frightening for me because once I was chosen as the Hare which seemed like a good idea at the time, but I soon realised that keeping ahead was not as easy as it seemed. Having recently read 'Lord of the Flies' at school all I could picture was the pig hunt leading to the death of one of the boys and soon I was beginning to panic and the fear adrenalin was rushing through my body! To make matters worse, I tripped and fell, tearing the knee out of my Scout uniform trousers and badly scraping myself. That made me even slower and when I arrived back at the camp, I practically collapsed in front of Mr Shirfield like a gibbering wreck, hotly followed by the rest of my troop.

To cap it all my Father was not pleased at me wrecking my trousers which had to be darned as a new pair could not be afforded, but I paid in full for that! Even now I have a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach if I see a man hunt of the television and I can't watch the film version of 'Lord of the Flies'!

 However, the best time of all was when we had our free time just to go off and do whatever we wanted, within reason, for an hour or two. We were free from the restrictions of home and for me at least, I didn't have to ask permission before heading off into the woods.

Freetime!

At a later camp when I was fifteen, I shared at tent with Andrew alone and it has to be said, he was responsible for leading me astray and teaching me bad habits during that week.

He had brought with him some 'nude' playing cards which was somewhat risky. He would go through the whole pack telling me about which girls he fancied and ranking them in order of preference, size of tits etc. and then I would do my comparison on who I fancied and why, not unlike 'Top Trumps' with marks out of ten.

Andrew swore he had had a hand job from a girl at school but as he was a bit of a bragger, I didn't believe him. However his stories about spying on his step sister whilst she was in the shower were more likely knowing him. All these things used to fuel my bate and give me lusty thoughts of a girl I had never met, soaping herself. The kind of illicit thoughts my Father was trying to prevent..

Spying on Sister in the shower.









He was the one that also told me how to masturbate without detection in bed.

That old phrase 'hands off cocks and n with socks' has never seemed more apt when he revealed to me that when he felt like a wank, he would put a sock over his dick and continue to masturbate, eventually ejaculating inside it. The job done, there would be no mess on the bedsheets and the sock could easily be put out to wash with the semen securely inside. There was no worry about being found out..

Of course I put this to good use at home and found it worked very well provided it was me that took the washing to the laundrette as the socks tended to go hard with the semen when dried out and I am sure my Father would have been wise to it.

 Hands off cocks and on with socks!

He was responsible for a lot of young squaddies who were probably all as horny as me. If he was aware of this trick, and Army Sergeants usually are wise to a thing or two, I am sure he would have caught me out.

I remember Andrew having a wank in his sleeping bag one night when he thought I was asleep, presumably with sock in place. We all wore pyjamas when camping in those days! The unmistakable sound of gentle rubbing and breathing getting slightly heavier cannot be mistaken. I have done it myself in a hostel dormitory full of other  lads. You are desperate for a wank but are just as desperate not to be heard for the sake of embarrassing yourself!

I wasn't going to have a wank in front of Andrew. He was far too straight to suggest mutual masturbation and so I resorted to the toilet block and as I have already told, I was caught out by one of the scout leaders.

He also told me he could make himself cum just by squeezing his dick between his legs and this was a trick he used when he was at school in a boring lesson. I had my doubts. Not about the trick, but about doing it at school as I couldn't imagine his cum filled underpants soaking through to his trousers would go un-noticed for long. This was how he assured me, he had had his hand job. It was under the desk from a girl in his class who sat next to him. I can't see that he would get away with cumming all over his shoes without being noticed either. What a liar he was.

Nylon Pyjamas, great for life saving!

Talking of pyjamas, we would sometimes get taken to the swimming pool on a Wednesday night and one of our badges involved life saving techniques. For this you needed your pyjamas which acted as clothing and you had to take them off whilst in the water. Then, try and fill  them with air and tie up the  leg ends to use as a floatation device. Nylon pyjamas were the best for this sort of thing as they were practically dry by the time you got home, so I was  ahead of the rest in that respect, especially as I probably had to wear them that night.

That was to be my last Scout camp. By the following Autumn I would be sixteen and my Father had told me I was to spend the Summer working to pay my way before I was old enough to go into the army. I had already worked extremely hard to pass my examinations and was looking forward to a little break but it was not to be whilst I was living under his roof.

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

I sometimes think when I am particularly depressed that the incident of December 1976 and the severe thrashings my Father used to give me were all due to my sexual activities.

My punishments were frequent when I was in my teens.



I know my Father was punishing me for wrong doing, although sometimes it was in no way justified, what I mean is some sort of divine punishment. If God was looking down on me, was he trying to get his message across by showing me that I would come to physical pain, a hell on earth, if I didn't stop my personal self abuse?

It is these sort of thought that can lead me onto a downward spiral and I start to think that it may be to late to absolve myself.
Some time has passed now since I told my secret and the world has not ended. I feel better for getting it off my chest!

If I try and think of a time when I was happy during my childhood, it would certainly be when I was away from my Father, at Scout camp. It may have only been for a week in the Summer but it gave me a sense of freedom. A weight was definitely lifted from my shoulders during those times.

I was happy in the scouts.






We had few holidays when I was a child. I can recall going away twice.

The first time was before my Mother passed away. My Father had rented a static caravan in Devon near Oakhampton. This was in about 1967.

It was very basic with no running water and was situated in a meadow behind a large old Farmhouse with the pig sty at one end and trees and fields at the other.

I was about six at the time and my Brother and I would roam the fields and woods exploring together. Occasional family trips to the beach at Bude would occur and if lucky we would have an Ice cream.

I have mixed memories of that that holiday, some good ones because of the happy time I spent with my Brother, of sunny beaches and salt water. My Mother was still well as far as I could remember but it was to be our last holiday as a family.

I have a distinct memory of being chased around the field by my Father because I had angered him over something. Being small, he easily caught me and I was dragged screaming back to the caravan for punishment. I also remember standing outside a supermarket and a man came out and asked me, politely, not to lean against the glass window. As soon as he was gone, I received a swift back hander from my Father which took me by surprise and knocked me to the floor, presumably because he had been embarrassed in front of the store manager.

Even in those days I would masturbate and I would go off alone and swing in a gate or other convenient post, rubbing my groin up against the wood for pleasure.

Once, my Brother coming across me suddenly asked me what I was doing and I embarrassedly told him I was just 'swinging'. A few days later I found him doing exactly the same thing in the same spot. Whether it worked for him of not I don't know, he didn't tell me for sure, but I suspect he knew there was something more to my 'swinging'.

Aside from my Scout camps, which I was not allowed to go to every year for lack of funds, that was our last Holiday, until I was in my mid teens.

My Father had decided that he wanted to go away for a week. My Brother by that time was in the Navy and as there was no way I would be left alone at home, I had to go with him, much to my reluctance as we were not getting on at all by this stage.

Surprisingly, he left me to my own devices for the whole week whilst he did his thing. Again, he had hired a caravan for the week near Tintagel in Cornwall. This one was on an actual campsite of about fifty static vans and there was a shop and social club along with toilet and shower blocks.

The only rules were I had to be in bed for ten o clock at night and I was not to get into any trouble. However, trouble has seemed to follow me throughout my life whatever I do!

My Father even gave me some money to buy some food and I lived for the week on Cornish pasties and orangeade with a box of rice crispies for breakfast.

My Father's aim for that week was to chat up as many women as he could and spend his evenings with them in the social club. I don't know if he ever got his leg over, hopefully not as he was very strict about matters like sex before marriage and was always trying to catch me out for masturbating, so it would have made him something of a hypocrite!

I spent most of my time walking into Tintagel or exploring the beach and the cliffs

It was on one of my rambles that I found a small cave in a secluded cove. There at the back was the first condom I had ever seen, used of course, but I picked it up and examined it closely. The thought of some young couple coming there specifically to have sex was a big turn on and I ended up having a wank alone there several times that week.

I went back to the cave almost every day and sometimes later in the evening to see if I could catch anyone at it.

One time the cave was filled with some lads, older than me having a lark. I was very wary of groups of youths in those days, not having a great deal of self confidence as I was regularly bullied at school and something of a loner, so I crept away silently. They emerged from the cave as I was walking back up the path and on seeing me, started calling. I don’t know if they wanted me to come back or if they were jeering at me. I must have looked very un-cool in my nylon shirt, shorts and sandals anyway. I just looked back and didn't respond. Fortunately they didn't follow me.

The campsite toilets were clean enough, but that didn't stop the walls being written on with lewd comments  and usually drawings of some large penis or female genitalia. There would be suggestions of wanting to meet at a a certain time for sex and whole paragraphs of dirty stories. Some of this was quite a turn on for me and I would lock the cubicle door and stand reading then with my penis in my hand, wanking.

Most of this graffitti was cleaned away soon after it was written, but one afternoon I visited the toilets and walked into a cubicle where someone had had a wank and cum all over the toilet seat and floor. I quickly relieved myself and on leaving the cubicle, practically bumped into the man who was coming in to clean. As I was walking back up the roadway, I looked back to see him standing in the doorway scowling at me. I assume he thought it had been me that had made such a mess, but it wasn't. I just got the blame!

This kind of toilet literature has been a fascination for me ever since and as I have spent quite a lot of time hanging around public toilets. I have had plenty of opportunity to read it. I have even added to it sometimes with suggestions of my own and it has been a great source of stimulus for me as well.

That week I met a girl on the beach one day, her name was Natalie and we got chatting about things. She was on holiday with her parents and younger sister and staying in the same campsite. We spent sometime chatting about this and that under the watchful gaze of her Father as she was about the same age as me and had a very developed chest as I recall!

We became friends for a few days and I even took her to see the cave I had found where she kissed me full on the mouth which was quite a surprise!

She made no judgements about my clothes or hair and when I told her about the regimes I was living under with my Father, she was even sympathetic and understanding.

I thought she may be up for it, especially as she told me I was to come to her caravan in the evening as her Parents would be going to the social club and leaving her and her sister in to go to bed by themselves.

I still had a couple of hours before I was supposed to be in bed as It was only eight o clock when I made my over to her caravan.

She said her sister was in bed and we sat down and chatted for a bit, keeping quiet so as not to disturb the sleeper. She had a bottle of lemonade into which she had tipped some of her Father’s whiskey and topped his bottle up with some water so he wouldn’t notice.

Even now I am never sure how someone who drinks whiskey cannot notice when it has been watered down!

This was not the best combination of drinks to be sure, but it was alcohol and we didn’t care!

After lots of chatting she got back into kissing me and I spent a lot of time feeling under her top. This snogging went on for some time and developed further into some heavy petting. The whole thing came to a head when her little sister appeared on the scene and wanted to know what we were doing. She insisted Natalie was not allowed to have boys in the caravan and that if she didn't get rid of me straight away, she would tell her Dad.

Of course Natalie protested and tried to get her to go back to bed but she was having none of it. When little sis also saw we were drinking alcohol she went into a right strop and Natalie suggested I leave as she was making so much noise, it would surely get someone who was passing to knock on the door.

I left with a boner straining to get out of my trousers and fearing the Natalie's Dad would surely be round as soon as he was told of the situation. After all he had seen me at the beach for the last couple of days, so I would be the main culprit.

As I lay in bed I could think of nothing else but that knock at the door, but it never came, so whether she managed to clam her sister, I never found out as I spent the next day avoiding the beach and Natalie and the following day was Saturday and my Father and I went home. I never saw her again but have often wondered what my first time with her would have been like.