![]() ![]() My hormones were a freight train, and I tried to keep up. Robert Louis Stevenson will forever be an erotic novelist in my mind. There are 34 chapters in that book and, having made that deal, I breezed through them over the course of a few blissed out days. Dredging through the book “Treasure Island” in seventh grade, I told myself I was allowed to masturbate to orgasm at the end of each chapter so I could finish by the due date. H2O had stolen my heart.Īfter that, sex was always on my mind. No longer would I be crushed out on Eddie Vedder or Chris Cornell. ![]() I didn’t know what I stumbled upon, only that it felt scary and wrong, but I tried not to care. Nothing in my hush-hush Catholic upbringing and innocent friend circle had prepared me for this earthshaking experience, equal parts pleasure and shame. I was in the bathtub, helpless to a steady stream of warm water cascading down my lady parts, while the most intoxicating buildup brought me to my first orgasm. The first time I masturbated I was 12 years old. ![]()
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