Every young man dreams of finding an older woman to teach him about sex. From the time a young man enters puberty, all he can think about is sex, and so it was with me. When I was young, I felt like a blind man driving a bus. So much energy, so much drive, yet with NO idea what I was doing. As the girls in school developed from silly lumps of clay into desirable sex goddesses, it left me with the front of my pants bulging at the most inconvenient of times.
In class, my body seemed to know when it was my turn to stand and read aloud and, of course, that would be the moment for 'Mr. Winky' to suddenly get as hard as a tent pole. That would leave me standing with my free hand jammed tightly into my pocket. From the amount of female snickering I generated, apparently that lame attempt at cover was a total fail. And that was but one of the many circumstances when a youthful hard-on was NOT a good thing to have.
In the late 1950's, there was really no source for information about sex available to a boy living in a rural area. There were the half-assed tales told by classmates, but those varied from the unbelievable to the absurd. Even I knew to discount them. If I managed to eavesdrop successfully, the stories told by older men carried more credibility, but they might as well have been tales of high adventure in foreign lands for all the good they did me.
My father had died when I was very young so I did not even have him to talk with. About the only source I had for sexual information was my mother's secret stash of erotic literature that provided me with stimulation leading to many a happy session of releasing my little swimmers. Meeting Mrs. Easton was probably the greatest gift that God could ever give to a naive young man. By today's standard she would probably be called a "sexual predator", but back then, she was God's gift to young men who would otherwise not have known the pleasure of a woman's body until they were old enough to own a Master Card.
Rather than being shamed as she might be today, such a woman typically brought askance glances from others while being generally accepted as a type of 'community service provider'; her service being to enable parents to avoid the awkward effort of explaining the 'bird and bees' to their young sons. Goodness knows that she certainly provided a valuable service to me.
Every young man dreams of finding an older woman to teach him about sex. From the time a young man enters puberty, all he can think about is sex, and so it was with me. When I was young, I felt like a blind man driving a bus. So much energy, so much drive, yet with NO idea what I was doing. As the girls in school developed from silly lumps of clay into desirable sex goddesses, it left me with the front of my pants bulging at the most inconvenient of times.
In class, my body seemed to know when it was my turn to stand and read aloud and, of course, that would be the moment for 'Mr. Winky' to suddenly get as hard as a tent pole. That would leave me standing with my free hand jammed tightly into my pocket. From the amount of female snickering I generated, apparently that lame attempt at cover was a total fail. And that was but one of the many circumstances when a youthful hard-on was NOT a good thing to have.
In the late 1950's, there was really no source for information about sex available to a boy living in a rural area. There were the half-assed tales told by classmates, but those varied from the unbelievable to the absurd. Even I knew to discount them. If I managed to eavesdrop successfully, the stories told by older men carried more credibility, but they might as well have been tales of high adventure in foreign lands for all the good they did me.
My father had died when I was very young so I did not even have him to talk with. About the only source I had for sexual information was my mother's secret stash of erotic literature that provided me with stimulation leading to many a happy session of releasing my little swimmers. Meeting Mrs. Easton was probably the greatest gift that God could ever give to a naive young man. By today's standard she would probably be called a "sexual predator", but back then, she was God's gift to young men who would otherwise not have known the pleasure of a woman's body until they were old enough to own a Master Card.
Rather than being shamed as she might be today, such a woman typically brought askance glances from others while being generally accepted as a type of 'community service provider'; her service being to enable parents to avoid the awkward effort of explaining the 'bird and bees' to their young sons. Goodness knows that she certainly provided a valuable service to me.
