Dead
Joey Jowolski
by
Mick Mykola Dementiuk
Selected Tales Synergy Press 2006
When
he came home from work and told his wife that Joey Jowolski died two
nights ago, she said, Who the fuck is Joey Jowolski?
He
told her Joey Jowolski was his friend back in grade school who taught
him how to masturbate, You know, jerking-off...
She
burst out laughing. Yeah, so show me?!
He
shook his head, Have some respect...he mumbled, and
went to take a shower.
Yet
it was too bad about Joey Jowolski, especially that young. Hell, Joey
was only a year older than him and if he went like that, a massive
stroke, anyone could go.
He
shook his head again and shampooed his hair, lathering his head and
neck. It was funny what she said though, Show me!
In
your mouth I'll show you! he laughed, moving out of the shower
stream and lathering his chest, his stomach, his crotch, his legs and
feet, and wondered if Joey Jowolski went out jerking off as well.
Hell,
the guy had never married, never seemed to have a girlfriend, and
though they had drifted apart over the years, just nodding when
they'd pass on the street, Hey! Hey!, he always thought of
Joey Jowolski in terms of jerking-off.
Much
like spotting an old History teacher and remembering Columbus
discovering America. Or an English teacher and worrying about your
gerunds and syntax and if you are using then correctly. Well, Joey
Jowolski was a teacher of masturbation, and teacher and subject
always went together: Joey and jerking-off, Joey and ejaculation,
Joey and total exhaustion and collapse. How else would Joey Jowolski
have gone out if not by gripping his dick and shooting to high
heaven?
He
stepped back under the shower stream and rinsed, opening a bottle of
hair conditioner. He always used his wife's, the secret pH formula
flooding his memory with the scents of females, of girls, of
their secrets, of impenetrable mysteries, and reminding him that no
matter how many times he lay with his wife he would never truly grasp
or pierce into the essence of what a man means to a woman.
Was
it sex? Love? Caring and being needed? What man does not strive for
that? A click of a heel, a waft of perfume, a tinkle of a bracelet, a
lilt of a voice, and what man does not lose himself in yearning and
craving for connection with that fleeting figure, an always eternally
fading distant image, of a female, a woman?
To
try and connect, to lose it, to remember, to seek, to try connection
once more...
No
matter how Joey Jowolski went, if he had not experienced daily life
with a woman, the loving, the bickering, the sharing, the pouting and
sulking, the laughter and caring, then his life was like a stiff dick
in his own hand, perhaps pleasurable for a solitary moment, but a
life in the long run as wasted and pointless as shooting that stiff
dick into your own fist and fingers and fading fantasies.
He
rinsed his hair and the secret pH formula conditioner streamed
down his chest and belly, bubbling in the hairs of his hairy crotch.
Good
ol' Joey Jowolski, dead as a limp dick!
But
back then Joey was the friend he needed most. Maybe in time he would
have discovered masturbation on his own, without Joey's instruction.
Maybe he would have eventually come to realize that besides thinking
about girls and teachers in school, about Sonia's little titties,
Kathy's juicy fulsome ass, or Miss Heather's cute little short-shorts
when he saw her on a Saturday afternoon on Second Avenue, it would
also be pleasurable to clutch his dick and squeeze while thinking
about them. And perhaps in time his fist and wrist would have
innately begun that natural boy-movement of stroking himself in
rhythm to the curving jiggling images he was imagining. Maybe also in
time, on its own, he would have dared to imagine himself touching,
squeezing, and even disrobing those images of tits and asses and
short-shorts and discovering the beautiful eruption of ejaculation,
and the well-worth exhaustion of cuming...
As
it was, Joey Jowolski explained everything to him. But make sure
you're alone in the house, Joey warned, because you'll
probably start screaming and yelling when you cum!
Come
where? he asked.
Joey
laughed and winked. Cum there!You'll find out when you get there!
And
he did find out, because he tried it as soon as he got home, his
mother in the kitchen, his father watching TV, and his baby sister
taking a nap.
It
took awhile to position himself comfortably on the toilet seat, first
sitting as if he were taking a shit and aiming his stiff dick into
the bowl. Then he got up and tried it standing up, leaning against
the wall and clutching his shirt flaps up to his belly, but that too
was uncomfortable. So he sat back down, stretched out his legs, and
roosted his ass on the edge of the toilet seat: his hard and stiff
dick was positioned perfectly against his belly.
He
gripped and stroked, just as Joey had instructed. And it felt good,
but Joey hadn't explained how long it would take or how fast he
should stroke, evenly up and down, or in a frantic staccato beat...
And
it didn't take long for his images of Sonia, Kathy, and Miss Heather
to embolden, and he knew exactly what to do when Sonia lifted up her
blouse and plopped out her tiny titty, or when Kathy leaned her big
ass down on his crotch, or when Miss Heather let him touch and feel
in between her short-shorts...
My
God, it was even better than Joey had said!
It
shook his entire body: his face clenched and grimaced, his head
bopping up and down, his shoulders knocking the toilet tank lid
behind him. And he spasmed in a release of his thirteen years as if
his soul was spilling out in discovery, awakening, in a blossoming of
his young male potential.
Perhaps
that is the true loss of male sexual virginity, when a boy
masturbates for the first time. When he steps out of his youthful
narcissism and summons the images of others. Of females to soothe and
comfort, and entice, lure, satisfy and share the secret images as he
is now giving up his own secret image of himself to them in
imagination, in experimentation, in hope, in the desire of desiring
their images so much that he will come to dare and imagine himself in
reality touching the real flesh of a real girl. Of her real bosom, of
her real body, of her real soul. And of her responding in her own
pursuit of male images and daring to touch his own real flesh and
spirit...
-Lemme
in! his little sister suddenly jarred and screamed, pounding on
the bathroom door. I gotta make pee-pee! Lemme in!
He
masturbated two more times that first day, once in the bathtub that
evening, his semen swirling, swimming and sticking to his legs and
thighs. And once in bed, the mattress rocking and the headboard
clattering, that he was sure his Dad banged on wall for him to Shut
up, go to sleep!
And
though it took longer each time to entice the ejaculate, each
eruption was as intense and pleasurable as his first masturbation
just a few hours ago.
He
opened his eyes, gripping his dick. It was hard, bubbled in secret
pH formula conditioner.
Good
ol' Joey Jowolski! Good ol' dead Joey Jowolski!
He
stroked his penis back and forth; it felt good. How many years since
had last thought of Joey? How many years since he had learned how to
masturbate? Probably thirty. And how many years since he had last
done do? Probably before the wedding when he still was single, and
that was already six years. Do handjobs giving by his wife count?
No...
Good
ol' Joey, as dead as a dick after cuming. Good ol' Miss Heather,
probably even deader than good ol' Joey Jowolski.
He
stroked faster, his eyes shut. Man, Miss Heather, her short-shorts
were really something! He didn't know who it was in front of him
on Second Avenue, all he saw was that round curved ass, the soft
tanned thighs,the highlight of the slim panty line, and the dark draw
of that unattainable mystery disappearing even darker, more
mysterious, drawing more deeper but softer, into the curve beneath
her ass and in between her legs.
He
almost walked his hardon right into her ass when she stopped for the
light, turned, smiled and squealed, Mickey, my favorite student,
hiya!
He
barely stuttered a response, his face red, his eyes disbelieving in
the sight of her equally round high mysterious breasts, and if he had
touched himself right then he may not have discovered the slow
arousal of masturbation but he certainly would have hit upon the
immediacy of ejaculation.
-I
already did my homework, he merely mumbled, and limped past her,
the wonder, the awe, and fascination of her short-shorts tearing into
his soul and etching a permanent scar of longing, shame, loss, hunger
and stupidity in his skull forever.
He
ejaculated, his shoulder pounding the wet tile wall, the steaming
water hitting his belly and fist and dick and washing away the
bubbled conditioner, the scum, the hardness, the quickening softness.
God,
that was a big one! Oh Miss Heather, whew! How many times as a
kid did he jerk-off to her image? How many times did her bubbly ass
and shorts appear in his fantasies and longings and perversions?
Miss Heather, yeah! Sonia and Kathy, oh God!
He'd
better let go, and pulsed his dick to drain out the remaining semen,
then washed himself all over again. Once more he used the secret
pH formula around his crotch –didn't want the missus to get a
whiff of his own pH formula, did he, especially if she didn't
help in preparing it?
He
stepped out of the shower and wiped himself dry. Should he go to the
funeral? It was tomorrow. Maybe just send flowers. Neah, he
smirked. He had paid his respects. To Joey. To Miss Heather. To Sonia
and Kathy and whoever else he once fantasized about. All of them:
good ol' dead erotic ghosts, but good sexy teachers one and all.
He
wrapped a dry towel around him and came out of the bathroom. His wife
was in the kitchen making dinner and he paused to admire her round
ass in her too tight skirt. Would Joey have known what to really
do with it?
-You
always smell so nice, his wife giggled as he pressed himself
behind her and groped her breasts. He took a deep breath of her neck.
-You
smell even nicer, he said, pulling her out of the kitchen as she
reached to turn off the stove.
He
had no problem getting it hard or staying in, though he fell into
softness pretty quickly...
-What
about your friend, what's-his-name? his wife asked afterwards.
Going to the funeral?
He
shrugged, bit into his steak, leered at her peeked nipples in a tight
pink t-shirt, and simply said, I really didn't know him all that
well...
His
wife stared at him.
-I
thought you said he taught you... and she smirked.
-Oh,
shut up! he laughed, chewing at his steak.
She
did. Smirked. Then said, I'd still like to see what your dead
friend taught you...
****
