Dead Joey Jowolski

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...

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