I’ve always been scared of girls.
The Origin Story
I’m too shy to talk to girls first. Maybe this stems from things my older sis did when I was in grade school. On different days she told two classmates I liked them. Natural teasing from an elder sibling. One who couldn’t peer in my head and see that anxiety ran the motor. Once was at a church dinner where the girl was, too. I felt so embarrassed I hid on the floor of my mother’s car, wrapped beneath a blanket.
As I aged my reactions turned subtle but nonetheless maintained similar states of hiding away. I went through years of life not knowing how to talk to a girl without feeling embarrassed, without blushing if they spoke to me.
R was the first to give me her number. We were in the sixth grade and I’d had a crush on her for two years. In school she told me to call her. That night I sat on my bed, door locked, for ten minutes before I built the nerve to ring.
Her brother answered which made me more nervous. I said “Hello,” but when he asked who it was I froze and asked him to hold. I stood, circled my room, then hung up. The next day I didn’t mention the incident, and she never asked me to call again.
Later the same year I dated two different girls, though dating is an exaggeration. The first was K. She asked me out with a note. I replied in kind. Neither spoke a word to the other that day. As days wore on we spent no moments alone in our dating. We talked on the phone, but only if she called, and only with her friend on the other line. I dumped her in November as I didn’t know what to get for Christmas.
My other girlfriend, B, came months after K. A friend asked me out for her. For the week we dated we never spoke once. I avoided her as best I could. Then at the ice rink I had a proxy inform her our epic romance had found its end. Her friends called me mean but this was easier than going through with dating. Even when I had a girlfriend, I still didn’t know how to talk to them.
I never kissed these girls. I think I held K’s hand, but even that might be taking liberties with history. At middle school dances I felt anxious but some girls asked to dance. Hands on shoulders and hips. Sometimes wide spaces. Sometimes we’d grind. It’s how I discovered erections.
A touching father-son moment:
I was twelve. My father, a farmer, drove us to a field to test the moisture of ripening wheat. The field was near our stead but further than one could walk.
After testing we stepped back to his dusty old pickup with a rug for a seat cover. Instead of turning the engine he sat staring forward, silent, before facing me. He took a deep breath then commenced an uncomfortable speech, saying, “Gab, we need to talk about something.”
“I want to explain to you what sex is.”
Panic and embarrassment overtook my being. I knew a bit about sex, that it was a topic to be avoided. All I could do was nod in affirmation to each of his statements. The pickup was so silent that the seat squeaked as I signaled yes.
“Sex is something that a married man and woman do when they love each other.”
“A man puts his penis in a woman’s vagina, and that is when sex happens. They can do it to show their love, or to try make a baby. Some people call sex “screwing” but I don’t like that word, so I don‘t want to hear you saying that, okay?”
He said he heard of sex from his friends but wanted me to learn in the right and proper way.
He told me it was natural to like girls. He mentioned erections, stating “You probably have started to get them, maybe at school dances.” The man knew his stuff.
From start to finish the monologue was no more than ten minutes, but it’s ten minutes I still think of so many years later.
Porn scared me. I’d never seen a naked woman except the time I walked in on my older sister changing, and the nights my mother scooted from the shower to laundry room with no towel. I remember moments at my cousins’ in middle school when someone pulled out a porn mag or video. If this happened I’d slink to another room or pretend to be occupied. I felt guilty and nervous. Knew my parents would be upset. Though not strict with religion, we were Catholic and porn was taboo.
In time I came to my senses. Realized the magnetic power of pussy. At my cousins’ us boys sat in an upstairs office, door locked, to inhale their grandpa’s Playboys. It was not to get off. I didn’t even know what that was. It was an excitement on its own to look at naked ladies without knowing why you felt the need to.
During this era of late middle school I had unfruitful fantasies at bedtime. I’d pretend my bed and pillow were a girl, whichever one I crushed on. We’d be at a rock concert where I wowed the crowd as the lead singer. Then in an instant my crush and I lay in bed together.
I’d make out with my pillow, pretending different parts to be the lips, cheeks, and neck. It wasn’t in my mind to conjure privates. I’d rub my body against the bed, trying to create the feeling of someone else even though I didn’t know that sensation. I spoke to the girl pillow, confident and saying the right things. I didn’t understand women or sexuality, but I craved intimacy. Craved some spell to quell the hormones erupting throughout me.
And now, let’s masturbate
I didn’t know what masturbation was, so the first time I jacked off was on accident. One night I decided to decipher the size of my penis. I locked myself in my room with a plastic ruler. I knew I had to stimulate so rubbed with my right hand. With my left I put the cold plastic against me to measure. My penis curved like a broken finger. In time I reached my full length, yet kept rubbing because it felt so nice and ticklish. And then I came. A full body sensation. Semen ran down my tummy. I freaked. Thought I was sick. That there was something wrong with me.
Sitting on the bed, cum dripping on my favorite blanket, I wondered if I needed medical attention. I felt scared to tell my parents. It involved my penis and so there was shame. I went to the bathroom to clean that which came out. Despite feeling freaked I wanted to jerk again because it felt so incredible. I’d found a release for all this horniness. This angst and wonder. So I did it again, and again, and again.
Masturbation became the focus of my life.
We got the internet around the time I turned onanistic. I found sites with free naked pictures that changed every day. I acclimated to porn with ease. The fact that the computer was upstairs, far from my parents, and right next to my room, did not help me stop. My method was to blow a load, peek out the door, then waddle to the bathroom with pants half down and crotch dripping.
Once I jerked off and my mom pounded on the door saying, “Gab, I‘m coming in.” I’d been close but zipped my pants and ran to open the barricade. As I did the pressure from my jeans was too much. I jizzed my pants with my mom staring at me. That load was too close a call. From then on I brought toilet paper so I could mop my mess at the source. I convinced myself that no one knew what I did in there for so many hours a day.
In the movie Me, Myself, and Irene there’s a deleted scene where the protagonist warms a watermelon, pokes a hole, then fucks it. It was inspiration. I didn’t have a watermelon but found an apple. I carved a hole then warmed it up. I stepped to the bathroom and poked my dick in; the hot juices burnt me, but still I tried to fuck that apple. It was uncomfortable, unsexy, and unable to force my trigger dick to shoot its bullet.
What else have I fucked, you ask? Everything in my room, I say. I had my childhood teddy bear that my parents gave me. Did I stick my inches in Mr. Teddy’s guts? Yep.
“Me draping a bag over my penis and trying to suck myself off.”
“So… paper or plastic?”
I failed to simulate a vagina by sticking my dick in a toilet paper roll. As I shot semen out the other end I thought, “Why am I fucking something that people wipe their ass with?”
Is There Something Wrong With Me? The Questions I asked. The things I told myself:
Why don’t I have a girlfriend when every boy has had several? Why can’t I just figure it out?
I feel more isolated and depressed every day; it never gets better. Masturbation is just a distraction from the loneliness of not having a girl in my life.
I have so much anxiety, the longer it goes on the more impossible it feels to approach girls.
Do people only see what is wrong with me, the dork? Am I ever going to figure out a way to let people know something of me besides my shyness? Am I just too weird?
It’s hard to go to school in the morning. I wake up and stay in bed as long as possible. I hug my pillows. I don’t want to go out there.
I’m so alone.
High School Life
I thought that moving from my small school, where I’d always known the same girls, into a big one with new people would help me get a girlfriend. But I still didn’t know how to talk to them or socialize in general. I was a dork, found few friends, was chubby, wore glasses, and was dressed by my mother. I spent my time in the library, avoiding people, and roaming the halls by myself. If I saw girls from my classes I’d turn down a new hall or look at the ground, too shy to even say hi.
During this time I frequented pawn shops with hometown friends and bought hundreds of tapes and CDs. Movies became my method of staving off loneliness. I fell asleep most nights watching some bad comedy, trying to not think about life. But I grew tired of this and came back to that ache of wanting a girl. I didn’t know what that meant but it consumed me.
My first high school crush was a beautiful girl from my freshman year. We chatted over MSN the summer before 9th grade. She thought I was funny, but despite having English together I avoided her in real life. We stopped talking after that first year. Though I could be cool on the internet, I still clammed up and had little to say in real life. Words came easy on the screen but never when it mattered. My body, my anxiety, worked against all the right words ready in my mind. No matter how I tried I couldn’t release them into real life.
After things with her fell apart I felt like a loser who’d spend his whole life watching movies at three in the morning, alone, jerking off and groping his pillow. I still kissed it. Despite how flimsy our friendship was, she was one of only two girls that I could even claim to be semi close to in high school.
After her I started to think about the kind of girls I’m attracted to. Fucked up. Gap teeth. Weird. Smart. Chill. Nice. More confident than me. Independent. But really all I wanted was anyone who would have me.
This is the first of a two part series. The next piece will publish soon.
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