Wet Dreams

“Oh Charlie, you could fuck-up a wet dream,” were the words used to describe the process of manhood to me.

I always associated a wet dream with doing something wrong. I did not understand what my father was saying when he used that cliche.

I discovered masturbation before I discovered the wet dream. There was not a lot of lava left in my balls to cause a volcano in my dreams very often.

I wacked off at least seven times a day– but who was counting?

When those dreams did come along there was something strange about what was ejaculated.

Messy and pungent those globs were. No mater how much Clorox mom used, those white skivvies had received the mark of the beast.

The goddess herself reaches down and touches our private spots, molesting us in our childhood dreams and wakes us to a reality that sets us free.

“Father forgive me, for I am about to sin,” I said in my first wet dream as my pecker grew to a size somewhat larger than a succulent cob if corn dipped in butter.

We are lit on fire in our sleep. From head to toe we burn like a wildfire in a California canyon. Eventually the great pain within is dipped in cool refreshing mountain waters and for one brief moment our lust is gone.

Pop, pop, pop, like pop corn in hot oil we explode.

Relaxation takes over and that edge that makes young men so jumpy vanishes.

We are born yet again.

A few moments later the longing for that release comes back.

Our dicks get hard again.

We have become men and wack off at least seven times a day, but who actually counts those waking dreams?

I always felt sorry for the girls.