Like everyone else on Earth, I remember the first time I ever got myself laid. To say that it was anti-climatic would be an understatement but, since it directly led to the second time I got myself laid, I consider it to be worthwhile, even though I’d like to forget it in other ways.

Her name was Debby Magleson and she was a slut, probably still is if she’s not dead of AIDS by now. I didn’t seduce her with my charm, or overwhelm her with my personality, but was simply one of more than twelve guys she fucked that night.

I was fifteen years old and at a party at an older friend’s house that summer. A keg was there, as were plenty of joints and pipes full of potent marijuana. The music was blasting and I was pleasantly fucked up on both of the above-mentioned substances. I’d seen Debby making the rounds and I knew her by reputation. She was attractive in a skanky sort of way, her large jiggling tits obviously unencumbered by a brassiere, her bright, bleached-blonde hair marking her position like a beacon, her gorgeous legs on display beneath a leather mini-skirt. She was pounding beers like there was no tomorrow and smoking out of every marijuana-dispensing device that was passed her way. She was rubbing herself on every available male body and not even bothering to act outraged when someone grabbed her tits or ran their hand up her skirt.

At some point, while I was working on perhaps my ninth beer and taking a hit off of my third or fourth joint, someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Jeff, my best friend. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“Dude,” He told me excitedly. “Debby’s up in one of the bedrooms pullin’ a fuckin’ train!”

Now I had never been officially laid at that point in my life, as I’ve mentioned. I’d had a few shy girlfriends that had allowed me to feel their tits, usually through their clothing but on one memorable occasion under her bra, but as for vaginal contact, I’d yet to even insert my finger into one. I’d never even seen one in the flesh before.

Despite the prospects of actually getting into some puss, I was nervous and scared at the thought of going upstairs and fucking Debby. I felt I was way out of my league and I didn’t really want to do it but peer pressure and the fear of being called a faggot soon found me standing in line behind three other guys outside the upstairs bedroom. Behind me, the line continued to form, a group of teenaged guys hooting and howling drunkenly, patting each other on the back, and passing around a pipe full of greenbud.

Jack Simpson, a senior came out of the bedroom just in front of me. He was grinning and buttoning his pants as he came.

“What a fuckin’ slut!” He cried triumphantly to the assembled crowd, picking the pipe out my hand and taking a large hit. He clapped me on the back. “Go get her Jase,” He said. “You’re next!”

I really wanted to back out of this but the people behind me, who now numbered five guys, all started chanting “Ja-son! Ja-son! Ja-son!”

I was stuck. I entered the dimly lit bedroom and shut the door behind me. Debbie was lying on the bed in the room stark naked, her pretty legs spread, a large wet spot on the covers beneath her. Her tits were somewhat flabby I saw and her pubic hair was black as night, a stark contrast to the hair on her head. The smell in the room almost made me barf, the thick smell of semen and pussy carried exponentially beyond the point where they are an attractant. Debby’s mini-skirt, panties, and the rest of her clothes were bundled in a pile next to the bed.

She looked up at me, smiling. “Come on Mikey.” She said, her words thick with intoxication, calling me by a name that wasn’t mine. “You’re number seven baby.” She spread her vaginal lips, which were drooling a thick mixture of white sperm. “Come fuck me.”

Despite all of the negative connotations of the experience, my dick was hard and ready for action. After all, Debby was a girl I’d imagined fucking more than once, a girl I’d stroked myself off to. She was naked and spread and I was looking at my first female sex organ in great detail.

“C’mon.” She repeated impatiently. “Get those pants off and climb aboard.”

I dropped my pants, revealing my five-incher to her gaze. She appraised it for a moment as I approached the bed. She shrugged her shoulders. “Seen better, seen worse,” She commented, holding out her arms to me.

I climbed aboard nervously, not sure of what I should do, but Debby knew. She grasped my hard-on and inserted into her slimy pussy. I was more than a little disgusted by how wet it was in there when my mind informed me WHY it was so wet. I was slamming in and out of the sperm of six previous guys. But at the same time her pussy felt pretty good as my hips took up the instinctive rhythm. I could feel her clenching on me and I could feel the friction of intercourse. It was far from unpleasant but it was nothing like what I’d envisioned in my fantasies either.

My greatest fear prior to my first fuck had been that I would shoot off within six or seven seconds out of sheer ecstasy. It was the opposite that actually happened. Though the friction was nice, it did not feel as good as my own hand did and it was not nearly enough to send me over the edge by itself. I slammed and banged away in her for nearly fifteen minutes, knowing in the back of my mind that the previous average had been about four minutes. When the guy in line behind me began banging on the bedroom door, telling me to hurry the fuck up, I didn’t find it any easier to concentrate.

As for Debby, she was no help either. She laid there impassively, giving no indication that she was enjoying what I was doing to her. She could have been filling out a tax form for all the interest she was showing.

Finally I felt a rubbery spasm shoot up my spine and I shot a weak load inside of her. She moaned as I did this, not even faking well, and a minute later I was getting dressed, wiping the accumulated goo off my wang with a towel I found laying around.

I was cheered when I exited the room but cursed too.

“Jesus fucking Christ Jason!” Jeff exclaimed. “How many times did you fuck the cunt? You were in there for fuckin’ near a half hour.”

“Hey.” I said, putting on my best nonchalance face. “Some of us don’t blast off like a fuckin’ rocket when we touch a cunt. Some of us like to enjoy it.”

There were cries of “Ohhhh.” And “Ahhhhh,” from my words.

My relief entered the room and I found myself downstairs again, smoking out and drinking, describing my experience with ‘the slut’ to those that had gone before me. To my surprise I found myself a minor legend for the amount of time I’d spent in there. I would be lying if I said that I didn’t relish it.

Debby’s train pulling was the talk of the school for the next few weeks. The girls were disgusted by it. The guys that hadn’t been involved were envious. Those of us that had been were heroes. I enjoyed my brief stint at celebrity status. And then Lisa Smatterford turned up pregnant one day and everyone had something else to talk about. Life went on and Debby was mostly forgotten. Until one memorable day.

As luck would have it, Aunt Jennifer was the only person home when I first realized, in graphic detail, that I had myself a problem.

Jenny, as she insisted I call her, was my father’s youngest sister. She was nineteen at the time, four years older than me, the product of my grandfather and grandmother’s use of antibiotics and birth control pills at the same time at a part of their life when they’d thought children were far behind them. Born a full sixteen years after my father, the second youngest child of that family, Jennifer was more like a daughter to my parents than anything else.

Like many children born to older parents, she had a self-esteem problem, a problem made worse by the fact that she had a tendency to be overweight. When I was fifteen, Jenny was about a hundred and seventy pounds on a five-five frame. She was chunky but not grotesquely so. Her image of herself however, was that she was hideously overweight, that no man would ever want her.

She was nice and we had always gotten along reasonably well. It seemed that I was the only one she could really relate to in any form since I was the closest member of the family to her own age. My younger brother was four years younger than me and still lost in childhood. My father, her closest sibling, was sixteen years older than she was and in the midst of an entirely different generation. My mother was fourteen years older than she was and in the same circumstances. Jenny and I had always liked the same kinds of music, used the same terminology in discussions, had always played together since we were small children.

The year before, just after Jenny had graduated high school, she’d enrolled in cosmetology school at a local community college and had asked my parents if she could move in with us for a while until she got her certification. She hadn’t been getting along with her parents, who’d grown up in the post world war II era, and thought she might be happier with younger guardians. My parents had reluctantly agreed to this plan and Jenny had been installed in our guest bedroom.

She’d been a little distant with me since she’d moved in, probably due to our four-year age difference at that part of our lives. She was after all an adult now and I was still a sophomore in high school. But we used to talk all the same, watch TV together, and she had even written me notes a few times, forging my mother’s signature expertly, when I’d cut school and needed them.

About three and a half weeks after fucking Debby, just when I’d thought my life was returning to normal, I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. My glands were swollen both in my neck and in my crotch. My muscles ached distantly. I felt like I was coming down with the flu. What kind of crappy shit was this? I wondered angrily. Summer vacation had just started three days before. This was certainly no time to get sick. I remember that my dick had felt a little strange, a little sensitive to touch or to move. I didn’t think anything about it at the time. I simply laid in a restless slumber, drifting in and out of sleep until about 9:00 the next morning.

When I finally dragged myself out of bad that morning I felt a little better. The muscle aches had retreated to a dull throb, the swelling in the glands, while still present, was tolerable. My penis however, was aching in a way I’d never experienced before and my bladder was quite full.

I got up and headed for the bathroom, looking at the clock and noting the time as I went. I’d slept in a little. My parents would both be at work but Jenny, who was also out of school for the semester would be home. I could even hear the faint sound of the TV from the living room. I threw a robe around my body and trotted to the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

I parted my robe, pushed my underwear down and fished out my wang. As I’d done a million times in my life, I pushed my bladder muscles, intending to spray a jet of urine into the toilet. This time, however, something was different.

The pain is like nothing you can imagine if you have not been through it. It felt like someone had lit a blowtorch inside of my cock while dragging a string imbedded with broken glass out at the same time. The burning sensation centered in my urethra and quickly spread up into my abdomen and down into my legs. My balls tried to suck up into my body with the pure agony.

In my entire fifteen years of life I’d never imagined pain this intense. I quickly realized that my urination was causing it and tried to halt it, clamping shut the muscles that control that bodily function. This was a bad mistake. That only made me spray urine all over the floor and the toilet while increasing the pain considerably.

At the top of my lungs I screamed, “Ahhhhhhhh! Ohhhhh! Goddddd! Oh! God! Jesus! What the...!! Ahhhhhhhh!”

Piss sprayed everywhere in that bathroom. I fell to the floor in sheer agony, spraying urine around the base of the toilet, against the bottom of the cabinets, over my leg. Vaguely, while I was in the midst of this agony, I heard someone pounding on the bathroom door.

“Jason?” Jenny’s voice enquired, alarmed at my screams. “Are you all right? What’s going on?”

Finally the piss dribbled to a halt and the pain receded, leaving me feeling like there was still broken glass in my cock, but that it would only hurt if I moved or pissed again. I was panting with exertion, my face sweaty, my hands gripping my dick, choking it, my legs pulled tight against my body, my skin soaked with pee.

“Jason?” Jenny yelled, pounding on the door again.

“I’m okay.” I squeaked, out of breath. “It’s nothing.”

“What happened?” She asked nervously.

“Nothing!” I yelled through the door. “I’m okay.”

She said nothing else so I’d figured she’d gone away. I cleaned myself off with a towel and then cleaned the bathroom up, trembling at the thought of having to piss again. What the hell was going on? Why did it hurt so bad to piss? What would I do the next time I had to piss?

When I felt I was in order I opened the bathroom door and found Jenny still standing on the other side of it, her face worried, her body covered by a robe of her own. She stared at me.

“What the hell was all of that screaming about?” She asked.

I was surprised to see her still standing there but recovered quickly. “Nothing.” I told her. “A male problem.”

“A male problem?” She asked, raising her eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing!” I insisted. “I’m okay!”

“You sound a little hysterical to me.” She replied, not letting it drop. “And you’re kinda pale and sweaty. C’mon, tell me what happened? You look sick and you sounded like someone was killing you.”

I looked at her for a moment, my mind whizzing. It was embarrassing to discuss one’s urinary problems with one’s aunt but I had to tell someone. What was I going to do when I had to piss again? I simply could not take that kind of pain every two hours. Maybe she would know what to do about it.

“Well,” I said, blushing. “When I went in there to, you know...”

“Piss?” She asked bluntly. Strangely, this made it easier to talk to her.

“Right.” I said. “It hurt like hell when I peed. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

“It sounds like you have a UTI.” She said.

“A what?”

“A urinary tract infection.” She said. “Women get them all the time. It makes it hurt when you pee, though usually not as bad as it sounds like it was hurting you.”

“How did I get that?” I wanted to know. Infected seemed a terrible thing for a urinary tract to be.

“It just happens.” She said, bidding me to follow her. “You need to drink a lot of water to help dilute your pee. That way it won’t hurt so badly. It’s kinda strange though, guys don’t usually get them.” She chuckled. “Usually when a guy has pain like that it’s because of...” She stopped, her eyes widening, fixing me with an accusatory stare.

“What?” I asked uncomfortably.

“Have you had sex with anyone in the last month or so?” She asked pointedly.

“What?” I asked, not getting her. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Have you?” She insisted.

“Well, uh, yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?” She asked.

“Okay I did.” I admitted. “About three weeks ago.”

“I don’t suppose you wore a rubber?”

“No, not really.” I shook my head, starting to see where this was heading now.

“And was this, by chance, with a girl who, shall we say, gets around?”

I nodded.

“You got the clap.” She told me. “Gonorrhoea.”

I let this sink in. I had VD. Me! Wasn’t it just my kind of luck that the first time I’d ever gotten laid I would contract a vicious sexually transmitted disease? Fortunately this was 1982 and, while AIDS existed it was still mostly confined to homosexual men, IV drug addicts, and hemophiliacs at that time. It had yet to work its way to skanky teenaged girls that pulled trains at high school parties.

“How do I get rid of it?” I asked Jenny. “Does it just go away? How long will it take?”

“It doesn’t just go away.” She told me, continuing her trip downstairs with me in tow. “You need to go to a doctor and get penicillin.”

I was instantly filled with horror. “But Mom and Dad will find out if I do that! I can’t go to the doctor by myself! Holy shit, can you imagine how they’ll react to this?”

“Yep.” She answered sadly, though not without sympathy. She knew where I was coming from. My parents were about as straight-laced as they came. I had once been grounded for a month when the police had caught me and some friends drinking beer in a city park. If they found out about this, they’d probably ship me off to a military school.

“You gotta help me.” I pleaded with her.

And so she did. To this day I remain impressed at what she did. My parents had Kaiser insurance for the family so she called a clinic and told them that her “son” was having painful urination and needed an immediate appointment to be seen. They told her to bring the lad in at 1:30 that day. At about 10:30 she went upstairs and got ready.

Now under ordinary circumstances, Jenny looked like what she was, a nineteen-year old. When she emerged from her bedroom that day, the change was startling. She was dressed in some of my mother’s clothes; a skirt and blouse that no one under the age of forty would be caught dead wearing. Her make-up had been applied skillfully to hide the youthful look in her face. Her hair had been styled in the fashion of a middle-aged woman and streaked with gray. She looked like a forty-year old woman. To complete the illusion she carried my mother’s large purse on her arm, a purse big enough to carry a bowling ball in if she so desired.

“What do you think?” She smiled, turning so I could see her.

“Out a fuckin’ sight.” I said, so astounded by the change that I momentarily forgot the fact that my bladder was uncomfortably full again and that soon I would have to endure the pain of urination once more.

“See what cosmetology school teaches you?” She said. “I’ve done this before when I wanted to go out to bars and drink. Although usually I don’t make myself look THIS old. Do you think the Kaiser people will buy it?”

“I think they will.” I told her confidently.

They did. They bought it lock, stock, and barrel thanks to Jenny’s skillful use of makeup and fashion and thanks to our acting ability. She pretended to be the naïve mother bringing her child in for a possible UTI. She even expressed puzzlement at the fact that a male had managed to get one.

“Don’t you think that’s a little strange doctor?” She’d asked, seemingly puzzled.

The doctor, who after hearing the symptoms undoubtedly knew what the REAL problem was, agreed with her condescendingly. He asked her to wait outside while he examined me. Once she was out of the room he began asking about my sexual history, implying, though not actually saying, that what I told him was confidential.

I played up my part admirably, if I do say so myself. I hemmed and hawed for a while, swearing that I was as virginal as the driven snow. Finally I reluctantly admitted having had sexual contact three weeks before.

He examined my dick, squeezing it with a gloved hand and pointing out some milky discharge to me that seeped out the end. He told me in graphic detail about the VD germs contained in that discharge and what they could do to my reproductive system. His intent was to scare me and he did a good job of it. I vowed to never fuck another chick without a condom or maybe two of them protecting my manhood. He had me lay back on the table while he inserted a long Q-tip looking thing into my penis. Now you wouldn’t think that something like a cotton swab would hurt too badly. It does. It felt like he’d put in a fourteen-gauge wire that had been heated to glowing red with a bic lighter. I did my best to stifle my screams.