Tommy's Top-Notch Shot

  Call me Tommy if you want to. My step-father was a crude person and so were the rest of the guys in his family. All of the men were filthy-mouthed even around women and kids. Two of his brothers owned a garage. They did all the work on our worn-out cars. I would go along and hang out at the garage if there was nothing better to do.

 All the mechanics were just as trashy as the owners. While they worked on people's cars and trucks they constantly cursed and talked about sex and women and drinking in very vulgar terms. I learned a lot from just listening. For instance, one of the mechanics got a ticket for failing to stay in lane. With me standing there and listening, he claimed that he told the cop, "I'll drive all over the road if I want to, just like I make love all over the bed." Stuff like that gave me a lot of little mysteries to think about before I hit puberty.

 The point of this is that after I started jacking off I would often do it in the restroom at the garage. I didn't think the men really paid any attention to me so I would go into the filthy bathroom and stay a while, however long it took to fire a good load. Sometimes I'd walk to the garage by myself just to wank in the stinking restroom. While I was beating my meat I could hear the mechanics cussing and telling lies and talking about their latest sex conquest.

  One time I worked myself up to a really horny state. I kept playing with my stiffie until it was harder than I could remember. The restroom was about the size of a closet, one toilet and a lavatory. The toilet faced the door, which I was always careful to lock. I sat on the crapper, leaning back against the tank, my shirt unfastened so I could tickle myself. My pants and whitie tighties were down around my ankles, my knees spread wide and my feet against the door.

 I stayed there getting harder and harder. I'd get myself close to cumming and then ratchet back for a little while, trying to stay right at the brink of ejaculation without quite reaching a climax. You know what I mean, you've probably done it yourself.

 Finally I couldn't take it any longer and fired my ammunition. The first surge shot out like a shell out of a rifle and smacked right onto the faded paint on the old paneled door. From there it gradually oozed its way downward.

 Since the restroom was the dirtiest hole in town I didn't pay much attention to my cum. It could go wherever it wanted to while I grooved on the funky feelings.

 BUT: The next time I went back to the restroom (fully intending to fire another round from my trusty 14-year-old hard-on), I got an eye-full.

 Several of the dried squirts of my magnificent cum-shot had been circled with red marker. And right next to the highest circle on the door was this sentence: GOOD SHOT TOMMY.

 I could never bring myself to masturbate in the garage restroom again. Matter of fact, I quit going there at all. I spent hours of my time trying to decide which guy left the message of congratulations for me but even now I still don't have a clue. I was sure the earthy brothers would out me to my step-father, but if they did, he kept it to himself.

But man, that was a cum-shot to remember.

Anonymous