God, could my life get any worse?
I stare solemnly out my bedroom window, watching a brown leaf being blown down the street by a light gust of wind. It's a warm, crisp, autumn afternoon, and the sun is low in the sky, glaring in my eyes. It's a rather serene sight that doesn't seem to match my mood. I've been moping around my bedroom, mostly staring out this window, brooding, bored out my skull, for the past three days now. Anguish is eating away at my resolve, but it's the tightness in my groin and a dull ache in my balls that is causing me most concern. If an adolescent boy ever tells you he doesn't masturbate at least once a day, he's lying.
You never really appreciate something until you lose it. Imagine losing the use of both hands, for example. Just take a minute to think what your life would be like without the use of at least one hand and how that disability would impact your everyday life. It's difficult to predict exactly what it would be like. Though for me, at this moment in time, I don't have to imagine it, because I'm living it, gaining first-hand experience of life without functioning hands.
Today is my eighteenth birthday and should be a joyous occasion, full of excitement and merriment. But here I am, watching a pile of leaves being blown up the street as depression eats away at me. It's now four days into the autumn half-term holiday, and I've spent the past three sitting here in my room, contemplating revenge on the person who has caused my current predicament.
It happened last Saturday afternoon while hanging-out at the park with my friends. My girlfriend, Sammy, of whom I had grown quite fond, told me she wanted to speak to me in private. Like a puppy chasing a bone, tongue wagging, I followed her to behind the thick trunk of an enormous oak tree, anticipating a game of tonsil-hockey and a fondle of her plump breasts.
So imagine my disappointed when, instead of slipping her tongue down my throat and unclasping her bra, she informed me in a solemn tone that she was chucking me. The news hit me like a haymaker to the gut, causing me to hunch over slightly and hold my midriff. But what she told me immediately after really got my hackles up: she was dumping me for my best friend. They had been screwing for the past week - something she and I had yet to indulge - which made it all the more gut-wrenching.
First I contemplated ripping off Sammy's clothes and screwing her, right there behind the oak. After all, I felt quite disgruntled that my opportunity for a knee-trembler with Sammy had vanished for the time being, perhaps forever.
But it was a spur of the moment urge, conjured by the anger coursing through my veins. So, high on adrenaline and intent on revenge, I ran off in search of my "best friend" who had stolen Sammy's heart.
The anger I felt building inside of me that day was like nothing I had ever felt before. Charging around the streets like a madman, my only objective was to find the person who had stolen my sweetheart. It was, however, a fruitless exercise. Eventually, with lungs burning and legs aching, I gave up, sat down with my back against a wall and sobbed like a baby.
As I reached inside my trouser pocket to find my handkerchief, I found a piece of white chalk. Immediately I sprang to my feet and sketched a picture on the wall of the wretch who had stolen my girlfriend and proceeded to take out my anger on the drawing. If I couldn't hit him, a representation of him would be the next best thing.
Fists clenched tight, my right hand landed hard against the wall, directly on the nose of the drawing. I knew straight away that I had broken something; the pain shooting up my arm was incredible. But I hadn't finished just yet. I landed another blow to the wall - this time with my left - before running off home, with two hands grazed and throbbing.
So that's the story. It's why I'm here, three days later, with both hands bandaged, the right broken and the left badly bruised and swollen. Although the prescription painkillers, which the doctor prescribed me, make me feel great at times and tend to lift my mood, nothing seems to take the edge of the boredom. Especially today, being my birthday and knowing nothing exciting will happen is soul-destroying.
But let me tell you the worst part of all, above all else, the one thing that's really unbearable: I've not masturbated for nearly a week.
My testicles are now swollen to such an extent they have become painful. It's a dull ache, almost crippling at times, that throbs with a demand for release when I get a hard-on.
I groan as I feel an inadvertent erection coming on, the fifth one today, which will surly increase the pressure in my balls and cause the throbbing sensation to return with a vengeance. I leave the window and sit down on my bed with a despondent sigh.
Resting back on my elbows, I hook my thumbs into my underpants and tug them down over my thighs. Sitting back up, I hunch forward to examine my genitals. My willy's stiff, pointing straight up toward my face. A globule of goo rests upon the slit atop my helmet; a sure sign the gunk is bursting to gush to the surface. The skin of my scrotum, which is sprinkled with a layer of scraggly hair, is stretched tightly around my distended balls and is painful to the touch.
The throbbing sensation is even worse this time, making its way up the shaft of my stiff pecker, all the way up to the tip, making the helmet-head pulse along painfully with my beating heart. "God, it's even more painful than before," I rasp loudly.
As I say those words, Mum bursts into my bedroom, singing at the top of voice. "Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear—"
"Mum, for Christ sake!" I snap, spinning over and lying on my front to hide my modesty from her view. My cock's mashed against my duvet as I try in vain to hoik my underpants back up. "I'm not a little kid anymore," I say, as I wriggle around like a worm on the bed, trying unsuccessfully to pull up my underpants with the tips of my thumbs.
Jesus Christ! I wish she wouldn't burst in like that. I was doing something...private. And I have an erection. Doesn't she know how to knock before entering my room?
"I don't care how old you are, darling," she replies, in a silly voice as though talking to a baby. "You're still my little baby boy." She sits down next to me at the edge of the bed and says, " Let me help you with those underpants." I feel my underpants being pulled up my thighs, snagging on my bloated balls on the way up, making me gasp and wince with a sudden jolt of pain.
"You can turn around and sit up now," she sighs, feigning exasperation.
