I'd be fantasising about women naked, based on the memories of the swimming pool change room, years earlier. I still didn't know exactly what happenin..., and no cum would come out, but I nicknamed the pleasurable end feeling as being "sex tired". I'd never tell anyone about any of this, and would always feel very guilty about what I was doing!Soon, through the rough and tumble of the schoolyard boys around me, I'd watch them make the up-and-down masturbating fist in the air and laugh. "Wanking". First stop was to drop off the lunch her son had left behind at his school, the grocery store, back to the house to unload and organize her purchases and then off to the park. She finished the three mile run that she performed diligently three days per week and headed home for a quick shower and a scheduled nap. There was no way she could continue working four to six nights per week without it. She loved and dreaded it for the same reasons she had hurried her breakfast. Her hair was still damp. After hearing about it from my descriptive words that I text you and seeing it from the picture I sent you, to have it pressed against you . . . it makes your mind fill with various thoughts of what you would want to do with it. But you also think about that one night in which I stood behind you and started to kiss only your neck and shoulder. How it felt to have my warm lips pressed against your flesh. Lastly, how I was making you feel when my mouth started to explore more of your body. Dinner. For me it's far more personal.My dad and I never really got along. He didn't even want me, a fact I intuited (I think) pretty early; not until I was about eleven years of age did I really begin to grasp that.You see, all through my childhood, whenever I did something wrong -- which was pretty much every week -- my dad would say, "Shoulda been aborted, ya little weasel."Didn't matter what I did wrong, either. It could have been as serious as breaking his beer bottles (yeah, that happened a time.