Larry was a teenage wanker. Now, everyone knows the average teen boy waps half his life away. But Larry was--”special.” He spent hours in the family bathroom raping the rugs while sniffing his mom's underwear. Kids in high school needed a pass to piss. Larry would use his piss-pass to beat the bat. Larry was fast, he'd pound one out when he took out the garbage; in the bushes when he walked home from school; in the shady corner of the public pool, and in the dressing room when his mom took him to get new clothes. Any time no one was lookin', he beat his willy raw. Poor Larry. There was no internet when he went to school, which meant no porn—not in his two-bar town, anyway. And the “naughty” magazine racks we're behind the counter, under lock-and-key, and monitored with Gestapo-like intensity.
Summer was Larry's serious whack-a-mole season. When the weather got hot, the local drive-in theater would show some soft-core mammary movies. He and his buddies could easily sneak past the ticket booth by hiding in the trunk of a friend of a friend's car. He couldn't divert his eyes for a second—transfixed for hours by those forty-foot baby feeders up on the screen. He'd have to wait until after the movie to have a go at “Little Larry.” He and his buds mocked circle jerks as “fag” activity. But those silver screen images of slap-flaps were still good enough for a month's worth of tally-wacs!
Tally wac, ew!
This went on for years. He was now sixteen, and his blue-balls were at their peek rupturing point, but his prayers were answered! That summer, Myra Breckenridge was coming to the drive-in! “Bonericious,” Larry thought. But the movie was rated X, and the town's morality police made sure that there would be no clandestine entry possible on this one. Larry: Panic Maximus! He just had to see that movie! Rubbing his denim covered crotch in fiendish glee, he started formulating a plan.
One side of the drive-in was lined with a very high wooden fence, and on the other side of that tall barrier was a mobile home park. Butted up against the fence on the mobile home side, was a wooden deck held up high above between two telephone poles. This deck housed two electric power transformers. And Larry planned to be atop that deck, milking his bone in the dark, during a run of Myra Breckenridge.
He didn't go on opening night, he waited for the very last showing. In fact, it was the last movie that would run before the drive-in closed for the year. Since this was a special event, he'd get twenty-eight year old Gerald Juker to buy him a six-pack of beer. All he had to do was hand Gerald ten dollars and he'd come trough, and make a profit ta boot—like always.
The big night finally, ahem, came. He wore all black; sneakers, t-shirt, and dungarees—sans underwear. The beer was in a dark blue pillowcase tied to a rope fashioned into a shoulder strap. When it started to get dark, he rode his bike out to the drive-in. Myra Breckenridge was the second of two features, so by then the sky would be black.
He had to shimmy up the power pole about ten feet to get to the metal hand and foot holds. Yep, back in the day, they still had those grips; allowing anyone to go up and down on those jack pine poles—marvelous.
By the time he reached top of that warm, buzzing pole, he had a petrified pud. It was near the end of the first movie, usually a low budget tit-flick—which was good enough for heating up his tater-tot for the coup de grâce. He popped a brew when the main feature started.
The can was only half empty when it became impossible not to lower his pants and begin to play. He leaned back against one of the stabilizing cables and went to work. Beer in one hand, and primal-pounding his pecker with the other. Until! This was it! It was finally going to happen! He was actually going to splooge while looking at giant celluloid breasteses! Spunk was now starting to bubble and dribble from the head his useless, biological reproduction utility nozzle. Bang! The first thick cord of cock vomit spewed right into one of the transformers. In a fraction of a second Larry's left sack turned black, inflated to speed-bag size, and exploded with a wet “thoosh.” He spasmed out another powerful stream, this time thick crimson, and again into the electric death—his right wrinkled pink dangler blasted away in the same manner as the last. His legs convulsed him ten feet into the air before he fell, stiffly, onto the asphalt mobile home driveway below. Skull cracked and sizzling. Lips melted, leaving a cooked skeletal “smile.” His prick was hanging by a thread of vein over an enclosed fist, which was trembling between his legs. It seems that his virgin donger was pinched off like the zits he so often popped in front of his bathroom mirror. No eyes—just simmering, obsidian orbits.
The film went noir, while car-horns and curses filled the night.