Chapter Eleven ~ Ride a cock horse

Although I considered myself ‘normal’, for want of a better word, I had realised quite early on that I never be a full or complete member of any sort of ‘normal’ society. Comparing all the elements of developments which went on around me both in people and nature I nearly always seemed to be on the darker side of things. Realistically, it was difficult to gauge what I could perceive as benefits compared to things I knew my peers were doing either in public or in private. It was this first tentative acknowledgement of my difference which I hoped would mark some milestone for my deeper psyche and quell some of the inner discomfort that came as part of my alternative pleasures.

Back in my early teens I had accepted that I was not like most other boys of my age but not only in a purely sexual context. There were defiantly no intimate feelings towards girls but a strong and distinct interest in boys; even men sometimes. Despite this I still didn’t have a clear perspective on what I was feeling what I was going to do about it or what any of the possibilities were open to me. It was not a time for knowing the specifics of being gay or even using the term but I suspected there may be some impact in everyday matters. With this realisation accepted, just being able to feel more comfortable about life in general would have been enough. Fortunately, for me at least, there were still other activities which I did understand more fully and enjoyed.

In addition to the general education paradigm of school, there were several exciting, even scandalous events to either brighten of confuse my days. Bearing in mind I was only 13 or so, one of the more memorable of these involved the brother of my latest crush; the one with the suede head haircut, remember him? His twin, unfortunately not an identical brother, had unashamedly announced one day in the playground that he had been doing ‘it’ with one of the more attractive girls in the class; I had managed to differentiate between being ‘attractive’ and being ‘attracted to’ very clearly by this time. Even the outside possibility of him telling the truth made the pair the first in the class to do ‘it’ as far as we knew and so elevating them to minor celebrities. They, well he, were not short on selling himself which prompted several of the other boys to try to build themselves up to match his prowess. Being sure I was not the only one to speculate on his boasting being true in the first place, it did make for interesting bragging and bodily comparisons between some of the boys. Silently I tried to take what I could from all the banter and graphic descriptions and pieced it into my own experimentation, despite instinctively knowing that it wasn’t quite the same in my world as it was in theirs. Of course, I would never share anything about myself even if I had been directly involved in any of the conversation, which I wasn’t obviously although desperately wishing that I could have been.

The first time I got to understand about the practical side of such things, it was most likely prompted further by my innate curiosity.

As I had been spending so much time helping with the animals and on the farm generally, I had been given a new pair of Wellington boots. They were far too big of course but that was only to make them last longer. The looseness just needed to be taken up by some thick socks which I knew my brother had for his motorcycle. He and I didn’t have very much to talk about at the best of times so I didn’t bother to ask him if I could borrow them and just went to help myself. At an opportune moment, I crept quietly into his bedroom and rummaged about in his sock draw. It might sound rather like an old cliché but, I found more than just socks in there.

A little gem in the form of a spiral bound reporters note pad was tucked away right down at the back. Many of the pages had crumpled corners and it looked well used. Flicking through just to get an overview, I couldn’t immediately make out some of the rather scribbled writing but looking more carefully I managed to pick out enough key words in the text to know that this was not your normal third year English homework; it looked far more interesting. Aware of the danger of being caught out-of-bounds in his bedroom, I still wanted to take a closer look at the notes and the occasional provocative, if poorly drawn, pictures; I was very good at drawing so found these both amusing and arousing. Pausing to listen for any imminent danger I slipped the pad under my jumper, forgot all about the socks and headed noiselessly to the relative privacy of the bathroom. Thankfully it was unoccupied which was not always the case in a household as busy as ours.

After waiting and silently checking I hadn’t raised any unwanted interest from the rest of the house, I sat on the toilet seat and made myself comfortable. Starting at the very beginning of the writings I could see this was potentially the mother lode of what I thought of as pornography, the closest I had ever got to dirty books anyway. It was not well written, even I knew that but, the content was vivid and glorious in its detailed descriptive passages. With only a limited knowledge of human working parts, I managed to extrapolate enough to understand. The characters here were fictitious I assumed but believable in my vividly visualising and now excited mind.

The closest I had come to mainstream porn was to collect the pictures of ‘page 3’ models from my father’s daily newspaper. It seemed to be the thing that young boys did so I followed suit just in case. I had no interest in boobs and excessive pouting unlike the eventual addition of ‘page 5’ male models. Both collections were, inevitably, discovered by my mother when cleaning out the bedrooms; nothing was ever said, even about the men and I was happy to put it down to either relief or embarrassment. This new, exceedingly graphic material was full of things I found difficult to believe or imagine even but I was a quick learner and the diagrams helped to confirm some of my doubts on the detail.

Rough sounding truck drivers seemed to be the main protagonists, picking up hitch hikers, always girls or women, who had to pay their fare in ways my minuscule knowledge of sex acts could hardly contemplate. There was much bulging, roundness, exposure, rubbing, throbbing, grabbing, licking, sucking, penetration, explosions, screaming; lots of explosions and an excess of screaming. Every story started differently but ended up in the same way, sweaty, sticky and exhausted; I was getting to feel a little sweaty myself after only a few pages. My usually and by now well-managed erection was all too prominent and this new material was managing to achieve what seemed to be even greater pleasures. In all the excitement, I almost missed the first time I got to the point of no return. Not noticing I had been rubbing myself through the course denim enclosing my crotch. I was suddenly faced with a moment of panic trying to release the imminent explosion. Being rather annoyed at the interruption, it made me fumble so much to contain the problem, I dropped the note pad. It was like a slow-motion horror film.

My zip had stuck only half way down but my one free hand had managed to force its way through the narrow gap and was firmly clenched around my throbbing member to confine the emissions which had already started to pump out in volume. Meanwhile, the other hand was grasping for the fluttering pages as they bounced off the seat, down between my legs and heading towards the water deep in the bowl. Trying to catch it, my bottom caught on the cistern behind me as I quickly stood and bend over all in one swift if manic movement. Falling forward with my free hand and arm down the bowl, I thankfully kept the pad out of the water. The consequent stumbling and stamping around trying to steady myself made so much noise, the fear of discovery had overshadowed the resultant mess in both my still trapped hand and now down the inside of my leg. Standing to listen for any reactions, contorted and still entangled, the normal array of household sounds didn’t seem to have changed and it appeared I was safe, this time anyway; now, I didn’t know what to deal with first.

Having regained my composure, I first checked the pad hadn’t been damaged. Fortunately, it hadn’t. Secondly, I should have dealt with the residue of my ejaculation but, despite the scare, once I had breathed a few calming deep breaths, I couldn’t help but sit back down to read some more of the stories and hopefully move onto the others.

My now well lubricated if rather sticky hand, was still firmly holding on to its charge and, once I had undone the top of my jeans and bared all safely, the combination of the written word and physical action soon let me discover the wonders of self-administered ecstasy in all its full, pulsating and this time, controlled wanking. It was such a revelation, I almost managed a third time but it took a great deal of concentration which reading at the same time didn’t make so easy. Reverting to just metal recall, the job was eventually completed but with less substance.

Once I was sure I had abused myself enough, gauged mainly by the sensitivity of my now limp and exhausted penis, I cleaned up everything as best I could manage. After hiding my clothes which now had several dark damp patches, in the washing basket, I managed to, exit the bathroom, step silently across the creak ridden floors and put the pad back in its hiding place, exactly as it had been; I had a knack of noticing detail like that which was very useful. Discovery would have been fatal. Despite the possibility always hanging over me, it wouldn’t be the last time I sneaked the writings out of the draw and retired to the bathroom although I did have to come up with some plausible reasons for the degree of noise which often accompanied the sessions; I don’t recall what they might have been.

That first afternoon had been another distinct milestone in my growing up. Even though I didn’t get away with using the fiction for too long, it was a definite signpost to other exciting possibilities and had made it a lusciously memorable evolution in my boyhood. Eventually the pad was discovered, nothing to do with me thankfully but, although I kept out-of-the-way for the inquisition, my brother presumed it must have involved me and, although I denied it profusely but it was not enough to save me from having a good beating metered out. For the pleasures it had instigated, it had been worth it.

There was no formal sex education in schools at that time so this self-discovery was the only way to develop my growing need for stimulation, as well as my other developing interests. For some reason, I suspected I might have strayed into territory that other boys didn’t which, for me at least made the things I did special. As for what other people did, I didn’t have any hard evidence, I only knew what worked for me and that was enough.

My morning emissions were no longer a problem, now I understood what they were and for most of the time anyway, managing to control the previously independent transmutation. Manual masturbation was great but even that began to get boring. I soon wanted more variation, more excitement, more interaction; like in the stories. This would obviously involve more varied experimentation which would prove to be both a benefit, and a problem.

Being now able to manipulate myself at will and with a growing and vivid imagination, I tried to recreate situations that I thought up or had read. These often involved using inanimate objects as substitutes for the other people; real partners were not going to be an option as far as I could imagine. Women were replaced by my pillow with me attempting what I thought were all the right actions for coupling. Of course, despite any point of reference, it just didn’t feel quite right. It also proved to demonstrate one of the more challenging problems; I couldn’t put pillows in the wash. This I found out rather awkwardly one day while having to explain the unusual crusty patches which seamen and feathers make when mixed and dried. It didn’t stop me but alternatives had to be found.

In my ignorance, role reversal seemed to be an obvious option; all the imaginary participants seemed to have the same degree of fun just in differing ways. The idea of insertion was very tempting but seemed just too dangerous. To make it the pleasurable experience that it had been in my brother’s imagination, or as the school macho-man would have you believe, there seemed to be a lot of issues to sort out. Finding all sorts of objects to enhance the prospects and tentatively testing size and strength, girth, and coarseness, eventually items I could penetrate or be penetrated by would achieve some varying degrees of ecstasy. Before I got it just right, I did get to scream like some of them had in the note-book, but it was from pain rather than the pleasure I was looking for. Perseverance however profited in yet another developmental stage of my obscure sexual practices.

Despite the confines of the cell and my high degree of anguish, I must have gone to sleep. The diversion which was comforting my still very active mind resulted in the first wet dream I had had for many years. Surprised that I might had deliberately let it happen, I took comfort from its climax, waking myself up only afterwards in a slight panic; hoping I had not disturbed either my sleeping pad mate below, or anyone else on the wing. Hardly daring to breathe I lay very still for quite some time before accepting that it had been a silent or at least unremarkable event. Mopping myself up as best I could, I took some comfort from the familiar tastes and textures before slipping back into the questionable pleasures of my youth.

Being a little older now, although still only early or mid-teens, I was left on my own to do work out on the farm. Having done my best to show I could be trusted, I managed to keep the underlying reasons for such enthusiasm carefully to myself. With knowledge comes power; I must have heard it somewhere. Slowly I was beginning to build on that cognition and understand how I could best use it for my own powerful pleasure. What I was missing and equally if not more importantly looking for, was the power to control something or someone other than my own mind and body.

Having listened intently to all the varied stories at school, all the bragging and boasting and realms of self-discovery, I still couldn’t identify myself in this harsh new world of growing up. If I had understood sexism at all it might have stopped me feeling I needed to attain some sort of dominant status but was not sure how to achieve it in any degree; my quest was spurred on.

Whatever I could think up, there was nowhere to test any of my vague theories except for where I had found most of my pleasures thus far, down in the seclusion of the outbuildings and comfort of the animal pens. Inside my own insulated, self-perpetuating, unnatural world, I knew I could be in control, there I could be king, I could do anything I wanted and there was plenty of it to do. My interest also moved to wider vistas.

Living in a relatively affluent country village, there were always horses which had held an all-consuming fascination for. Unfortunately, I had decided that if I had expressed my interest in the subject, it would have initiated far too many questions for which I had no answers I cared to share. If it had been just the riding of these magnificent beasts I might have managed to engineer some alternative but, my early experiences with smaller beasts had fixed a link between many alternative worlds of pleasure. Knowing more of what I liked but not always how to achieve it, the prospect and potential joy of riding horses had been one which had stimulated me in several ways and was confirmed by a chance viewing

While watching TV in my bedroom late one night, it was black and white and in a wooden case the size of a small wardrobe but a screen that was very small but then, which was luxury in those days. Before I fell asleep, with it still on which was a regular practice and much frowned upon by my parents, the beautiful and still young Marlon Brando flooded the screen and my attention was awake and transfixed. I had missed the first few minutes of the film but it was ‘Reflections in a Golden Eye’, the story chronicling the tortured and unrequited struggles of a secretly gay army officer, his long-suffering, unsatisfied wife and a rather magnificent, but equally closeted, military aide. As with most things the most significant things are often the smallest and this was no different. With a surfeit of moody, misty, melodramatic camera work the perfectly muscled, precisely crew cut aide had taken a night-time outing, riding naked through the trees on the back of his officer’s magnificent pure white stallion. In one scene, the brooding Brando secretly watched from the cover of the trees, racked with both desire and disappointment. Although I only saw the film once and, even in later life, have never managed to own a copy, possibly just in-case I might be disappointed, in those few minutes of secluded boyhood I recognised and inwardly rejoiced in the discovery that I was not alone in a world of bizarre feelings. Despite it being just a beautiful fiction, that diminutive event became the basis for a rather larger segment of my life which lasted for some 40 years or more. Unfortunately, back in the confines of my teenage bedroom, I was still lumbered with the reality of my solitary difference.

Discovering that human growth spurts were few and too far between, I found animals grow much faster and it meant the modified games of ‘leap-frog’ and ‘tig’ with the calves were becoming more challenging. They were strong enough now to push through my legs but I was no longer able to stop them anymore and I would often be knocked right over. The effects though were just too pleasurable to give up without trying other variations. Although I was getting to be a rather ‘large’ lad, I was not too heavy to hurt the growing animals if I put a little weight onto their backs now and again. With careful attention to how and when it was safe, I could sit astride some of them as they moved around the ever-reducing space; it wasn’t the stallion of my dreams but better than nothing. Having considered this riding experiment would most likely not work outside, in the open expanse of the fields, it was something I needed to master within these confines and sooner rather than later. It took some time but I worked out which of the more amiable animals would tolerate my more interactive attentions and with persistence they would appear to be quite happy to carry me round. There was no direct control that horse riders had, but it might be something for the future. This pseudo riding was a wonderful feeling to have between my thighs and yet another step towards something more exciting.

Regular practice allowed me to grip on with my legs, enough to stop me falling off but not enough to irritation to my mount. It got easier as they became more used to the task and I quickly learnt how to get on, stay on and also slip off safely. Eventually I could ride for minutes rather than seconds which was indeed progress and good enough for now.

The enhanced feelings of arousal lasted for equally short periods and I knew I needed further development of my technique. With my improving balance, leg control and eventually being able to steady myself with just one hand, I worked out how to pump myself to orgasm with the other. It was so much better although disappointingly quicker than when it was just me on my own, but the combination was fixed; for good.

Once we had all settled into an easy acceptance, it seemed to be time to try to work out how to introduce the more technical side of riding. To start with this was rather difficult as there was rarely enough time to try any new types of coercement before I had to deal with my inevitable bodily emissions. This annoyance was most likely the point where I started to separate some of the now more distinct fetishes and would find it easier to get the masturbation bit out-of-the-way first. The development of a separation technique was infinitely useful.

Working on it regularly, between all the other day-to-day jobs, in time I had selected animals which were more easily ridden and eventually had two to choose from. They could be identified by their individual if minor markings in an otherwise uniform brown and white herd. A simple rope halter was a normal piece of farm kit and it only took a few attempts to get its appropriate use accepted by my charges; it was always good practice to have control of an animal anyway and it saved lots of pointless running round for me. Experimenting with different things, ropes, straps, belts, crude bits made from suitable thick wire, not everything was successful but I gradually gained more control of my pretend horses with a view to getting a more realistic riding experience. Knowing that nothing I could cobble together could ever be the same as any proper riding tack, I knew it was something I had to be more creative with.

For the subtler aides to control, having been observant of real riders, I tried to work out anything I could associate with my own hand and leg actions. Despite all my enthusiasm, my attempts to recreate what I considered might be a traditional schooling method on my animals never did seem to work. Of course, I didn’t appreciate any of the training methods which take place in normal situations and the simple expectation of these creatures instinctively knowing what was expected of them was laughable. Having only a superficial knowledge anyway, I was lucky to have the small amount of sway in their movements and just having the appearance of real riding plus the frequent additional non-riding benefits, would have to do as we made our regular if still tentative circumnavigation of the pen. Eventually I would also find out it was virtually impossible to train cows as you do horses so I had done quite well under the circumstances; or so I compensated myself anyway.

The compromise was made. By being able to just jump up, slide my leg over and clamp my thighs and ankles to the roundness and rippling warmth of their sturdy bodies, my pleasure was assured but not restricted. Variations of just lying across their back and encouraging walking could enhance the sexual pleasure and even more so if you also left your engorged member sticking out of your jeans. Other modifications would be tested out in a learning curve of harmless, sometimes messy but always fantastical fun.

Once the beasts were big enough to go outside in the fields, I was glad of my persistence and patience with the halter and other devices. Now participating animals could be caught up with no fuss or running about and that illusive feeling of power and control would be satisfied for yet another short, but wholly satisfying time. The simple task of taking charge of a large independent animal combined with the minimal control and a measure of clandestine deception topped it off nicely. Having soon determined where about in the fields was safely out of anyone’s sight, I could lead my charges easily to an appropriate spot and we could indulge in our intimate games; or were they just mine

Disappointingly, the bigger they grew the greater the challenge of having control became and the less they wanted to move about with me on their backs. Despite a shift in the power to weight ratio I had originally expected to go in my favour, my visualisation of galloping around fully competent in my riding technique was not to be realised. Any attempt to coerce managed movement was fruitless although, it didn’t stop my groin based pleasures. Ultimately though, the loss of the actual riding experience was disheartening.

To offset these unavoidable failings, I concentrated on developing more of the personal side of my experimentation but still assisted by them. To this end, I explored my earlier trials with nudity; mainly during the summer months that is. It required a total awareness of everything going on around me but, with very careful arrangement of body parts, the frisson of excitement, panic and illicit escapism, I enjoyed the enhanced feelings which the experience gave very much. The exposure the experience gave seemed to have some degree of interest for the ever-inquisitive noses which was often as stimulating as any manual provocation. For now, the riding element continued to be an unrequited desire whereas the satisfactory sexual outcomes I could always manage; despite the frustrations, in my semi fantasy world, each would never be completely divorced from the other.

Sadly, there would only be two sets of cows to indulge myself with as we stopped having the very small ones in favour of the more mature animals. These were near impossible to halter train let alone make ready for riding but I persisted as much as I could, all be it with diminishing returns. There were still opportunities to investigate other ‘educational’ things but it seemed the riding experience was going to have to wait for now.

Without it being readily available ‘on tap’ as it were, I did start to question myself as to why it had become such an important thing or if it had become just a habit; I couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t find an acceptable answer. Obviously whatever I contrived, it would never quite work out exactly as I wanted it to be and every time I saw someone on a real horse I would yearn for the chance to be up there, in control, in harmony, in paradise.

The full riding experience, at least the best approximation of it would come eventually but not until much later in a wider and sometimes more productive arena; my obsession would be fully formed eventually.

Throughout all my self-indulgent, brilliant, selfish, frightening but always exhilarating familiarities, I knew I wasn’t having the usual adolescent experience. I still had no idea of what ‘usual’ would involve anyway. Looking back, I am sure everything was magnified by the relative isolation of my teens but, to me, at the time at least, it was all very real. Today, I don’t try to excuse the person who I was but trying to understand it all despite self-reflection being a concept lost on me. All I wanted to do was work out how to maximise my experiences and minimise the inherent dangers which, overall, I did quite well.

When I was old enough, the need to get away from the confines of our farm became too strong to ignore and I often walked around the village or neighbour’s fields looking for new things to relish. With the riding, unfulfilled at home but still desperately prominent in my mind, from some hidden depth I plucked up the courage to visit somewhere where I knew they had real horses. Despite knowing the people who lived at this other farm, I felt just as intimidated as I did by most of the rest of the village. Once I had reached my destination, I ended up dithering about near the yard gate realising I hadn’t thought this through at all and was now frustrated not knowing what I was going to do next.

“Can I help you with anything?”

In my consternation, I hadn’t noticed the lady of the house come out of the kitchen door.

“I, er, er, I just wondered if there was anything I could help out with on the farm today?”

She was a nice woman and was kind enough to understand my unqualified approach as she told me there wasn’t anything that she could think of for the moment.

“I wondered if you needed someone to exercise the horses?”

Although I knew all the right phrases, even if I didn’t understand their implications, I bumbled on.

“I know you’re always very busy and just wondered if they needed it?”

She smiled a broad, knowing smile and I knew at once I had made an idiot of myself. Thankfully, my obvious embarrassment ended the meeting quickly and I scurried away flush faced with the briefest of silent acknowledgements. Although I didn’t try anything like that again, perhaps I should have persisted if only to curtail some of my other activities. Although I would still wander past those and several other beacons of my desire, I was never stupid enough to be caught being interested. It was easy to watch the animals in question by covert means, but I found I always needed more than this distant exhilaration. How I ever thought I was capable of working with such creatures I had no idea. Although having to be content to observe from a distance until a plan could be formed, there was always the hope for sight of their magnificent extremes and elegance and the dream of being astride, in control and at the mercy of these incomparable machines.

There was another hammering on the window from the yard outside although I had already registered that the yard was occupied, I was not ready for its intrusion.

“Bastards,” Dave seemed to have been caught out as well, “fuck off and leave us alone,” it was a wasted exertion as we were all alone in our own diverse ways.

 

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