Beat Off Beatle Bailey

     Mitch and I were thirteen and a half when we got laid for the first time in Germany together, and by then we'd already been beating off for about two years. Sure, we were horndogs all right, to the max. But no circle jerks; we handled our personal business separately and privately.

     Tits and ass shots from Playboy magazine usually floated our jism boat parades and were guaranteed to make us poke a fresh six-inch stiffy straight through the pee-pee slits of our tighty-whity underwear.

     In those early days of magazine pornography, it was illegal for magazines to publish full-frontal nudity. Although pics of fresh young trim, aka pussy shots, were taboo in Hefner's famous mag, a flotilla of sultry pinups and centerfolds in a variety of glossy poses still created plenty of horniness in us, so that at any moment we might yank out our wee spuds and begin jerking off to the orgasmic content just about any place we could find a little privacy.

     Mitch and I believed wholeheartedly in the adage, early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. We almost always hit the sack by 9 PM and almost never stayed out late. But one night Glenn came over for a sleepover and the three of us went out looking for girls in town after dark.

     We didn't need to go far from our residential neighborhood to find a short block of local businesses. Once there we stopped at an outdoor hotdog stand for a late-evening snack. To our surprise and delight, they were horsemeat dogs, which was a normal thing in Iceland. The tasty nibblers came slathered in your choice of fried onions, ketchup, spicy mustard, and mayonnaise.