In my teens, I masturbated to the amalgam of letters, STCDLRAPPLE.
This was Sharon. Tammy. Courtney. Dina. Leslie. Ronnie. Angela. Pam. Phyllis. Laura. And Betsy. (Betsy’s full name was Elizabeth, and apparently I was unable to organize the letters in a manner that included a B.)
I had an image for each girl. Sharon, I visualized in her Jordache jeans. Dina, allowing me a glimpse up her pastel skirt. Angela, in shop class, her pink velour top hanging down, revealing her tiny breasts in their entirely unnecessary bra. (I had a very specific fantasy about Angela that, one day, she would be my “Angel [in] a centerfold.”)
Ronnie was the last to be added. The others all were pre-9th grade. Ronnie was the last addition to a chain of letters that grew from 7th to 9th grades.
I know this because I changed schools in 9th grade. All the others I went to middle school with. Except for one. She was my cousin. And Ronnie alone was a high school classmate.
The routine was this: one by one, I would tick through the letters, rubbing my cock through an eternally cum-stiff t-shirt as I imagined a fixed image of each. Sharon in her jeans. Tammy, in her tank top. Courtney, in her short shorts. And so on….
The order had more to do with the anagram than with my attraction to them. Dina, Angela, Pam and Laura were the ones I thought “hottest,” the ones who carried the greatest erotic charge. Betsy was the “cutest.” My appreciation for her was pretty asexual, really an aesthetic appreciation for her braces, I think.
This was my masturbatory routine well into my 20s, long after most of these girls (now women) had vanished from my life. But the fantasy – images, really, as I jerked myself off to still images, not imagined actions – persisted.
In my 20s, porn took over. Page 3 girls, mostly (I spent some time in the UK, and there was something about topless women in panties in a publication of general circulation that was powerful), but also Playboy portfolios. Valerie Perrine. Henriette Allais. Liz Glazowski. Ola Ray. Barbara Edwards.
1980 was a particularly fecund year.
Then, as now, I particularly enjoyed that which I couldn’t see. Henriette Allais in (or really, mostly, out of) her white cotton skirt.
Liz Glazowski in her sheer bodysuit. Valerie Perrine in her Superman top, her breasts straining to escape. The images from these pictorials linger, tantalizingly, in my mind.