Love for History

He was a bully and we were just kids. It can't be easy teaching 12-13 year olds, which is why you shouldn't spend more than a couple years on any one grade level, but like it or not this guy was stuck with us and we him. He taught in a rote style and was hell bent on making us memorize dates, he had a point to prove I guess and it wasn't about the importance of events in American history or the importance in understanding the relevance f the past in order to understand the happenings of the present. No it was more about understanding that he was in charge and we needed to do what he wanted.
I'm glad then looking back that I jerked off while sitting in his class.

Do you remember what it was like to be that age? An incredible fever of hormones and vitality, a indefusable vigor and energy that was bursting out of every cell in your body as you underwent the great revolution, doubling in size, weight and potential. I was sitting in class when it came over me, that blind hormonal wash over the same one that had beset me that first summer day when i was twelve, when I could no longer handle my burning flesh and tore my clothes off, jumped in the shower and grabbed my dick the way I had seen in the dirty movies I saw in my cousins basement, pumping quickly and achieving a painful and shame-filled dry release. This was my fever as I sat there listening to the droll recitation of dates and the authoritative delivery on how meager our accomplishments were and how poorly we measured up to our instructor's expectations. I can't remember what set it off, but it could have been any of the young nubile bodies in the room, the smells they gave off, the sweat, the musk, the perfumes. In those days the girls all wore Vanilla Fields, a tragic and tacky fragrance but one that to this day drives me absolutely crazy due to its association with this sexual madness. I was wearing colored jeans, they could have been purple, orange or green in the cross-colour era but nevertheless they were no thinner than any other denim. Despite this I could feel my own hand through this garment, a feat I find incredible when compared to the misery I suffer at the hands of Latex safety some fifteen years later. I feigned the tapping of a rhythm on the underside of my desk so ask to mask the true intentions of my hand vigorously brushing the crotch of my pants and so did my ecstasy rise unbeknown to the rest of the class. While the rest of the room slept with eyes open in the stifling atmosphere of the room, my nerve ending were screaming in a thousands crashing octaves of pleasure as I filled the front of my tighties with more than the recommended two teaspoons of seaboys. The true thrill and true victory of this act wasn't in the climax itself but how it was delivered, as in reaching the threshold I endeavored to appear rapt in lecture and made direct eye contact wit the stodgy brute of an instructor and my eyes shone, squinted and closed and baby beans blew clear through seven dimensions of earthly apparel and stuck me to the insides of my pants for the rest of the day. To this day I swear I cause him a stutter, a flinch cuz he knew, he couldn't keep me flaccid, he couldn't keep me crushed, I was raging hard and I just blew my load in his class. Jefferson would have approved.