For years, I had urges that I really didn’t understand. I’d masturbate to them every night. Then the guilt would come. It felt weird. It felt dirty.
It involved my Dad. No- not an incest thing here. I wasn’t in love with him. I loved him: a great deal, in fact. In fact, I rather deeply admired him. I had my rebellion fits. It was 1970, afterall. I was a normal, moody, 14-year-old asshole. We had our squabbles. The squabbles had intensified over the last year.
One side of me wanted to break away. The glasses were easy. I managed to trade my old dark frames for some fashionable wire ones. Mom had intervened and I was allowed to grow my hair somewhat longer. None of the other kids had flattops. It took months of pleading and weeks of slow growth before my hair reached combable length. The next hurdle was being allowed to wear jeans and t-shirts to school. Dad threw a fit, but gradually gave in on that topic, too. My jeans had to be neat and whole. My t-shirts had to pass his approval. My body had started to develop by then. In my 70s jeans and T-shirt, I looked buff and pretty hip. The girls had started to notice me.
I finally got to look and act pretty much the way that I wanted to. Dad didn’t like some of my friends. I occasionally broke curfew. Still, we arrived at a workable “truce”… pretty much like every other father and son.
Funny thing: none of this made me happy. On one hand, it made my social life much easier. On the other hand, I started to have some weird conflicts. Deep down, in my deepest fantasies, I wanted to look and dress like my Dad did.
The Urge had started as an ache- a painful longing. In time, The Urge invaded my idle fantasies. It conjured vivid pictures, each one more detailed and more exciting than the last. The Ache and The Urge collided. They created an emotional power, dominating my psyche as they crossed into my erotic consciousness.
For awhile, I was content to keep The Urge chained to my jack-off life. That was safe. I could get off, still look like I did before, and forget the whole thing for awhile. The Urge seemed rather repulsive after an orgasm. It was a relief not to look like the clean-cut boy of my fantasies. The Urge didn’t last long as a passive fantasy. All too soon, it demanded to enter reality. The Boy, embodied by The Urge, demanded to be allowed to come out. I fought hard against Him. I tried to conjure up other fantasies. I tried to create something strong enough to make The Boy go away.