Rip the Jacker

Rip the Jacker (Part 2) By Dolphin Dan

*** WARNING ***

This story focuses on masturbation and sexual desire among members of the same gender. It also contains descriptions of sexuality. If it is illegal or morally uncomfortable for you to view such material, please do not continue. This story is a work of fiction. It did not happen.

[OUR STORY: Kyle, a bisexual teenager at Homer High School, has discovered the joys of self-pleasuring, and has also realized he has a fetish for inanimate objects that can be triggered by unpredictable stimuli. He recently stole a pen belonging to Ryan, a friend of his, but quickly returned it. He realizes he is becoming more bold in his actions.]

Shortly after the Ryan episode I began to develop what I called my "tenets." They were my own personal rules regarding masturbation, which I committed myself to following scrupulously, whether they were rational or not. I wrote them down, and in fact went through several drafts of them before settling on the final Tenets that ruled my later career as the Jacker. My drafts of the Tenets, which were not meant to be "consumed" (i.e., destroyed) as a part of my masturbation rituals, necessitated that I start a secret notebook and begin worrying about the security of my things. At the time I was working on the Tenets, which was in the spring of my sophomore year in high school, I became absolutely fanatical about my privacy. If either of my parents set foot in my bedroom I went berserk. I began doing my own laundry, refusing to let anyone touch it. When my brother told me he'd come into my room to borrow a book I did not speak to him for three days. It was all obsessive and extreme, but it all stemmed from my fear of the Tenets being discovered. They never were.

Here they are, copied from the selfsame piece of notebook paper onto which I copied my "final draft" during tenth grade:

1. Masturbation is a spiritual experience with three components: mental, physical, and emotional. 2. Never waste your cum. Never masturbate unless you know where it's going and how to dispose of it in a respectful manner. 3. If you cum on your body (stomach etc.) you must rub it into your skin until it dries. 4. If you cum in your hand, you must eat it, all of it, before it becomes cool. 5. If you cum in or on an object, that object must have spiritual significance to you. 6. It is better if the object you cum on has some connection to the person you are thinking of while you cum. 7. If you steal an object from someone with the intention of coming in or on it, you must think about that person while you cum, and you must return the object to them undamaged. Cum stains that can be washed off without permanently harming the object do not count as damage. 8. If you steal an object from someone under Tenet 7, although they may know someone has cum on it, they must not know that you are the person who did it, unless you love that person. 9. You must not hurt anyone in the course of obtaining any objects under Tenet 7, and you may not fantasize about hurting anyone during the course of any masturbation involving objects stolen from another person. 10. Because you cannot produce cum without feeling pleasure, coming on something belonging to another person, or coming on or in the presence of another person, is an act of affection from you toward that person.

Enough with the preliminaries. I must explain now how I became the Jacker, and what happened as a result of it.

First I will describe myself as of the time it all started. Imagine that it's the fall of 1997. I'm sixteen years old, and a junior at Homer High. I am exactly six feet tall, and I have blonde hair, shaved pretty short. I'm on the slim side, 152 pounds. I wear a size 10 shoe, jeans with a waist of 34 and an inseam also of 34, and a watch on my right hand that was given to me by my aunt, whose husband works for the school district. (I am right-handed, but masturbate with my left hand. I choose to wear my watch on my right hand so I don't have to take it off before I masturbate). I have one earring in my left ear. I'm not athletic. I'm not that popular. I'm probably not even that attractive. My favorite bands are Rage Against the Machine and Fear Factory. The only school activity I'm involved in is the Latin Club. I usually wear baggy jeans and colored T-shirts or sweatshirts. I wear size 33 boxer shorts, usually made by Jockey--no designer stuff--but only dark colors, and the only patterns I allow myself to wear are plaids or paisleys. I believe striped boxers are inherently unlucky. My penis, when erect, is exactly 5 and 3/8ths inches long. I'm circumcised and my dick is entirely straight, no curvature at all. I have a large birthmark, about the size of a quarter, under my right nipple.

The only TV I watch is the Simpsons on Sunday nights, because I think advertising is inherently bad and want to limit my exposure to commercials. My favorite movie is Remains of the Day, a very boring and talk-heavy film; my best friend, Jeremy, doesn't even know I like that movie. My favorite book is The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. I hang out mostly with Jeremy, and two other friends, Greg and Paul. I have never had sexual feelings toward any of them, except Paul, who is pretty cute. My sexual feelings for him came about as a result of--yes, you guessed it--seeing his underwear. However, I have never constructed a ritual regarding him or even masturbated while thinking of him. I'm a good student, mostly A's, a few B's now and again. I'm on the honor roll and my teachers are talking about putting me in Advanced Placement classes in my senior year. My parents are pretty active in school affairs in the district, and my uncle Randall is on the school board. I have never been seriously in trouble in school or with the law. Outwardly I'm an entirely normal kid, a bit bookish at times.

I want you to have a picture of me as I was then. That's why I've taken the time to describe myself. Aside from my somewhat unorthodox view of masturbation--which I guess isn't that unorthodox compared to some of the shit I've seen people be into since I've been an adult--there wasn't really anything going on at that time that sparked me to do what I did. However, I must confess that backyard wrestling probably had something to do with it.

You've probably heard of, or seen, backyard wrestling. In the late '90s it was popular, kids who start amateur wrestling leagues of their own, emulating pro wrestling, except the moves are highly dangerous and involve weapons like folding metal chairs, barbed wire, thumb tacks, light bulbs, two-by-fours and other assorted nasties. Sometimes it's faked and sometimes it's not. One September afternoon shortly after school started Jeremy asked me if I wanted to over to this guy's house--his name was Noah Sandoval, and he was in our English class--and see a backyard wrestling match. He said Noah and some other guys from the sophomore class had started a backyard wrestling league in our town and their matches were already infamous. I wasn't that much into wrestling, but I figured, what the hell. "Sure, count me in," I said. Jeremy had just gotten his car, a beat-up old Chevy Cutlass, and we were enjoying the newfound freedom of being able to go places on our own.

So, we went to Noah's house and found a couple of people there, and Noah and his friends from the sophomore class were busy setting up their makeshift wrestling ring which was really only a ring of stakes, connected with wire, around a patch of clear ground in the field behind Noah's house. Some people had brought a cooler of beer, and I didn't drink much but I had one anyway, and the match got underway. "You've got to see this, dude," said Jeremy. "It's totally nuts!" It was. Noah, who called himself The Flash, battled an Asian dude named Michael, whose stage name was The Commodore. First they went at each other with boards. Then Noah got his hands on a string of barbed wire and flailed it at his opponent. At one point The Commodore broke a fluorescent tube over Noah's back. When the lighter fluid and Bic lighters came out, everybody sucked in their breath. To make a long story short, Noah's T-shirt got set on fire and he stripped it off very quickly; he, the Commodore and the announcer, a guy named Kevin, stamped it out, but then Noah's shoe was on fire and he had to take that off too. He threw it out of the ring and it landed on the grass, still smoldering but not really damaged, and the match continued. Noah, now shirtless and wearing only one shoe, was pronounced the winner, and neither of them looked particularly hurt except for a gash on Michael's forearm from the barbed wire. This led me to believe that the match was more fake than real, but it was still pretty nuts, just as Jeremy had promised.

I can never tell what's going to set off my sexual radar, so I had no way of knowing that Noah Sandoval was going to become my next "ritual." It didn't even hit me until the next day when I was sitting in English class, staring at him, and realized I was rock-hard. Noah was pretty attractive. He had shoulder-length dark hair and black marble-like eyes--and the previous afternoon I'd been lucky enough to see him with his shirt off, which was certainly a pleasant sight--but what caught my attention was his shoe. He wore a pair of beat-up old Vans skating shoes, and, as they were generally trashed even before the backyard wrestling match, the fact that his right shoe now had a large scorched spot right on the toe merely added to their character. Something about it deeply attracted me. I guess part of me probably wanted to have sex with Noah--that's how I would interpret it today, that is--but at the time I wanted more than anything else to cum in that shoe. It would not do to cum ON it. I had to cum inside of it, into the portion that would have contact with his foot when he wore it. I thought of what it would be like to rub my penis in the mouth of that shoe, especially if it was still warm from Noah having worn it, or still damp from his sweat. Like Chris Morgan's underwear and Ryan's pen, I had recognized the object that was to be my next fetish, and I had to set about accomplishing it.

But this was an even greater conundrum than I'd faced before. Ryan's pen was easy to swipe, but Noah's shoe was literally attached to him all day long, and, like Chris's underwear, it would take a serious and extremely dangerous expenditure of effort to acquire it. The shoes were so old and gross that I held out hope that Noah might soon throw them away, and perhaps I could sneak by his house and raid the trash can or something along those lines; but that seemed completely ludicrous, and, as Noah didn't much give a damn what he looked like, I doubted he would get rid of the shoes anytime soon. I had learned from the Chris Morgan experience that, if I failed at putting together a satisfactory ritual, I should not internalize my own failure and direct it at the person. Noah and I weren't exactly friends, but I didn't want to get him on my bad side. So, I started to think about what I could do that would satisfy me, and how to do it with a minimum of risk to myself.

This was, in some ways, the rub. By then I was old enough to realize that the risk factor was something that excited me. The boy at the swim club had been taking a risk, and that same factor, the fear of getting in trouble either for masturbating at an inappropriate time and place or actually stealing something to help me get off, had been incorporated into my rituals from the get-go. It was possible, I thought, that I could come up with a "surrogate" for Noah's shoe, but I would have to do the deed under conditions of risk that would heighten the experience and compensate for the inauthentic nature of the object. And, as per Tenet 6, it still had to have some connection with Noah. I thus engineered my most elaborate ritual yet.

One of the first things I did was to begin cruising Value Village and places of that nature for the nastiest, shabbiest old skateboarding shoes I could find. I did not think I'd be lucky enough to happen upon a pair of the same model as Noah wore, but after a week of secretly taking the bus after school to various thrift stores I found a pair that was a reasonable approximation of Noah's own. Dousing the toe of the right shoe with lighter fluid and setting it alight was fairly easy, once I could take to the backyard and use the hibachi when my parents and brother were gone for enough time to accomplish it. When I was done I had a shoe that at least resembled his enough to remind my dick of my secret fetish, although I knew that I wouldn't be satisfied with just this. The key was to "Noahfy" the shoe to an extent that it met Tenet 6--a personal connection with Noah himself.

For two weeks I agonized over this part of the ritual. I did not touch myself for those two weeks; when I'm in the midst of putting together a ritual I don't masturbate at all until I can accomplish what I'm after. I thought of everything from trying to pick a hair off Noah's jacket to trying to pick up a Kleenex he'd blown his nose into--disgusting as that sounds--but nothing seemed to fit the bill. The key concept, it seemed to me, should involve soaking. Whatever piece of Noah I could get, I would either grind up really fine, or burn and grind up the ashes, then mix it in water and pour it into the mouth of the right-hand shoe. I would have to then cum inside it while the shoe was still damp. But the element of risk was still lacking.

Ultimately I realized I would have to act, because I hadn't cum in weeks, I was going crazy and needed my Noah fixation to be over with. What I did was creative, if I say so myself. I made a Xerox of the page of our Homer High 1996-97 yearbook that had Noah Sandoval's picture on it. (The yearbook also told me Noah's middle initial--which was J--and was to be a crucial part of my plan). I cut out his picture and burned it in an ashtray, and carefully saved the powdery ashes. My brother had gotten new contact lenses a few weeks before, and I took from the bathroom one of the little vials that the contacts had come in. I sprinkled the ashes of Noah's yearbook picture into the vial, added some water, and waited. I kept the right-hand shoe in a paper bag inside my backpack. I figured if anyone saw it they would think it was my lunch.

I had already begun to watch Noah very carefully and make notes of his habits. I almost always do this for a potential "target," if only so I can determine the possibility of getting ahold of something they owned. We had English third period. There was a short break after third period, fifteen minutes. I didn't know what Noah's next class was after English, but I did notice that he often went to the bathroom during the break before his next class. The bathroom, I had decided, would be the scene of the deed. It would provide the risk factor as well as one more (albeit tenuous) personal connection to Noah.

One Friday morning, my chance arrived. For several days now I'd taken to gathering my books slowly and then leaving English class after Noah had left, following him to the third-floor bathroom while hanging back far enough so that he would not notice I was following him. On each occasion I walked casually into the bathroom to find him standing at the urinal. Sometimes he'd notice me and say hi, sometimes not, but in any event he never seemed to notice I was following him, for the post third-period break was a totally natural time to make a bathroom break, and that particular restroom was closest to our previous class. But to make my plan work I had to wait until Noah went into--and eventually came out of--a stall. On that Friday morning I walked into the bathroom as usual. I saw no one at the urinal, but I saw one of the battered, graffiti-covered stall doors bolted shut. There was no one else in the bathroom. I glanced down. I saw several folds of denim resting above two battered Vans sneakers, one of which had a burn mark on the toe. It was him!

My dick was immediately erect. I couldn't have pissed even if I wanted to, but I went to the urinal and pretended to, trying to stretch out the time as much as possible. I flushed the urinal and went to the sink. I took a long time washing my hands. I hoped Noah wasn't in there having the shit of his life or I would be late for class; I'd be cutting it close in any event. Fortunately I heard the loud explosive flush of the toilet, the creak of the stall door opening, and then Noah was beside me at the sink. "Hey, man," he said.

"Hey, what's up."

"Pop quiz," he muttered, shaking his head. "Kanarek's such a prick. I can't believe I ended up with him for English."

"I think he took everybody by surprise."

Noah took some towels, dried his hands, slung his backpack over his shoulder and exited. "Later," he said.

As soon as the bathroom door clanged shut I bolted into action. I darted into the stall Noah had just vacated and closed and latched the door. The stall smelled like his shit, but it did not kill my intense arousal. I put my backpack on the back of the toilet, unzipped it and took out the shoe. I set it on the toilet seat and with one hand began to unzip my jeans and with the other reached for the little vial in my pocket that contained the "Noah water." With quivering hands I pulled the little rubber stopper that opened the vial and emptied it into the mouth of the shoe. But then, fumbling, I dropped the vial, and it shattered on the tile floor. "Shit!" I muttered. I thought of cleaning it up but figured I'd leave it. With my left hand I was already stroking my penis, hard and red, aching for the release I had denied it for so long. I doubted that I masturbated for more than thirty or forty seconds. An involuntary groan escaped my lips. I brought the shoe to my groin and pressed the head of my dick against the cold wet spot of its insole, soaked with the water that contained the ashes of Noah's picture. My dick exploded. I came longer and more intensely than ever before. I must have pumped ten or twelve hard spurts of cum into the shoe, and my balls felt like they were turning inside out. I was thinking of Noah's foot, when I had seen him take it out of the flaming shoe at the wrestling match just before he kicked the shoe out of the ring. It was a glorious, shuddering orgasm.

As soon as I finished ejaculating I had to arrange my escape. The bell to end break rang; I now had four minutes to reach my next class. I pulled up my underwear and my jeans, and then I took the shoe and dipped my index finger into the warm pool of fresh semen that lay inside of it. As if I was finger-painting with my own cum I traced three initials--N.J.S.--onto the side of the stall. You could barely see it, except for the little black speckles--remnants of the yearbook picture ashes--that outlined the letters.

My original plan was to drop the shoe on the floor, grab my backpack and run. I'd gotten away with it, and left my mark. But it still seemed incomplete. I'm not sure why I did what I did next. I was still holding the shoe and it occurred to me that, as unusual as it might be to find a single shoe on the floor underneath a toilet stall, it might not necessarily be connected with the other clues I'd left, assuming anyone noticed them. It might just get kicked away into the corner. Thus, on impulse, I tied the laces of the shoe around the pipe leading up from the toilet into the tiled wall. When I was done the shoe hung there, still full of my cum, in an unmistakable act of deliberation.

Getting out of the bathroom was the next and most dangerous part of my escape. The next person who went into that stall would, at the very least, notice the shoe tied to the pipe. They might not notice the initials scrawled on the wall in some barely-visible liquid substance, or the little pieces of broken glass on the floor, but it would be weird enough that they would definitely remember who they saw coming out of the bathroom moments before. But time and luck were on my side. No one came into the bathroom as I left, and I exited into the hall which was full of students changing classes. I had gotten away with it.

That afternoon I felt positively euphoric. I felt completely satisfied, emotionally and sexually at peace, and a good deal more cheerful than I had in weeks. It didn't even scare me that it had taken such an unusual act to find a sexual high, although this did come to worry me later. I felt great. I even felt like I could call up Noah tonight and say, "Hey, you want to hang out?" without feeling in the least bit strange about it. I have never tried drugs, but the high I had that afternoon must have felt something like it. It was weird, even creepy I suppose, but ultimately harmless. And it was the sexiest thing I'd ever done in my life up until then.

I never heard any repercussions from what I'd done. Someone must have discovered the strange clues I left in the bathroom, and probably only minutes after I had departed, but I never heard about it, not even, "Did you hear some weirdo jerked off in a sneaker and left it tied to a toilet in the third-floor bathroom?" I'm sure the shoe was thrown away, the wall sponged and the glass shards swept up without any harm done. But I was glowing with satisfaction. My ritual over Noah Sandoval, therefore, was the first official "attack" of Rip the Jacker--though no one yet knew it at the time, even me.

If the first attack was a long shot, the second was a cakewalk. It was a "gimmie"--the target just gave up the artifact of my lust without the slightest bit of difficulty. In some ways the second Jacker episode was more important than the first, because it established a pattern. The target this time--I prefer that word to the term "victim," because none of the people I fantasized about were victimized by my actions--was John Crane, a football and basketball player, and a senior in the class above me. He was one of the best athletes at Homer High and one of the most popular boys in school. I'm usually not attracted to those types, but if Crane had purposely set out to become a target of Rip the Jacker, he could not have done a better job.

Unlike the lengthy torment of many weeks that I'd spent arranging Noah's ritual, John went from nonentity to target and back to nonentity in the course of one day. It was a Thursday in late October, one of the first days that the weather began to get truly cold and miserable. I remembered that day because it was the day of the meeting for the school paper. Paul, my second best friend after Jeremy, had begun to work on Homer High's paper--predictably it was called The Iliad--at the beginning of the semester, largely because he was a good photographer and the previous chief shutterbug for the Iliad had graduated in May. Paul was a technical whiz. He loved cameras, computers and filmmaking, fancied himself the next Steven Spielberg, and lived in a detached garage that he'd persuaded his parents to let him convert into a bedroom and computer room. He was pretty stylish too, or at least I thought so. He was a little bit chubby, but certainly not fat. He had long dark hair that he usually wore in a careless ponytail, and he had kind gray eyes and an infectious smile. You could usually find him hanging around the lobby or the athletic fields taking pictures for the Iliad. By that Thursday he'd been working on me for weeks. "Kyle, you're such a good writer," he told me one day at lunch. "I've read your stuff. You ought to write for the paper. Come on, it'd be fun!" Finally I agreed. I wasn't that big on extracurricular activities, but I guess I didn't stand anything to lose. The trick was, they were putting out the special Halloween issue, and, short-staffed as the paper almost always was, they needed me quick. The faculty adviser, Mrs Brune, had something to do in the evenings for three days that week so it was decided that she, Paul and Ginny Sturmond, the editor of the paper, would give me a quick orientation during fifth period, the only time during the day they could all do it. Fifth period was my gym class. You could skip a gym class twice a semester, if you did a make-up. Conveniently enough there was a make-up session scheduled for that very afternoon, Thursday, for all the other slackers who had skipped gym class. I went to the orientation meeting and officially began that day to work for the Iliad. The gym class make-up was how I came to be in the right place at the right time.

Make-up gym sessions were just bullshit--if you jogged around the field a few times and kept pace, Coach Jamison would call it good. But you still had to "dress out"--put on gym clothes--which had to be some kind of legal threshold for "counting" it as a real gym class. Jamison was just the assistant coach, and that afternoon, as a bank of very ominous dark-gray clouds gathered on the horizon, he had about six or eight of us running laps on the south field. Football practice was happening on the field next to us, run by Timmons, the fuerher of Homer High's (supposedly) top-ranked football team since Nixon had been in the White House. As we ran laps we listened to the incessant whistles and rebukes of Coach Timmons of the football team. "Come on, you pansies! Pick up the pace! Knight, you call that a tackle? Crane, I thought you were a letterman? What is this? Let's go!" I noticed John Crane because he was in my chemistry class, and because he had pretty calves. I had never really noticed calves on a guy before. Where his knee-length football pants ended, his legs were bare--very well-proportioned, pleasingly curved lower legs dusted with exactly the right amount of hair. Crane didn't turn me on that much at the time, but then, after the football team's drills ended, Timmons decided to let them play a practice match mostly for fun, and Jamison was still leading us through laps on the neighboring field, it began to rain.

It was a cloudburst. The ominous gray clouds choked the sky, the temperature dropped by five degrees in the course of a few minutes, and then the heavens opened up. "Just a few more minutes," Coach Jamison promised, pulling his baseball cap down against the deluge. At first it looked like a quick squall. But after a few minutes the rain reached a driving intensity and was splashing in puddles between the stalks of grass. A cold wind was blowing. Kenny, one of my classmates who was on the makeup session with me, said, "I'm getting drenched. Isn't he going to call it in?" As if in answer, Jamison finally blew his whistle and motioned back toward the school. He was taking mercy on us.

Coach Timmons was not so kind. Even in the driving rain the practice game was still going on. In fact the players relished it, a good old-fashioned football mud fest. Several of the team members were dancing crazily on the ten-yard line. A glorious pass sailed into the hands of one of the team's fullbacks. Crane would have none of this. He whooped in victory, and he and another football player charged the runner with all their might. The last thing I saw before I went inside the metal fire doors of the gymnasium was a gooey, skidding mud-filled tackle on the grass.

The eight of us from the gym makeup session went to our lockers and dressed. "Gentlemen!" said Coach Jamison. "Some towels for you. Please put them in that bin over there when you leave." I thought that was very nice of him. I think they kept the towels on hand for the football team; they'd certainly need them today. As I dressed, the thunder of the rain against the glass of the very high frosted windows set just under the ceiling of the locker room became an ominous roar. The storm was actually getting much more intense. I remember wondering how long the football team was going to be out there.

As it turned out it wasn't much later. Maybe subconsciously I dressed slow because I was waiting for them, but I didn't do it by design. "Later, man," said Kenny, gathering up his bag and leaving me as I toweled off my hair and sat down to tie my shoes. Before he left, though, we heard the clanging of doors and a very loud cacophony of cheerful shouting. "Jocks," Kenny muttered, shaking his head, and was gone.

The football team was a mess. They were sopping wet, covered from head to foot in mud. They hollered and shouted, laughed, traded off-color insults and generally made merry. It was obvious the football game on the muddy field had put them all in excellent spirits. I hadn't quite finished zipping up my bag and leaving yet; I'd put a stick of gum in my mouth and I had to step over to the other aisle of lockers to throw away the wrapper in the nearest trash can. Three or four of the players were there, stripping. Crane was one of them. "Jesus Christ, Gaines, you really did a number on me," he moaned. He was muddier than most of his teammates. His jersey, which was already lying on the floor, was a heap of mud-encrusted fabric. His face was covered exactly halfway with mud. He looked like Mel Gibson in Braveheart, with half of his face done up in war paint. At the precise moment I stepped aside to toss my gum wrapper in the trash can he was pulling down his mud-soaked football pants. You could barely tell he had underwear on. His formerly-white briefs were soaked all the way through, and he looked like he had a map of the world rendered across his muscular ass.

That was it. That was what it took. A nice body, meaty pecs, his bare mud-splattered back, and his underwear. As a rule I don't find the beefcake type attractive, but Crane standing there covered in mud clicked on the inexplicable circuit in my libido. In fact it hit me so hard that when I returned to my own aisle from the trash can I had to stop in my tracks, swallow hard and figure out what to do.

"Jesus, Gaines, this is some nasty shit! I'm soaked literally to the skin, you bastard." This was Crane's voice from the other row. I was the last person of the make-up class who had not yet exited the locker room, and to them I might as well not even exist. Like everything else that day, it was pure coincidence that I was in the right place at the right time. I was almost to the end of the row of lockers, and from where I stood I had the vantage point where I could see the wire-mesh trash can I had just stepped away from. "Fucking disgusting!" A moment later something sailed from afar and landed on the edge of the trash basket, half-in and half-out. It was some limp cloth mass, formerly white, but now almost completely soiled with mud. I couldn't believe it. It was Crane's underwear. He evidently gave up hope that they could be washed clean, or else didn't care enough to bring them home to try.

"I'm gonna be freeballing it all the way home tonight," he groused. "Gaines, I'm gonna get you, you son of a bitch!"

"Is it my fault you don't know how to take a tackle?" came a mocking reply from another row of lockers.

I had a split-second to react. Crane was naked at this very moment; I knew that. If I wanted to see anything I had about two or three seconds to come up with an excuse to visit the trash can again. As I've said before, I would never have been the Jacker without the ability to think on my feet. Immediately I forced the wad of gum I was chewing to the front of my mouth and, as I stepped back toward the trash can, I spat it through my lips into my hand. It would look totally natural; I was just throwing away my gum. No one knew I had only just started chewing it, and, as absorbed as the football players were in each other and their male bonding, no one would notice me anyway.

I glanced. I needn't have hurried. Crane didn't seem to give a damn who saw him or for how long. He stood at his locker, completely naked, casually taking out his shampoo, deodorant and little box of soap. A long dangling penis hung down from a thick bush of hair. His balls were huge. I didn't linger; I only stayed long enough to throw away my gum and return to my own aisle of lockers.

There I knew I had to stall. I immediately sat down and took off my shoes, and then took a long time to put them back on and re-tie them. I had not planned to do another "hit," but my dick felt like it would rip through my jeans and attack me if I didn't service it pretty much immediately. The situation struck me as irresistible because this would not be a case of engineering some kind of ritual in order to act out a fantasy. Seeing Crane naked was a nice plus, but what I really wanted was the underwear he'd thrown away. It was sordid and kind of appalling, at least when I thought about it later in the cold light of day, but it was still a harmless thing; it was just good clean mud. I didn't want to have sex with Crane. I wanted to use his briefs to wipe mud on my skin. That wasn't a fantasy. It would be the real thing, because that was what I wanted to do; that would give me my release. Crane himself was a detail. My attraction to him had been useful for the sole purpose of imbuing an inanimate object with a sexual importance that I could use for my own gratification.

I seized upon a plan. When I heard the hiss of the showers starting and the din of the football players' conversation dying off in that direction, I saw an opening. I zipped my bag partially open. It wouldn't appear to be open, but I could stuff an object inside of it and conceal it in a second or two. My heart pounded. I was so turned on that my boxers were already wet; I could feel precum oozing out of the tip of my penis. I did not hear footsteps or lockers slamming in the aisle next to me. If there were no football players within actual view of the trash can, I could get away with it. Finally I got the courage to move. I slung the bag over my shoulder and began to walk. My eyes flicked to the right and the left. I saw lockers open, muddy towels and clothes on the floor, many pairs of muddy football cleats--but no players in view, though I could hear two talking in the next aisle over. As I passed I grabbed the briefs on the lip of the trash can and stuffed them into my bag. It was zipped up by the time I reached the next aisle; the football players there never knew anything was amiss. As I left the locker room I passed the doorless entryway into the showers. I saw Crane himself there, behind a low tiled wall, still smiling and trading insults with Gaines. I seriously doubt any of them knew I was there.

At the door to the locker room I decided I would head for the nearest bathroom down the hall and get the deed done as quickly as possible. I might miss the late bus, but I didn't care. If I didn't cum in the next three minutes I felt like my brain was going to explode. I had one strange impulsive thought. I was momentarily frozen between the door of the locker room and the door of the gymnasium. The open doors to the coaches offices were ahead of me. Coach Timmons was in the inner office on the phone; Jamison was nowhere in sight. There was a little business card holder on the edge of Jamison's desk which contained copies of the Homer High football games schedule printed on little glossy cards. I looked twice, stepped into the office and grabbed a handful. Again I was quick, lucky and unobserved. I stuffed them into the pocket of my baggy jeans. As I did my hand brushed the swollen head of my dick, hot even through my boxers and the fabric of my inner pocket. Walking down the hall toward the bathroom near the drama rooms I wished I could masturbate right here in the hall. If I cut a strategic hole in the bottom of my inner pocket I could reach right through it with my hand, pull the head of my dick out of the fly opening of my boxers and jack off right while I was walking. Immediately I vowed to make that preparation, in case this kind of situation came up in the future.

I went into the bathroom. It was late in the afternoon, classes were long since done and most activities were finishing, so I wasn't too worried about being discovered. I went into a stall and set my bag across the toilet seat so it wouldn't be observed on the floor under the stall in case anyone did come in. I unzipped it and took out Crane's briefs. The mud was cold and stiff now, drying in places. I had to act quickly. I pulled down my jeans and my underwear. Using the briefs I smeared mud across the inside of each thigh and on my balls, trying to keep it off my dick as much as possible. I was panting loudly. I bent my knees, squatting slightly, and rubbed mud on my abdomen between my navel and the start of my bush, where a little trail of hair led down. Finally I jacked, but it was almost unnecessary. I was probably 90% of the way to orgasm before I even touched my dick. I grunted. I let loose with a gigantic load, spurting all over Crane's briefs. Before I was done I had stuck the head of my dick right into the crotch area on the inside, where Crane's own penis had been only a few minutes before. The satisfaction, the pleasant hum that was almost better than orgasm itself, followed in a sweet flood. I didn't know which was better, this or Noah.

But now I realized I had a crime to conceal--or perhaps flaunt. I stood there for a moment, holding the sperm and mud-stained briefs in my hand, wondering what the hell I was doing. But I had no time to dwell on it. I'd gone this far; I had to finish it. I used toilet paper to clean up my muddy legs and stomach as much as possible, but knew I'd have to shower when I got home to get totally clean. Then I zipped up my jeans. I draped Crane's underwear over the piping on the back of the toilet, the same place where I'd tied "Noah's" shoe three floors above. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the little glossy football schedules. My impulsive thought had been to scatter the schedules as sort of a "calling card," and also a connection to the target, for each schedule listed the members of the team on the back, and "#32 John Crane" was in the middle of the list. Holding the schedules in one hand like a deck of cards, I squeezed my hand and then flung them. The pressure of the ends of the deck bending together and the flick of my wrist caused the little cards to explode all over the stall. Some fluttered to the floor, others landed on the toilet seat, a few landed inside the toilet, and one landed on the underwear. I was about ready to leave the stall when I remembered the initials. I had almost totally forgotten. I dipped my finger into one of the now-cold globs of semen on the underwear, and, on the tiled wall above the toilet, wrote the initials "J.C." Again I doubted anyone would notice. White cum on white tile wasn't likely to be seen until it dried and if you looked at it the right way and noticed a difference in the way the light hit it, but this was sort of sexy and exciting. It was a little detail that only very careful observers of my "crimes" would notice. My entire body quivering with satisfaction, I took my bag and left the bathroom.

I was extraordinarily lucky that day. I caught the late bus home. Had I not, I would have had to call Jeremy to come pick me up, or, if I couldn't reach him, my parents. On the way home I wondered who would find the bizarre artifacts left in the bathroom stall, and what they would think of it. My masturbations involving Noah Sandoval and John Crane were the two best orgasms I'd ever had in my life. I began to have serious thoughts about continuing with my dangerous game. Danger was part of the thrill, and the satisfaction.

But on a certain level I was also terribly ashamed. When I got home I crashed emotionally. I was convinced something was terribly wrong with me. I would never be normal. Most guys my age could watch sexy movies or look at magazines or dirty sites on the Internet to get off; I had to steal people's pens and shoes and underwear in order to achieve sexual satisfaction. Furthermore, I was almost, though not quite, gay. I knew that if they knew that my parents would be horrified and shamed, my friends would disown me, and someday I'd end up a wasted skeleton in a hospital bed, wearing IV tubes and an oxygen mask, dying of AIDS. Then I had another terrifying vision of my future: an electric chair. I thought I was a serial killer in training. One day I was stealing Ryan's pen and coming into an old shoe I bought at Value Village; maybe next week I'd be killing people and making dresses out of their skin. It was a horrifying thought. That evening, when I should have been enjoying the afterglow of a good orgasm and the thrill of having gotten away with something forbidden, I spent searching the Internet for sites about serial killers. I read about Ed Gein, Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy. And Jack the Ripper, who they never caught. Would my name someday be on a web site about serial killers? It seemed too horrible to believe.

But then I sat back and thought about it. Kyle, you're going crazy, I thought. Who have you hurt? What have you done that's wrong? Ryan still has his pen. You never touched Noah's shoe; you made a facsimile of it. Crane abandoned his underwear of his own free will. What was there about it that was so bad? The janitor at the school would have to clean up a mess, but that was his job; he put food on his family's table by doing that. Was it so awful that I could find pleasure by doing this? Was pleasure not a good thing, so long as it didn't hurt anybody? One of my Tenets was that I couldn't hurt anybody, or fantasize about doing so (a fantasy that had never crossed my mind anyway). Therefore, what right did anybody have to tell me I was wrong? I wasn't like Ed Gein or Ted Bundy. I was just a kid having fun--fun of a very unusual nature, I grant you, but still just fun.

Something about Jack the Ripper triggered in my mind. I sometimes like to play word games. I have always loved those little "morphs" where you write a word over and over again, changing one letter each time, and turning it into a totally different word. Jack, I knew, was a euphemism for masturbation, which is what I did. After I signed off line and got ready for bed that evening I felt a little better. I was not a serial killer. I was a repressed high school kid with a hyperactive libido. And I now had a name for myself. I would be Rip the Jacker. And I was determined to strike again.

*** TO BE CONTINUED ***