Locking Love Curse

Chapter 2

Tyler could no longer remember the exact moment he’d first discovered m**********n—only that he’d been very young, short for his age, and spent most days roughhousing with the girls he pestered (and secretly liked), his days sailing through classes with ease thanks to a quick mind. He’d been class monitor, student council rep, all of it—carefree, the most relaxed stretch of his childhood.

The first inkling of that indescribable pleasure had come from a pole-climbing game.

Back then, kids often raced to scale the same metal pole. Tyler was slow, so he’d sneak off after school to practice. His grandma, who’d all but let him run wild, couldn’t be bothered to stop him. After she passed, he was practically just as free.

That day, he’d been inching up a thick metal support pole from the playground swing set—thicker than usual, making it tough going. Halfway up, his p***s, trapped between the pole and his thigh, began to tingle.

It stung a little, but the odd itch inside—right where pee came out—was more intriguing than painful. He ignored it, focusing on gripping the pole with his hands and locking his ankles around it.

The sting faded, but the itch lingered, flaring every time his junk pressed against the metal. By the time he’d climbed a couple feet, a sharp, electric tingle shot through his body. He couldn’t stop himself from gripping the pole tighter, his face pressing into the cold metal as his p***s swelled, throbbing urgently. Each spasm sent waves of pleasure coursing through him—so intense he couldn’t describe it.

He froze, clinging to the pole for a few stiff seconds before sliding down, dazed. He leaned against the swing set, mind blank, replaying what had just happened.

He tried again, climbing four more times, until the fourth attempt brought that same rush.

So good, he thought, his young brain storing the feeling like a treasure. Better than flying.

After that, he chased that pleasure relentlessly.

But the playground was too public. Too many kids around—he didn’t want to get caught. So he took to the old parallel bars at the geology institute compound, sneaking there after school.

He figured out a trick: jump to grab the bars, wrap his legs around the frame, and mimic climbing motions. Find the angle that triggered the itch, push through it for a few minutes, and the pleasure would crash over him, leaving him reeling.

In those moments, nothing else existed. Not the math rep who chased him everywhere, not the new Dragon Ball and Saint Seiya comics, not the fancy rubber bands with clips, or the five smooth stones he kept in his pocket, or the frosted glass marbles, or the scented picture cards… All of it faded.

No one knew—not his best friend (the group leader who claimed to “like” him and want to “date” him), not his grandma, not his aunt.

For a while, he thought he was the only one in the world who felt this way.

By upper elementary, he’d discovered a new method: crossing his legs to apply pressure. The catch? His p***s needed to be erect first. His dad and grandma had told him erections happened when you needed to pee, so he’d hold it in, wiggle his hand to get hard, then rush to the outhouse, pee awkwardly, and hurry back to his chair to squeeze his legs together.

Not long after, he came for the first time—a thick, clear liquid spurting from the tip.

He panicked, thinking he’d peed himself. He washed his underwear in secret, telling his grandma he’d “scuffed it” in the outhouse.

But it kept happening. The fluid grew thicker, leaving white, crusty stains on his underwear if left to dry—yellow and stinky by morning.

He fretted for months, until he learned the word: semen. The feeling: orgasm. The act: m**********n (though he’d been doing it with his legs, not his hands—so maybe “legasm”? He’d thought about that).

That was in sixth grade.

One day, his p***s hurt like hell, the skin swollen and shiny. His frantic grandma dragged him to a doctor.

In the old man’s office, Tyler learned: You have to pull back the foreskin to pee. If it won’t budge, we’ll have to operate.

For days, he scrubbed his p***s with hot, violet-tinged water (the doctor’s orders) and scoured libraries and book stalls, desperate to understand. Was the redness from m**********n?

It was a discrete era, but secrets could still be found in tattered books—if you knew where to look. The problem? Half of it was nonsense.

Armed with half-truths, he tried using his hands. If it’s called “m**********n,” there must be a hand method, he thought. Otherwise, shouldn’t it be called “legitation”?

It took ages to get the hang of it. In the meantime, he discovered the showerhead: aim it right, and the water could coax an orgasm without needing an erection. No need to hold his pee anymore—especially not when he’d peek under his desk at his classmate’s white armpit peeking out from her dress sleeve that summer.

This continued until middle school.

Near the entrance of his new school was a bookstore, crammed with shelves of comics, Football Club magazines, Saint Seiya fan zines, and Comic King anthologies. The owner was a bushy-bearded uncle who sat at the door, grinning as girls passed by.

Tyler would never forget that man.

That grinning, smirking guy, watching the girls come and go—that’s the one who’d opened the door to a world of blinding, dizzying light.