In the far corner of our backyard was a vast spreading cedar tree. Its branches spanned the full width of our meagre strip of scuffed turf and beyond, reaching across both adjacent yards and into the properties behind.
We had no plastic toys outside our house, just sturdy wooden wonders made from cedar. Their original beautiful orange tone had weathered to gold, evaporating in wafts of earthy vanilla during warm summer evenings. All the lumber had come from a massive branch removed a few years earlier from the tree, and later lovingly crafted by Pa.
He made a heavy swing seat for me, fashioned from the seasoned cedar, my name carved along its front. He attached it high in the tree’s canopy using thick soft rope, giving it a deep and long parabola. I could swing so high that at its apsis I could see into many other backyards, down the length of the street, and even into the upstairs windows of our neighbors.
I’m unsure how I first learnt my special trick; it just came naturally to me. While I whooshed downwards on my thrilling parabola, I’d learnt to squeeze my thighs together, creating a wonderful tingling flutter in my tummy. It felt best at the point of maximum G-force — at the swing’s vertex — when the fluttering changed to a pulsing tightening. I couldn’t have described it this way then; after all, I was only 4-years-old.
When I’d grown a little older I mastered how to turn these sensations into wave after wave of throbbing pleasure, culminating in unstoppable contractions in my lower tummy that left me light-headed. Instinctively I decided I shouldn’t share details of my special trick with anyone else, even my mom, and kept it a secret.
By the time I was 13-years-old my cedar swing was simply a landscape-scale masturbation device, thrillingly in full view of my parents and even (and especially) the 15-year-old boy next door . . .
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