I felt slightly panicked but stood rooted to the spot. I wanted to look away, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t even protest when he took my hand and guided me to stroke his penis. What really fascinated me about it, was the way it began to grow hard at my touch. It roused a strange feeling in me, and I felt a peculiar wetness develop between my legs. I wasn’t completely naïve. I knew how men were made, of course… approximately. Somehow I had expected just a long, smooth shaft, not this thing with bulging veins and purple, mushroom shaped head. I was taken aback by the size too. I’d imagined that a man’s member wouldn’t be too much bigger than a large finger. His, I learned later, was not really that large, but inexperienced as I was then, I just couldn’t imagine it fitting in my body. But I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I watched as drops of pre-cum began to ooze from the little nick in the head. As my curiously exploring hand rubbed them in, I noticed how it made his. At first, I only visited. I walked by, barely made eye contact with the girls behind the glass who were trying to sell themselves. But the greater the fascination became, the more I started to accept the fact that I couldn’t stay a tourist in my own town forever. Yes, let’s make this fully and entirely clear: on more than one occasion have I spent time on the other side of those walls, accompanied by a beautiful girl. And never in my life have I felt shame, or regret, for doing so. It may sound like an excuse, and I will explain in a bit why it isn’t, but the first time I visited a girl, it was for research purposes. I was writing what I thought then would inevitably become my debut novel, a story about a boy from Amsterdam who is destined to be the ruler of the District. More than once, I had to describe what happened between the moment an anxious looking fellow sneaks through one of those doors, and, later, reappears, sometimes fully satisfied, often even more on edge than before..
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