Harold. Not the cute one with the crayon

The first cock I ever touched (other than my own) belonged to Harold. I was 8, he was 7. I was spending the night at his house.

It was Harold's idea. He actually planned it out in advacne. He said that if my mom would let me spend the night, we could "do cuss." That's what doing cuss was. Touching his cock. He didn't touch mine back.

When we were young we were best friends--all through grade school in fact. Now he's one of the few people I can actually say I hate. I haven't spoken to him in over 30 years.

Harold was an instigator. He was the kind of kid who would talk you into throwing a rock at the neighbor's dog, then go tell on you. His mom was the kind of mom who believed her precious little boy could do no wrong.

I remember once in high school some kid at the bus stop had a box of white tip, strike-anywhere matches (those things are cool) . He passed a couple out to his friends. I got one. Harold was sitting in front of me on the bus. When we got to school he went straight to the principal's office and told on me for striking matches on the bus. The vice principal pulled me in, just as I was entering the building. Just me. No one else. I still had my match. It was unlit.

Fat little bastard. I should have beat the crap out of him for that. Today he's 46 years old and still lives at home with his mother. To my knowledge he's never been on his own. Can you hate some one and feel sorry for them at the same time? Cuz if you can, I do.

I did like doing cuss though.