I'm an old man now and my health is just short of the grave, but you know, I still have the mind of a teenager. They have always said that at a certain age, people revert to their childhood and that must be true in my case. The thing is, although the body gets old and weak, it doesn't always apply to the mind. My mind is as fresh with memories as if they had happened yesterday.

Early in life I was aware of my sexuality. It took awhile to connect that with the other gender. This is to say, I was very slow to have sex with a girl. Sure, I learned very early about masturbation, almost by accident. It felt really good to rub my prick and one day it shot out stream of gooey fluid. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what it was.

Guys didn't walk around school saying, "Hey, I was really horny last night and got off checking out my dad's 'Playboy.' " It was always something you did in private and kept it private. Well, almost private.

I must have been sixteen, and we were on a Boy Scout camping trip. Three of us were in a tent one night when my penis got very hard. I told the other guys that I could get stuff to come out of my dick that makes babies. They were all curious and said, "Show us!" That's when I rubbed myself under the sleeping bag. I massaged my dick until I had a handful of cum. I showed it to my tent mates who laughed and said, "Hey, we do that all the time. We just wanted to see you do it." From then on, it seemed better to keep these revelations to myself.

There was no porn on the Internet because there was no Internet. In fact, computers were hardly known. Young males were left to speculate about having sex with a girl by looking at magazines like "Pussygirl" and "Lusty Babes." They were enough for us to get the general idea and release a lot of our newly acquired reproductive juices.

At seventeen, many of my friends had serious girlfriends. Their relationships were considered "serious" when they decided to enter a sort of teenage marriage called "going steady." Going steady came with all kinds of advantages, just like friends with benefits. Clearly, some of my friends were treated to a few of those benefits.

Girls said that boys were pigs because they liked to brag about what they did with a girl. I had a different notion about that. It seemed the guys who were getting little or nothing from a girl were the biggest braggarts, merely exaggerating their exploits. Those that were fucking their girlfriends said very little. In my case, I had nothing to brag about, nothing to exaggerate, no girlfriend, no sex, except for the self-help variety.

Upon graduation from high school, I was still a boy virgin and at the same time very sexually active releasing all of that semen with the help of my fist. On the other hand, so to speak, I was yet to ejaculate inside a girl. The rhetorical question is, why? The answer centered around my total lack of self-esteem and an imperceptible level of self-confidence. Kissing a girl was an uphill battle. On a memorable date in high school, we stood at her front door staring at each other. I was paralyzed, frozen. She ran out of patience and finally said, "Go ahead. It's okay."

I pretend ignorance and said, "What do you mean?"

She quickly turned and went inside. We never dated again. There was a lesson there, but I was slow to grasp it. Only in time did I recognize the subtle signs and not so subtle signs women give to a guy when they are interested in him.

I was no scholar in high school. At eighteen, the draft board caught up with me, and I was quickly dispatched to basic training at Fort Sheridan in Illinois. Military training made me feel like being in a monastery for eight weeks. There were no weekend passes and no girls, in a word, "celibate." Although that wasn't a new condition for me, the training camp made me more self-confident and ready to branch out ready to fuck the first female hole in sight. Beauty was not a requirement, only a vagina.

Following basic training, our unit was released and sent to Germany near a small Bavarian town. The time was during occupied Germany following WWII and the United States was one of the occupiers along with Britain, France and Russia. We soon found out that our enemy was Russia, and in Germany we were making preparations for a conflict with the Ruskies.

At the same time, the Marshall Plan was just underway to support and rebuild Western Europe. So we were dealing with defense, reconstruction and girls. There had been a non-fraternization policy that called for a total ban on associating with Germans in any way. It had been somewhat relaxed before I arrived, but soldiers who had been in Germany since 1945 said it did little to keep them from what they called frau bait . Some GI's took advantage of the desperate food situation by exploiting their abundance of food and cigarettes to 'support' the local German girls and their families in exchange for sex.

When I arrived in Bavaria , this economic system of barter was in full play, only I wasn't aware of it at first. It took me a few weeks to catch on, but I had no idea how go about finding a cooperative Frau or Fräulein . What I soon realized was that they would find me. This is how it happened.

Wednesday was farmers' market day in this German town. I went there to pick up a beer and a brat. My plan was to later find a beer garden and get drunk. While strolling along the stalls, a young woman was struggling to find enough money to pay for a few eggs. She was with an infant that looked about two years old. A person would have to have a heart of stone not to sympathize with her plight. It was only a matter of a few pfennigs. I dropped a few coins in the farmer's hand to settle her account. She turned to me in surprise touching my hand saying. Danke, danke, danke. I knew little German, but knew she was thanking me. She was beautiful, absolutely gorgeous and about my age. I smiled back and said, "You're welcome."

In broken English she said, "Ya, a GI from America ?"

"Yes, from Indiana ."

Then she repeated, "Danke, danke shoen." She took the hand of the little girl and left.

All afternoon, I couldn't get her out of my mind. Every beer made her more beautiful in my mind.

The next Wednesday I went to the market to look for her. Like the week before, she was there with her little tyke. I watched her for a few minutes before buying three jelly donuts. I walked up to her and said in my best German, "Guten Tag."

"Ya, Guten Tag," she replied as if she recognized me. I smiled and pointed to my bag of donuts and motioned to a nearby bench. The three of us sat there for a minute with the small girl between us. I took out one of the treats and handed her the bag. She said, "Nein."

I didn't get it. She was turning me down or to be more precise, turning down the food. I tried again and mimed the idea of eating. Then I took a bite. I could see by the child's wide eyes and expression that she couldn't wait to get her mouth on one. The fräulein shook her head, "no." She reminded me of my pet cat that circled me with her tail high in the air, paw at my legs for attention, but was too proud to sit on my lap. That didn't stop the toddler. She grabbed the bag and ran off, quickly followed by the fräulein . I didn't see them again until the following week.

Thinking that the donuts might have been their meal that day, I stuffed a bag full of food from the commissary before leaving for the market the next week. Again, the fräulein and her kind were there. This time I waited and watched. She mostly gathered up the discarded food paying very little. When it appeared she had finished shopping, I walked up to her. We both said, "Goten Tag." She saw the bag I was holding and smiled, taking my hand as if to follow her. The three of us walked along a path by a river for a short distance until we came to a bombed out house. At the doorway, she motioned to the toddler to wait outside like telling a puppy to "stay."

The house was gutted, a shell of a building. In a corner out of the way of windows, she unbuckled my belt and pulled down my pants. Quickly and expertly she had my cock in her mouth. Once I was fully conscience of the situation, my prick hardened like a steel dagger being plunged into the throat of an adversary. But she was no adversary. She had me down her throat without a sound while she gently stroked my balls. We both knew I couldn't last. I emptied my cock inside her sweet lips after no more than a dozen strokes, and watched as my cum dripped from her lips. The girl was hungry and lapped it up swallowing as if it were her last supper.

Before I could zip up, she took the bag of groceries and said, "Danke. I am Hilda," and she left.

I returned to the barracks in love.

The same routine happened on the next two Wednesdays. Blow jobs were fine, but I was trying to find an alternative. I tried and tried to think of a way to fuck Hilda. She solved the problem for me.

Although fraternization was frowned upon, the Army knew men and knew what they were likely to do. So, the Army issued condoms in an attempt to keep us from STDs or sexually transmitted diseases. Certainly they were against unintended pregnancies as well. Anyway, I was always well equipped with 'rubbers'.

The next time I went to the market to meet Hilda with my bag of groceries, she took me on a different route than on the previous weeks. We stopped at a partially repaired house and took me in a room with a bed, a table, a chair and a crib. This time Hilda motioned to the bed and said, "Nicht" or night. With a little English mixed in, she wanted me to come to see her at night. I told her Friday night, Freitag. I was getting leave for the weekend, so it was working out perfectly.

Friday night couldn't come fast enough. When I approached the house, a young German man appeared to be leaving. Every possible scenario filled my brain before walking in the door. Maybe he was a boyfriend, a lover, a relative. I was far too horny to care about any of them. Hilda greeted me with open arms wearing the traditional Bavarian costume revealing plenty of cleavage.

This time I brought along a bottle of Riesling Rhine wine and a couple packs of Lucky Strikes. Neither of us smoked, but cigarettes were a proxy for money. She would have no trouble exchanging them for nearly anything on the black market.

We sat on the bed sipping from the bottle. When it was empty, I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a deep kiss. Her hand was on my crotch fumbling to open the zipper. My dick sprung out of the opening the moment it was released. My hands were all over her breasts nearly tearing off her blouse. What I saw was a set of perfect tits just like the models in porn magazines.

Hilda was busy massaging my cock while I pulled off her dress until she was naked. Hilda didn't have the portly body of a typical Bavarian fräulein. A more beautiful body doesn't exist. Her legs were long and narrow, and she had a forest of pubic hair covering the narrow slit I so much wanted to penetrate. I was frantic with lust.

Hilda was clearly experienced. I was not. She noticed it from the start. Her soft touches directed me to the right places eventually helping me insert my rock hard cock inside her. I don't know what she said in German, but it sounded sexy and romantic to me.

She turned so that she was on top where I could see her glorious boobs. They bounced as she rode me, and she had the expression of complete pleasure. This is where a language gap doesn't inhibit enjoyment or desire.

Even without experience, I could detect each of her orgasms that came quickly and often. I tried to hold back, but it was no use. My release was spontaneous and volatile. I have no idea how many spasms poured cum into that warm tight pussy. When I saw it flowing down the sides of my cock, I had a sudden shock of guilt. I had forgotten the condom. Again, I was blindsided by my lack of experience.

That was the start of a beautiful night together. Before falling asleep, I learned Hilda knew more English than she had let on. She was embarrassed to speak it. She wanted to wait until we were "better friends," as she put it. I learned that the little girl, Margit, was hers. Her boyfriend was the father, but they never married. He was killed in the war just before it ended. Margit was three and Hilda had just turned twenty. A friend had taken Margit for the night which explained why she wasn't in her crib. I told her my name was "Bob" and that was almost the truth because my full name is Spencer Robert Dogmeyer.

We both slept in the nude cuddling to keep warm. In the morning, she caressed my cock begging for me to fuck her again. She actually knew the work "fuck" which really surprised me. I was happy to comply, and I fucked my brains out that morning.

It wasn't until noon that I left for the shops to buy food for lunch and dinner. When I returned, Margit was there, and the three of us enjoyed a picnic lunch together along river's edge. It was getting late, and I had to get back to the base. Hilda could tell I wanted her one more time before leaving. I think she wanted me as much because she told Margit to play outside for awhile. We went inside for a goodbye fuck. It was more carnal lust than romantic. She lifted her skirt. I dropped my pants and plowed into her. Her muffled screams told me she was enjoying it as much as I. My parting powerful thrusts injected another youthful load into that Teutonic cunt that was meant to last until I returned.

I returned many times. Sometimes I saw the same young man leave the house. Hilda said it was her brother checking to see if she was okay. Most times, Margit was with a "friend," and we were free to enjoy each other's bodies without distractions, except on one occasion. One afternoon I was deep in Hilda's cunt with her legs resting on my shoulders when her brother, walked in. He quickly turned to leave saying, "Entschuldigen Sie mich ," excuse me, and walked out. Hilda said not to worry; he understands.

The Army had me training as a chef. Everyone knew me as 'Cookie.' Soon I learned that I had a talent for cooking and loved the job. As an Army cook, I had access to plenty of food. Yet, bringing food to Hilda and Margit became somewhat of a hassle. Carrying around bags of food became cumbersome. Someday, I knew, the Army would get wise and ask why the pantry inventory was disappearing. Eventually, I decided to give Hilda ten Deutsch Marks each week or about twenty five dollars. It doesn't sound like much now, but then it was a fortune.

As the weeks and months passed, I taught her more English and of course, dirty words. She loved saying English dirty words, and I loved hearing them. She was teaching me about the female body, and what got her off. Hilda gave me a lesson in oral sex showing me how to play with her clit. She loved having me suck it until it was hard and erect. Her nipples were extremely sensitive. She wanted them pinched and licked and even came just with me playing with them. She enjoyed me finger fucking her almost as much the real thing. It never took much to get Hilda wet before I impaled her with my stiff rod. She just loved sex in every way. In fact, she schooled me on how to screw in different positions. We did the German version of "Kama Sutra."

The fact that I was rarely using the Army issued condoms was making me nervous until Hilda explained that she was Catholic, and Catholics knew how to time their fertility days so they don't get pregnant. When she was at the most risky part of the month, she would unwrap a condom and slip it on my dick without a word. I just understood it was her most vulnerable time.

One night a rain storm was raging outside. We were already naked when she took my hand and led me outside. We were drenched in no time. Hilda pushed me down on the mud and mounted me. It was a little like mud wrestling. Her seductive motions were like she was riding one of those horses on a merry-go-round that undulated up and down. Her eyes were closed. She purred with each mini orgasm until letting our a scream of pleasure as I exploded inside her tight pussy. It all made for a strange contrast of white creamy cum against our dark mud covered bodies. When we finished, we skinny dipped in the chilly waters of the river and drip dried inside the apartment.

When the Berlin Airlift ended, some of our troops were recalled to the United States . Our unit was one of them. I had to tell Hilda, but I had a plan. She and Marit would join me in Indiana , and we would get married. I was so very in love, and I couldn't wait to show her off to my buddies back home.

This is when the darkest moment of my life began. It would turn into a winter of discontent and depression. It all happened the day Hilda, Marit and I were happily enjoying a picnic along the river bank. I really didn't know how to break the news. I finally said, "Hilda, I have some exciting news. I'm going back to the United States , and I want you and Marit to join me. I want to marry you."

It took a few minutes for my little speech to sink in. When it did, Hilda turned away from me and began sobbing. The sobbing soon turned into a painful wail. A torrent of tears flooded her cheeks. I hugged her and wiped her tears. It didn't help. She continued to be so horribly distraught for what seemed forever. I had never seen her like that. It took most of the next hour for her to calm down.

"Bob," she wept, "I have something to tell you that I've been planning to say for a long time. I love you Bob, and I hope you can understand. I was married, Bob, and in a way, I still am married. I lied to you about my boyfriend who is Marit's father. He is my husband, not my brother, and he wasn't killed in the war. He was never in the army. He wasn't even a Nazi, neither was I. Sure, we were brought up in the Nazi youth movement but never really like it. I was only interested in boys when I was growing up, and they liked me.

"Anyway, when the war ended, we had nothing. This house was my parents' place before it was bombed. They were killed in the air strike. The bomb was just a terrible mistake. The attack was aimed at the city and the bomb accidentally fell here. We were destitute and lived on whatever we could dig up in the forest. Sometimes we had to steal food to get something to eat. The man I said is my brother, is Karl, my husband. When I told you Margit was with a friend, she was with him."

Nothing was said for the next few minutes. I was in shock, then asked, "How can Karl stand knowing his wife was fucking another man?"

"You have to understand our situation, Bob. When the American troops arrived, we were scared. All of the girls in town thought you would rape us like the Russians were doing. We soon learned that you weren't rapist but wanted girlfriends. All of my girlfriends found a GI that would support her and her family if she was willing to have sex with him. I decided to go along with it when I met you in the market place. You were my first and only GI, Bob. You need to know, Bob, you saved us. Without you, we couldn't have survived on our own."

With that said, she kissed me for the last time and walked away holding hands with Margit. I was devastated. Hilda was my first love, my deepest love, my only love. To this day, I think about her and what might have been.

I returned to Germany with my unit on the fiftieth anniversary of the end of the war. I had to find out what happened to Hilda. I had no last name and had little to go on. I asked at the Information Center if anyone knew a Hilda and Karl who had a daughter named Margit. Everyone I asked was too young to know about retired people in the area, but suggested I might like to visit the local cemetery. It was my only hope.

There were only forty or so tombstones, so it was easy to navigate the grave site. I came upon a small stone that read, "Marit Aufderheide, 1945 - 1950." Nearby was a larger stone that had two names, Karl Aufderheide and Hilda Aufderheide. Karl had passed away in 1990 and Hilda three years later.

At least I now had their full names. The Information Center sent me to a house where Hilda and I had our best days. It was now rebuilt looking very different from what I remembered. It looked so peaceful with a neat garden and fence encircling the property near a beautiful river. I knocked on the door and a middle aged man answered. "Goten Tag," I said. He said the same. I asked if he spoke English and he did. In fact, he spoke fluent English. I explained that I was in his town after the war and a girl by the name of Hilda was very kind to me while I was so far from home.

He said, "Yes, she spoke about those difficult times. It was hard for you being here away from home and a very difficult time for Mom and Dad."

"So Hilda was your mom?"

"Yes. She died a couple of years ago."

I asked him about the family.

"Well," he said, "My name is Bob. I know, Bob, doesn't sound German but my mother loved American names. I am forty-five and grew up in this town. Mom was twenty when I was born and a beautiful woman right up to the very end of her life. I had a sister that I don't remember. She died of a childhood disease. Mom and dad were so poor they couldn't afford proper medical care. Mom never got over that. The year after I was born, dad got a job building trucks to help rebuild our country and things got better for us. I remember dad rebuilding this house by himself except when mom would hold the ladder or hand him some nails. He loved Mom so much and wanted to make it right for her. They never had more children."

At that point a woman came to the door and looked at me as if she saw a ghost. "Hallo, goten tag, she said.

Bob introduced us. The woman was his wife. She said in very good English, "Please excuse my surprise, but you look so much like my husband."

"Thank you, Frau Aufderheide. He is a very handsome man." He was, in fact, the mirror image of me when I was younger.'

She asked, "Would your name be Bob? Hilda was delirious just before she passed and kept asking for her GI Bob."

"No, I'm Spencer Dogmeyer from Indiana ."

" Indiana is in the Midwest. Is that right?" Bob asked.

"Yes. Why do you ask?" I answered.

"My dad would tease my mom, and say she could have been a Hoosier if she hadn't met him first. Mom never thought that was funny. I never quite knew what it was all about."

Before I left, I shook hands with them both, and thanked them for the information and being so gracious.

The guilt and despair I felt when leaving Germany for a second time was as traumatic as when I first left. This is the reason I'm writing my memoirs. Maybe it will relieve the shame I feel.

Is it a story or an autobiography? Well,most stories are a little of both. This is no different. It is the sexual memoirs of one, Spencer Dogmeyer, who lived to a ripe old age of eighty-five. He is gone now, but his legacy and sexual escapades exist here in several stages from his youth to becoming an elderly man. This is the first of several chapters of what he wrote just before he died.