Please Visit Our Sponsor

The monthly Friday night balloon play with my father continued on through my sixth year. The times were darkened by the war, especially after Pearl Harbor. Like all the kids I knew I was worried that dad would have to go to war and I might never see him again. From my balloon play viewpoint the impact of the war didn't hit home until the night he brought home a second box of balloons and informed me that there would not be any more available because of the war effort. We still had one play session worth from the first box and his friend who owned the toy store had gotten the last balloons the distributor had left on the shelf.

For each of our sessions dad would pull out about 2 dozen balloons from the box on the shelf in the hall closet. I was expected to do most of the blowing up but because of time constraints and the real possibility of my getting myself hyperventilated Dad would help out by inflating as many as half of them. Because I wasn't totally over my fear of bursting balloons, I would only blow them up until they began to form a tear drop shape. I would then release some of the air until they shrank to a roundish shape before handing them to him to tie the necks. This was actually the best size for the balloon games we liked to play because they were nice and bouncy and could take a good deal of rough play before they would break. The bigger and tighter the balloons were the quicker (and louder) they popped.

Dad, however, liked to get his money's worth and would always blow several of his balloons up until they were quite hard. The necks would be inflated and they had a light bulb shape. On many occasions when I would hand him a balloon I had blown up to tie off he would add an additional blow or two for good measure. He said he liked balloons that popped good and loud. Personally I would have been satisfied to have them break without such a loud bang; which still frightened me when it happened unexpectedly.

As far as my braking them I didn't have any problem with sticking the special balloon buster pin I had into them. In fact after our forth play session I was able to slowly press the pin point into the rubber creating a bit of uncertainty as to the actual moment of pop. I also was comfortable with slowly squashing them under my foot. This produced the maximum bang from the balloons because they essentially burst from over pressure, just as if they had been over inflated until they popped. Unquestionably my favorite method was to kneel on them; allowing the rubber to stretch over my bare knee as I pressed it downward into a soft balloon. This was always good for an erection and I made a point of trying to finish off at least a half a dozen of our balloons in this manner each session.

Another activity that I found sexually stimulating was balloon wrestling where dad and I would try to pull the balloon away from each other. The balloon would squeak and squeal, the rubber sliding around under our hands, as the normally round balloon would get compressed and stretched into grotesque shapes. The usual life expectancy per balloon was under two minutes. What I enjoyed the most though was when dad would push me over on the floor and press the balloon into my bare legs. He had to know how hard it made my little dick even though it was pretty well concealed in the loose fitting baggy shorts I was always wearing.

Looking back on things there was no doubt that dad was a popper. However, there never was anything that I recall about our balloon play sessions that would indicate that he was sexually stimulated; then again at 6 years of age I wasn't really looking for anything ether. He did enjoy watching me play with and finally breaking the balloons and he joined in my play especially when balloons seemed to be surviving my play too long. He never sat or kneeled on them as he liked to see me do. He preferred squeezing and rubbing them in his big hands until they would burst. He also would occasionally reach out and finish one off with our large "balloon buster" pin as a balloon floated by. He had sharpened this pin to the point where the slightest contact with a balloon would send the rubber flying. At the end of our sessions he would often light up a cigarette and I quickly got to know what burning things do to inflated balloons.

While our monthly fun and games were in progress mom would keep to herself in the kitchen, cleaning up and washing the dishes from dinner. I suspect she didn't really like being around balloons that were being broken. On the occasions when she did destroy my balloons they were partially deflated and fairly soft. Since the third balloon session, when she had caught me playing with the five left over balloons in my bed and had dad bust them, she enforced a strict rule that all the balloons that we had inflated on any play night had to be destroyed. She did not want me to have any inflated balloons lying around the house. She also insisted, especially because my racing around involved in the balloon play would get me fairly sweaty, that we had to stop so I could take a bath and get into bed by 8:30. These two restrictions often caused problems because some balloons just seemed unwilling to die no matter how hard we batted them around or wrestled with them. This invariably resulted in a few toughies still laying around when she would call a halt to our play.

The first time this happened there were about a half dozen balloons left and dad handed me out special 5 inch long balloon buster pin that he had put an extra sharp point on. I just walked over to each balloon and stabbed it. Pop, pop, pop. No thrill at all compared to the other balloons we had broken during our play that night. Even I realized that busting a balloon with a pin is a chicken way of getting rid of them. No matter how tough the rubber is it hasn't any chance against a super sharp pin.

During our next couple of play sessions I had dad keep track of the time so we could allow the balloons time to put up a fight as we finished them off. When we would get down to the last few minutes I would kneel on them driving my knee into the soft rubber. I loved the feeling even though I occasionally had my other leg stung by the flying rubber when they would finally burst.

The next time we got caught with unbroken balloons dad said, "Let me show you how adults get rid of balloons."

He reached over and pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit up. He took a couple of puffs, carefully handed me the cigarette, and smilingly said, "Go and touch the burning tip to your balloons."

I had never seen a balloon popped with a cigarette before but I had no doubt about the outcome. I knew it would bust the instant the burning tip touched the rubber skin because I already knew rubber burned easily. With Dad's cigarette in hand I walked over to each of the remaining balloons and applied the burning tip. By the time I got to the third one I realized I didn't even have to bring the cigarette into contact with the balloons to get them to burst. Even when I held the burning tip about a quarter of an inch away the balloon would pop in less than two seconds. Although the effect wasn't much different than jabbing a pin in them I found it to be more fun, because if you didn't touch the rubber but just held the cigarette near the balloons, there was a delay in their bursting. This provides the excitement of anticipation that kids and adults all enjoy when they are playing with balloons.

Our monthly balloon play sessions lasted until June of 1942. That month I had my birthday party and for the first time it would be a balloon party. There was still a good half a box of balloons left and I was counting on them providing a popping good time for my friends and me.    Revised on 10/01
<Continue to Early Years #5>

Sponsored by: Ashley's Sex Toys and Adult Video Store