In late May at the end of my fourteenth year I still had nearly three dozen round balloons left from the ones I had managed to buy from my novelty stand at the civic association carnival the previous June. I felt I would be able to get additional balloons in a little over four more weeks at the coming year's carnival, so I thought this might be a good time to try to conquer my fear of balloons breaking once and for all. Although I was comfortable in blowing up balloons to their rated size along with handling, squeezing, and even popping them in contact with my body, I still had never had found the courage to deliberately inflate a toy rubber balloon until it burst. I still felt the sting of shame from the previous summer when my father had come up to my room to make me get rid of the two smelly carnival balloons my step mom had complained about. He had pulled them off their sticks, deflating them, and wanted to see me blow them up until they burst. At the time I couldn't find the courage to finish them off with a blow to pop that wouldn't have fazed a normal eight year old. So Dad blew them up and popped them for me.

Normally during my sojourns deep down into the woods for my balloon play I would limit myself to breaking only two or maybe three of the round carnival balloons. I had to get a year's worth of fun out of the four or five dozen which were all I was able to buy from the unsold carnival inventory from the previous year without arousing my father's suspicion. Because I was able to buy a reasonable number of the penny airship balloons from the general store down the street from time to time, they were the ones that received the roughest play, and I often might pop ten or more of them during my sylvan play sessions.

I always wore short pants during balloon play and since the incident the previous October when Dad and I had the discussion about my sneaking around wearing gym shorts and the boy scout shorts my uncle had given me, I felt I had to wear the scout shorts whenever I went hiking in the woods. Previously I had them hidden under my long pants as I left the house out of fear what our neighbors or my friends might think if they saw me wearing shorts outside. I firmly believed my father's intent in insisting that I wear them was to have me wear them out as quickly as possible so he could have an excuse to have me put them in our incinerator. Without shorts available it would remove the negative connotations associated with having a teen age son running around with his bare knees sticking out looking like a six year old.

One Sunday afternoon I left the house wearing the scout uniform including knee socks and my always present neckerchief. I had eighteen of the round carnival balloons and about a dozen of the penny airships in my pockets. Six of the round balloons were the heavy rubber mottled ones we used for the helium balloons at the carnival.

I was anxious to get to my balloon play area which was several miles from the house in the vicinity of the township dump. There were no inhabited houses nearer than a mile and a half from my destination, and there was little chance of arousing anyone's attention from the sound of balloons popping. The only time I couldn't feel reasonably safe from discovery was during hunting season.

I was rushing along visualizing all the fun I had planned for the afternoon, not paying too much attention to where I was stepping, when suddenly I heard a loud Hissssst sound like air escaping from a tire. This was immediately followed by a buzzing sound. I spun around to my right and there was a monster rattle snake, it's head and wide open mouth with needle sharp fangs a good two feet off the ground and about as far from my right leg. I froze in fear expecting at any second to feel his fangs rip through the thin fabric of my knee socks and puncture deep into the flesh of my leg. I was well aware that the thin cotton scout stockings as well as the canvas Keds sneakers I was wearing offered little protection for my hide. I slowly took a step backwards with my right foot expecting to get nailed at any moment. Nothing. Mr. snake continued to hiss and buzz. I stepped back with my left foot and then again with the right. Phew, I was finally out of striking range. The snake closed it's mouth and lowered it's head, turned, and started to beat a hasty retreat through the underbrush. I figured that I was very fortunate indeed that I hadn't stepped on the poor thing or kicked it.

However, instead of being smart and moving on, the thought of the snake forgoing the pleasure of puncturing my leg led me to quickly inflate one of the penny airship balloons as I ran around to head off the fleeing reptile. I just couldn't forgo observing those needle sharp fangs ripping into a couple of my rubber toys.

I soon caught up with it. The snake reared up again in striking pose and issued it's hiss and buzz warnings. I am sure the snake was wondering at this point why he didn't nail this smart ass boy scout's leg when he had the chance. I wasn't taking any chances on how far the snake could strike out so I wasn't about to hold the end of the fifteen inch long tubular balloon in my hand as I tormented the poor creature, so I propelled it off my finger from a range of about five feet directly at the open mouth.

I didn't even see the snake move. In the blink of an eye the balloon evaporated with a bang and the snake landed fully stretched out with it's still open mouth less than a foot from my sneaker. I jumped back and managed to get out of range not a moment too soon. The snake again turned and quickly slithered off away from me. At this point I intelligently decided that two near death experiences in one afternoon was enough so I bid Mr. snake farewell. I really would have liked to have had his skin for a belt and the trusty scout knife from my uncle that I always carried on my belt when I was down in the woods would have made it easy; but the thought of killing any animal needlessly is just not my nature, especially one that was willing to forgo my clumsy stupidity and potentially spare my life.

At this point I was filled with dread; expecting to stumble across another snoozing rattler with every step I was taking. Other than a few small garter snakes, this had been the first large snake I had ever seen in all the years I had been thrashing about in the fields and woods; even the countless times when I was out with my father. I fought the overwhelming urge to high tail it out of the woods and head home. However, I knew that if I gave in to fear at this point I would never feel comfortable in the woods ever again. I was also aware of the devastating impact this would have on the enjoyment of my balloon and short pants fetishes. I rationalized that I had taken or been taken on lengthy walks in the woods for at least eleven years. In all that time I had stumbled across one very tolerant poisonous snake during all those hours of tromping about. What was the chance I would run into another snake this very afternoon? I was years away from taking an analytical statistics course but I somehow felt confident enough to forge ahead to my balloon play area. Nonetheless as I plowed through the foliage and underbrush I did pay much closer attention to where I was stepping.

When I reached my play area I was still on an adrenaline high. I felt that if I was ever going to get over my balloon popping fear it was going to be right here, right now. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a well used yellow carnival balloon and started blowing. I knew the soft tired rubber didn't have a lot of strength left so the balloon would get really large but wouldn't bust with too much of a bang. I blew it up to the size I normally would have felt comfortable with. It was a good fourteen inches in diameter with very little neck bulge. I smelled the luscious aroma of the aged rubber and looked at it's dirty yellow skin. I was thinking all the abuse this balloon had withstood; it just didn't seem right to just wantonly bust it to prove my fearlessness. Oh, oh, here I go again, I thought. Making excuses not to face up to and conquer my balloon busting fear. Not this time you lovely rubber toy, I thought, as I gently kissed my tired used rubber plaything good bye.

I stuck the neck of the balloon between my lips once more, closed my eyes and started blowing; deep full breaths. I was amazed. The balloon just kept stretching. It took nearly six good lung fulls to finish it off. The balloon burst with a sort of a BOOM sound, rather than the sharp BANG I had expected. It just suddenly evaporated in front of my face in a shower of fragments and spittle. I looked down in the grass. There was a spaghetti like tangled mass of yellow rubber a few feet away that was the remains of most of the balloon. A few small slivers and the short neck clamped between my fingers made up what remained of my toy.

I knew I had to bust a lot of balloons the same way right away in order to cement my balloon busting confidence. The next balloon to go was a used red one that had only been inflated once on my previous outing. I counted the number of breaths I put in as I blew this one up until it popped. It let go on the eighteenth blow, shattering into spaghetti like shards in the same way as the yellow one had done. I was beginning to enjoy my new found balloon destructive power.

The next one I pulled out of my pocket was a used white one. I watched intently as the white rubber skin stretched ever tighter right in front of my eyes. I knew from the red balloon it should take about eighteen blows to pop it. So I thought I was safe when suddenly it burst with a loud BANG during the sixteenth breath. To my surprise this unexpected premature pop didn't shake me up at all. I didn't even really jump. The fingers of the hand that was holding the balloon to my mouth protected my eyes and I didn't feel anything except the exhilaration in knowing that I was finally conquering at long last a silly childhood fear that had really inhibited my enjoyment of my inflatable rubber toys for so many years.

I thought it was time now to try going all the way with a brand new unused balloon. This would require the maximum blowing effort and would result in the loudest and most violent burst yet. I felt around in my pocked for an unused balloon and pulled out a nice blue one. I wanted non stop inflation so I really put everything I had into every blow. I mentally revisited the scene at Harry's birthday party when I had been forced into the balloon busting contest. At that time I had held back because I didn't want to win; to have my balloon burst in my face and scare me and the humiliation that would have caused. Now all I could think about was come on rubber rip.

And rip it did. Shred was more like it. The balloon exploded with a reverberating nearly deafening BANG, much like a shotgun being discharged. What fun. What a release. What a sense of destructive power over a simple child's toy. I immediately finished off two more of the plain colored penny pitch twelve inch round balloons in the same way.

I was getting pretty winded by this time so I took a fifteen minute breather. I realized I had busted more round balloons in the last fifteen minutes than I had during my past fifteen hours of balloon play. If inflating balloons until they burst was to become my favorite way to bust them then I was surely going to have to find a way to get a hold of a much larger quantity of balloons to satisfy my new found busting enjoyment. The number I could clandestinely buy from my carnival stand was limited, and to ally my dad's suspicions I had to pay the normal going price of fifteen cents a pop. With a five dollar a week allowance that had to cover my weekly school lunches I really had to pinch pennies for a number of weeks to scrape together the money to cover even the modest balloon purchase I had made the previous year.

Now it was time for the real test of my newly found balloon busting prowess. I stood up and fished one of the heavy mottled balloons out of my pocket. I had seen Dave blow up and bust three or four of them at the carnival in addition to the five month old ones that were in my bedroom. I thought if he can do it, so can I. It took quite a bit of effort to get the first breath into the balloon. The rubber skin was thicker and a lot stronger. Nearly twice the pressure was required to get this balloon started compared to the cheaper stick balloons. The balloon also did not inflate as large as the cheap penny pitch balloons that were made from thinner 100% natural rubber. It was super hard and pear shaped by the time it reached it's limit at about twelve inches. I was having trouble holding the neck so it wouldn't pull out of my lips as I forced additional air in. At this point the balloon wasn't getting any larger with each breath, just harder. Finally as I was on the verge of 'chickening out' it finally burst. The exhilarating rush of accomplishment masked the stinging in the palm of my right hand from the flying latex. The balloon exploded into thousands of small slivers of rubber as though it had shattered rather than ripped apart like the cheaper colored balloons had done.

I had never liked the mottled balloons because they smelled like synthetic rubber and they looked dark and ugly. They were quite opaque and even the sun's disk was fairly dim when viewed through a fully inflated balloon. Therefor I thoroughly enjoyed blowing up and busting the remaining five of them I had with me.

I then turned my attention to the penny airship balloons. Although the rubber was a lot thinner I was surprised that it took quite a bit of pressure to pop them. It required less than four full breaths to turn them into a long rectangular rubber sheet, the neck section, and a small roundish dome shaped hunk of rubber that had been the far end. After they popped the neck was of course still clenched between my lips.

Man was I having fun. Pop, pop, pop. I suddenly realized I was about ready to pop. The front of the gym shorts I was wearing under my scout shorts was soaked. I quickly dropped my scout shorts, sat on my usual masturbation log, blew up one of the used penny pitch balloons and tied it off and started rubbing myself. I held the soft partially inflated balloon in my left hand while I scrubbed it on my left knee. I stroked my stem with my right hand. As I began to climax I pressed the sweet smelling rubber into my face. I shot my load onto the log I was straddling. Umm, umm, good. This would surely be a special day to remember. I was at last free to enjoy rubber balloons they way they were meant to be enjoyed; fun to bust any way you want to.

I still had several more of the round balloons left and I was half tempted to save them for another day. After I came down from my orgasm I un tied the balloon I had been rubbing myself with and continued to inflate it. It was about to the bursting point when I stopped. I held the neck closed with my right balloon blowing hand and started whacking my bare legs and knees with the balloon. Bing, bing, bing, the ringing sound of super tight rubber. Normal sized balloons only produced a dull boom boom sound when I hit my legs with them. I held the balloon up in front of my face as I looked at the light and shadows from the bright sunlight filtering through the trees through the translucent rubber skin. I was suddenly jolted to reality as the balloon suddenly disappeared with a loud BANG. The completely unexpected pop startled me and I admit that I did jump.

Damn, this was a setback. I wanted to be positively assured that I was over my fear of tightly inflated balloons bursting unexpectedly and I was annoyed that the demise of the small balloon I had just been holding had given me such a start. The rest of the round balloons were going to have to go. I wasn't about to leave this play session with any doubt that I had conquered my balloon busting fears once and for all. So I set about methodically inflating all the remaining round balloons I had brought until they popped one after another. Again this balloon busting activity got me well sexed up and after I finished off the last one I mounted my jack off log once again and let the good times squirt.

I always did my best to clean up all the broken balloon remains from my play sessions so that in the event someone did come along, such as hunters, they wouldn't wonder what freaky kid was popping off all the balloons down in the woods. I would gather up the torn rubber pieces and place them in a pile on a large flat rock that had a bit of a depression in the top. Then I would put a match to the rubber and watch the hungry flames devour the thin rubber sheets. This day the retrieval was much more difficult because there were very few large pieces of rubber lying about in the grass. In fact, except for the necks that I had been holding, there was nothing recoverable from the mottled balloons. The thousands of small shreds of rubber had sprayed down on the leaves and grass and had fallen down into the countless nooks and crannies on the forest floor. I gathered up what I could of the reasonable sized rubber remains, piled them on my burning rock, torched it, then headed for home. Normally my play sessions would last three or four hours, not including the three hours required for the hike from the house and back. This time was shorter but definitely the most memorable balloon play session I had had to date.

When I got home I filled my father in on my run in with the snake, minus any references to my balloon activity, naturally. I hinted to him that a pair of high topped snake proof boots to wear for hiking in the woods in the future might be a lifesaving move. Dad said he would take my suggestion under advisement.

I always thought a guy wearing short pants and knee socks looked sexy. Aside from the obvious protection boots afforded,  wearing shorts with knee socks and high topped boots I felt would make me feel super macho sexy. I had always longed for a pair of boots so I could look like the Indian army Ghurka soldiers astride motorcycles that were often pictured in the Boys Life magazine with the caption 'HE MEN WEAR SHORTS'. The boy scouts were fighting an up hill battle to convince eight to eighteen year old boys that short pants weren't worn only by girls and sissies. The ads were supposed to convince them that short pants were manly. In my case I found the ads highly stimulating in a way I'm sure the scouting organization hadn't given much thought to.

Dad and I had looked at hiking boots before but they were very expensive and since my feet along with the rest of me was still growing he felt I would just out grow then within a year or so. It would have been worthwhile in my father's case; but he couldn't very well justify providing protection for himself and not me. A pair for each of us would cost a normal working man a weeks wages. However my birthday was coming up the following week, and because of my close call with the snake, he agreed to buy me snake proof hiking boots when we went into the city three weeks hence to pick up the supplies for this year's carnival.           Rev. Date 9/02
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