Compulsive exhibitionism in hospital...

Alright, you can stop trying to stifle that chortle now. Yes, my name really is Wayne Kerr. My parents were, and are, wonderful people, as well as utterly clueless. It could have gone either way, really. I might have been crushed by the insecurity being bullied about being called Wayne Kerr inevitably invited. As it turned out, though, I owned it. I'll always remember the first time someone teased me about it, I mean really tried to stick the boot in. But somehow, instead of crumbling, I decided that (just like most young men) I *love* wanking, and someone else's prudishness didn't actually say anything about me. "Fuck being humiliated by this" I thought, listening to their taunts. Instead, I simply dropped my zipper right where I was sitting beside the person trying to humiliate me, pulled out my rather lovely dick, and gleefully acknowledged that yes, I am *indeed* a wanker, see! My penis was already semi-erect from the thrill of this experience. In one act, I'd reclaimed my agency and my sense of self. I discovered that I totally get off on humiliation, and I was proudly showing off my sexuality to this would-be bully, who didn't know quite how to react. They just gawked in open-mouthed astonishment, apparently speechless. (Years later, I would fuck that guy regularly for about 6 months. Turns out his attempt to hurt me got me off instead, and we both found the experience hot as fuck. Every time we repeated it. Which was lots.).

Now that I come to think of it, is there some chance that my parents are less clueless than I thought? Did they somehow know the intensity of the satisfaction I get all these years later from masturbation? If so, what were they saying with my middle name?

Snapping back to the present, I turn to my erstwhile tormentor, and think of what to say or do next.