Saturday, 13 December 2014


When I was about 17 or 18 I started masturbating. And then I stopped.

I should point out here, for the confused, that I'd been fascinated by sex for the best part of a decade by this juncture in my life. Having felt sexually charged since the age of about 11 and watching soft porn on a weekly basis (or more) since about 12, I'd been wanting sex for as long as I could remember. At the tender age of 17, I finally did have sex, and after that I started masturbating.

I'm aware that it's usually the other way around. But this is how it happened.

Despite well-meaning friends (Esque, to name a name which isn't her name, included) linking me to sites that would "teach" me how to masturbate, I still had no real desire to do so. I could get hard with alarming ease and I knew exactly what worked for me - the scenes and pictures and ideas that still have some resonance today. I enjoyed the sensation of being turned on and how long I could remain erect for (usually until I got bored and curled up into the foetal position crying until it went away), but I never really craved a release. I wasn't even aware of what it involved, assuming that semen looked a bit like piss.

After I'd had sex - even though I'd still never managed to orgasm apart from that one time in my sleep - I went back to the soft porn I had at my disposal - again, the same scenes although that collection has been bolstered somewhat since - only, this time, my hand was involved too. I had no idea, still, exactly what to do - but I eventually developed a way of wrapping my thumb and index finger around my foreskin and rubbing to and fro which seemed to work, along with the time-honoured method of full-screening the low-res videos and sitting as far back from the monitor as possible in order to make it look swish. The first time I made myself ejaculate I don't actually remember, but I do remember it being glorious, and most vividly the subsequent trip I made to the toilet - every night after every orgasm - with my dog sitting outside, fixing me with an accusatory stare.

Presumed guilty.

And then I tried to give up.

Why, when I'd just discovered something fun, free and frisky? I'm still not sure, but I certainly felt guilty. I'd been feeling guilty about watching the stuff since I started - it was, I rationalised in my head, all the fault of the girl(s) I had a crush on, since if I had someone to date, I wouldn't've had to cure my solace by virtue of UK Living and Channel 5 - but I felt much more so about actually taking matters into my own hands, even if it was in a quiet corner of my room where my computer happened to be.

Since I had a girlfriend now, and I was having sex, I naturally assumed that, this time, I could give up. Sure I could. I'd tried before, but found no reason to continue - I'd just live with the heavy feeling of guilt in my chest for the REST OF MY ENTIRE LIFE and engage in frantic prayer in my final moments - but, once I'd found out how to masturbate, I could stop, right?

So I deleted all my stuff.

This also felt wonderful. I was free of my sin and vice and usually celebrated by listening to James ("This is what I'm all about - James! I don't need the porn any more!"), but a couple of days later, I always went back and started the slow, laborious process of trying to stabilise Grokster for long enough to download, once again, the exact same scenes so I could start masturbating to them again. I never saw myself, really, as an addict... because I wasn't: I was a young adult doing young adult things. In the back of my mind, however, I still saw it as wrong - leading to a vicious circle of downloading, wanking, deleting and James that I really wanted to break.

I finally - FINALLY - broke the circle at university. How? By failing to give a monkey's any more. The minute I sat at my new laptop in my tiny room in halls, I racked my brains for ways to pass my copious free time, seeing as how I only had six hours a week of lectured and seminars. Well, if I was going to wank, then I would wank - and damned be the consequences.

And so I quit quitting.

Best. Decision. Ever.


seasideslut said...

This makes me sad, even though it has a happy conclusion. I started wanking when I was 8, and I orgasmed then too. I don't remember feeling guilt exactly, but I do recall that quite often, at the moment of coming, my mind would be involuntarily flooded with images of my teachers' and relatives' faces, which ruined the orgasm and made me feel disgusted with myself. I imagine that was my brain saying 'if those people knew what you were doing, they'd be ashamed of you'. It was never powerful enough a gross-out to make me stop. it felt too nice for that. Happily that's not so much of an issue now. Just need to push past the gross-out barrier I guess huh. :)

Innocent Loverboy said...

I guess that's a point.

I've read in several places that, if you dream about having sex with someone, then it's more of a sign that you respect them than it is anything else - although I'm not sure if that counts as the same with family and teachers popping up in your head at the moment of orgasm. It'd be interesting to find out.

I've never had that problem - even though my mum has a persistent cough and that occasionally penetrated the walls of my bedroom - I was more concerned about my little sister walking in, or that my dog would suddenly develop the power of speech and tell my parents about what she saw.

In any case, when I orgasm through wanking now, I end up getting stuck on a simple word or collection thereof at the point of orgasm - usually describing what I was thinking of; words turn me on - or a single image if I'm using pictures or videos to "help".

But, weirdly, when I orgasm during sex I almost always envision an apple! I've no idea why - I don't even like apples!