Saturday, 28 November 2015

Test Card

Sitting up in my computer chair, with a cup of warm tea and something sexy on my screen, I find it easy to masturbate. It's hardly an arduous chore, and if I have the time, I like to take it slowly so that I get to enjoy it for longer. The less that's said about wanking on the toilet the better, but there's a lot to be said for being incredibly lazy, lying on my back with one hand doing all the work; my body exposed to the elements, cock pointing skyward, pleasuring myself until I shoot all over my belly and chest (and, at some more impressive times, my neck. I have yet to reach my mouth).

Whichever way I do it, I'll probably end up without a visual stimulus.

For all I say about how much I love soft porn, about how music turns me on or words get me worked up like nothing else does, I never seem to finish while indulging in any of them. They are all a fine stimulus, and work in their own special way; I have nothing against (and am radically for!) using them to start, and continue through, the session to the point of orgasm. In many ways, this is the most satisfying kind of wank - someone else's work bringing you off, a mutually beneficial deal with a orgasm at the end.

But, of course, I phase out when I orgasm. There may still be a word, a note, or an image in my head, but it tend to stick there for a while and then dissolve into white. I'm not there any more, and if there's still something on my screen, I tend to feel a little nauseated when looking back at it. I'll generally click the window shut before cleaning up the mess, however good the quality may (or may not) be.

This was about as bad as it got at age 12.
When I'm on my back, there isn't anything visual to focus on, so I invariably fall back on, as teen comedies tell me, my wank bank - a memory-based repository of filthy images which I can pull up at a moment's notice to make me orgasm immediately: a female banker bending over to pick up a pen, my history teacher's arse, my friend's mum's tits when she gets too close to the Skype window, that sort of thing. If you've been lucky enough to see the French adverts for Worms, then those will make an appearance as well.

I don't have one.

My memory is too confusing, anyway. When I'm horny, I find it difficult to sift through the distorted mess of facts and imagery in my brain, and when I orgasm, I often find myself mixing blessed relief with a random "why the fuck was I thinking about that?" moment of bewilderment once I've come round, even if it did help me get there. Ferreting around in my brain isn't always fun, as there are hazards there in the extreme - but I need to do so, often. The sensation of touch doesn't work alone. I need something more.

In the dead of night, my tired brain slows down a little, and I can pull up an image from what would, if I could slow my thoughts down, be a wank bank. I'm not going to wank - well, not while in bed at 3am anyway; I may at some point if I'm truly desperate - but the images are there, although their source is sometimes unclear. I pulse and throb and writhe a bit in an uncomfortable position, but at least this affords me time to collect my thoughts, and assemble them into something sexy, which - with any luck - I'm able to put to use the following day.

I don't really need a wank bank, anyway. My imagination is far more fertile than someone's mum's tits - and, what's more, at least that always works.

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