Wednesday, December 10, 2008


I jack off. A lot. Which probably doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone reading this blog. It seems to me that masturbation would be a good follow-up topic to the
previous post about my discovery of (and development through) pornography.

And So, It Begins

At some point during my youth, my penis started occasionally getting hard. Which felt kinda good. (If I believe what my memory is telling me, I would have been in the fifth grade or so when this was going on.) It wasn’t very long before I discovered that when my penis was hard, it felt good to play with it. So . . . I did.

If I had the required privacy, I’d take it out and run my fingers up and down it’s length. I’d wrap a couple of fingers and my thumb around it and stroke it up and down. Sometimes I’d make a loose fist around it, and stroke my whole hand up and down it. Sometimes it was a tighter fist, and I’d pump rather than stroke.

Nobody told me to do this. There was no After School Special on TV offering advice on what to do if your dick got hard. Nobody gave me an illustrated manual or anything. So I’m either the only one who masturbates, and I invented these techniques, or we’re all genetically programmed to jack off. (Us males, anyway. You females are programmed for different masturbatory techniques.)

I think that I had a fairly short attention span as a child. (An actual diagnosis of Attention Deficit Disorder wouldn’t surprise me at all, even now.) It felt good to play with my dick, so I’d play with it for awhile. Then I’d move on to something else. I’d put my erection back in my pants, confident in the knowledge that now that I was done playing with it, it would eventually return to it’s normal non-erect status, and then I’d go read a book or something. Or play with action figures. Go ride my bike. Whatever.

I probably spent a good six months or so casually playing with myself now and then before I ever experienced ejaculation. I don’t know if my body simply wasn’t ready, or if I just wasn’t playing with myself for long enough at a time to reach orgasm, or what the deal was. But it took me awhile to actually produce my first load of cum.

I’ve heard ‘first ejaculation’ stories in which little boys absolutely panicked when this mysterious white stuff started shooting out their pee-hole. Some people thought that they were suddenly gushing out blood. Others didn’t know what was going on, they just knew that whatever was going on was a medical emergency. (“Oh, my God! Mom! Dad! Somebody call 911! I broke my wiener!”)

I didn’t freak out the first time I came. I mean, I wasn’t expecting it, so I did have a little “WTF?” moment, but after I was done spraying my jism everywhere (and before I realized that I was going to have to clean up the jism that I’d just sprayed everywhere), a couple of things happened. The first was that something clicked in my brain, and suddenly quite a few things made sense to me. It was the sensation of suddenly ‘getting’ a joke that someone told you a week ago.

I’d never had a wet dream, but I’d heard of them, and had never understood how dreaming about naked girls would make you have to pee in your sleep. But now I understood what the ‘wet’ they were talking about was. It was this stuff currently all over the fingers of my right hand. Which was probably also the ‘cum’ that I seen referenced other places. There were things I’d heard or read where I understood something to be sexual without actually understanding exactly what it was. And some of these were becoming more clear to me. Phrases like ‘shooting my load deep inside her’ and ‘my thick, hot, salty jism’. (I thought about tasting it that first time to confirm that this was the salty jism in question, but decided that it was just too gross to really contemplate. I decided to simply assume it was salty until more data proved otherwise, and move on.)

The other thing that happened is that playing with myself now had an end point. It wasn’t ‘playing with myself’, it was ‘playing with myself until I came’. That end point became a goal, that goal became a purpose. Masturbation was no longer about fondling myself just because it kinda felt good. Masturbation was about producing the almighty orgasm.

When a friend of mine became interested in guns in the eighth grade, his father told him, “Never point a gun unless you’re going to fire it, never fire a gun unless you’re prepared to kill what you’re aiming at.” That’s the kind of all-or-nothing approach I took towards masturbation following that first orgasm. If I was going to jack off, I was going to jack off all the way. I wouldn’t even fondle myself if I didn’t have someplace I could shoot my load.

Wet Dreams

I hate wet dreams, by the way. So far, there’s been absolutely nothing in them for me. This is what a wet dream is: I have a sex dream I don’t remember. I have an orgasm that I’m not even awake for. And then I wake up all sticky.

When I was a teenager, I would occasionally wake up in the morning to discover that at some point during the night, someone had snuck in and glued my penis to the inside of my underwear. Which seemed like kind of a pointless thing for somebody to do. Couldn’t have been a burglar, because nothing was taken. My best guess was that it was some retarded relative (probably a cousin or nephew) of Santa Claus, who travels around the world slowly gluing the penises of sleeping boys to the insides of their shorts. What his criteria for doing this was, I couldn’t even possibly begin to guess. I’d think about my previous day’s behavior as I was slowly and carefully peeling the material away from my poor confused prick, and it didn’t seem to make a difference whether I’d been naughty or nice. Either way, I got the glue-job. (Somebody really needed to catch that guy and put him into a care facility of some kind.)

Anyway . . . once I started masturbating more, I had fewer and fewer wet dreams. It seemed like if I jacked off at least two or three times a day, every day, I didn’t have wet dreams at all. (Kind of like that ‘an apple a day keeps the doctor away’ thing . . . only completely different.) So that’s what I did.

It wasn’t dirty. It wasn’t perverted. It wasn’t self-abuse. It was simple wet dream prevention. It was an aid to the laundry process. It was a morning time-saver, since without it I never knew when I’d have to spend untold minutes trying to pry myself away from my underwear (or my bedsheets, once I started to sleep naked).

So that’s the real reason why I masturbate. Either that, or because a cute girl just walked by. Take your pick.

How Zeitgeist the Clown Eats a Reese’s

Wait a minute . . . that’s not the subheading I wanted to use! Stupid memories of old television commercials infiltrating my subconscious. “How Zeitgeist the Clown Eats a Reese’s?” That’s not even a euphemism for masturbation. (Or is it? I’ve lost track. Maybe it’s a euphemism for oral sex. I don’t know.) START OVER.

How Zeitgeist the Clown Masturbates

There we go. That’s what I meant to say in the first place.

There are apparently an infinite number of ways for men to masturbate. One hundred and one times out of a hundred (give or take two), I masturbate the exact same way. (My lack of variation is either boring or compulsive. I’m going to go with compulsive.) The way I masturbate used to simply be the preferred method, but I would jack off in whatever position was available and efficient at the time. Nowadays, however, it’s pretty much always the same.

Semen is messy. And it never occurred to me to jack off into a wad of Kleenex until after I had already developed my personal masturbatory methodology. My standard masturbation session went like this. I’d lay a bath towel down on the floor, drop my pants, and kneel down with my bare knees on one end of it. Then I’d spit into the palm of my right hand, then reach down and grab my cock, rubbing my saliva all over it. Then, holding an issue of Penthouse in my left hand (open to some particularly sexy letter from Penthouse Forum), I’d proceed to stroke myself until I came. I’d shoot my load directly onto the towel. Then I’d fold the towel over, wipe the spit off of my hand, clean off my cock, hide the dirty magazine, and stuff the towel down into the dirty laundry. Ta-da!

Nowadays, it’s mostly the same. I don’t really ever use any kind of lube any more. The towel is usually on the floor in front of the computer with some kind of porn running on the monitor. And it tends to get used for several masturbatory sessions before being laundered. But other than that, I still jack off down on my knees, cock in my busily pumping right hand.

Previously on “Time Delay” . . .

I’ve already talked a little bit about masturbation in previous posts here in the blog. Most notably, last week, when I mentioned masturbating at school during my junior and senior year – both in locked classrooms and on one occasion in the girl’s locker room.

My days were pretty full during most of this time. Not only were my days full, but I didn’t have the greatest amount of privacy in the world at home at this point, for various reasons. Given the fact that I had keys to some of the rooms at school, and could lock myself in empty classrooms, it actually made more sense to jack off there than it did at home. I wasn’t usually doing this while school was in session (although, you’ll note I did say ‘usually’). Typically, my at-school masturbation sessions were either early in the morning before other people started showing up, or after school after most people went home.

I would also masturbate at work during this time. Usually in the bathroom during breaks. Sometimes other incredibly inappropriate places.


Jerking off. Jacking off. Beating off. Whacking off. (No, this isn’t a poem.) Playing with myself. Pulling the pud. Bopping the baloney. Flogging the bishop. Polishing the knob. Petting the python. Choking the chicken. Churning the butter. Spanking the monkey. Playing pocket pool. Jerkin' the gerkin. Stroking off. Artificially inseminating the Kleenex. Committing the little French suicide. Seeing a man about a sheep. Whipping up a batch of baby batter. Giving myself a handjob. Rubbing one out. Eating a Reese’s. (Wait – what?) Cleaning out the pipes. Wanking off. Tossing off. Fapping. And on and on and on. How many different words do Eskimos have for snow? I think that we masturbators have them beat. (“I said ‘beat’.”) I’ve seen ridiculously long lists of masturbatory euphemisms online.

Personally, I jack off, and I masturbate. (Sometimes I’ll give myself a handjob, but only to illustrate my partnerlessness in a clever and endearingly self-deprecating manner.) I’m not actually very fond of most of the other synonyms for the act. I’m not one of the guys who switches up and down the list every times he mentions having done it.

I think that it’s an OCD thing. “I do this thing, this is what it’s called. And if you call it by another name, it bothers me (and I will fantasize about punching you in the face).”

I masturbate. I jack off. I don’t jerk off or beat off. I haven’t played with myself since the first time I ejaculated. I don’t flog the bishop. I certainly don’t pull the pud or whip up batches of baby batter. I masturbate. I jack off. I do these things well, and I do them often.

Don’t Just Waste That Erection! Don’t You Know That There Are Poor Starving Children in Third World Countries That Go To Bed Hungry Each Night Dreaming of Having an Erection Like That?

There was a long time after I first got sick (we’re talking a period of years here) where if I got an erection, I would masturbate. Not every time, but every time that I was at home and by myself. So, . . . almost every time.

When Dennis Miller left Saturday Night Live (where he primarily just did the Weekend Update) for his own talk show (“The Dennis Miller Show”), he took the concept of the fake news show, doing his own renamed version of it on every Friday show. One of the running gags was to show a photo of then-President Clinton from some point during the week. This would very specifically be a photo where his groin region was blocked from view. The commentary for the photo would then be something along the lines of, “President Clinton postponed his meeting with Chancellor So-and-So of Somewhere earlier this week, while waiting for his erection to subside.” Almost every week you could count on a blocked crotch shot of the president and the line “. . . while waiting for his erection to subside.”

It was comedy, because of Clinton running around getting himself into sex scandals. But I was even more amused by it because of the fact that I almost never waited for my erection to subside. When I got hard, I grabbed hold of it, jacked it until it spewed, and then let my manhood go limp ‘the way it was supposed to’. Post-ejaculation, at the end of a successful cycle of erection, masturbation, ejaculation, deflation. Not that stupid erection, neglect, deflation nonsense.

My obsessive compulsive brain was of the opinion that no erection should be wasted. If I became aroused, I was to ejaculate. No (well, okay, very few) exceptions. Simply letting one’s erection subside was just wasteful. And so very sad.

Stupid Little Musing

There is no ‘I’ in ‘team’. There is, however, an ‘I’ in ‘masturbation’. Strangely enough, if you remove the letter ‘I’ from the word masturbation, what you’re left with is masturbaton, or mastur-baton. And what, you ask, is a mastur-baton? Well, that’s the technical term for a fuck-stick before it’s owner actually begins using it to fuck.

Question: “So, what did you do last night?”

Answer from a sexually active male: “Drove my fuck-stick in and out of her all night long.”

Answer from a virgin male: “Just sat around and played with my mastur-baton.”

Dot and the Return of the Underwear Glue

Something that I didn’t mention in my post about my ‘relationship’ with Dot last week. At some point during the weeks in which I was (co-)writing the script, falling in love (or whatever that emotion was), and playing with her tits and toes, I had a wet dream.

You’re probably asking yourself how this could possibly be, given the amount of masturbating I do. “Surely there couldn’t have been any extra semen left in the tank to seep out on it’s own without the whole manual stimulation thing pumping it forth, right?”

Normally, yeah. But . . .

Despite how incredibly horny playing with Dot’s exposed fleshy parts made me, I wasn’t actually masturbating during that time. I think it was a cross between being in ‘love’ with her (and that temporary insanity reclassifying ‘masturbation’ as a crude act that would sully my pure romantic feelings), and the incredible misconception that I was building up toward actually having sex with her (and, I guess, I was therefore saving up my precious seed so that when I finally fucked her, I’d be able to cum like a firehose or something).

Once I woke up all sticky, I started forcing myself to jack off every couple of days, just to make sure it didn’t happen again. Then, once things suddenly ended the way they did, I was masturbating constantly, all the while fantasizing about doing the most disgusting and degrading things to her. (“Treat me like that, will you?”)

Anyway, I couldn’t tell you how long it was in days or anything, but I’m fairly certain that the time period from the moment I realized I was in love with Dot until right after having that wet dream was the longest I’d gone without masturbating since my first orgasm.

Girls and Their Fingers (and Dildos, and Vibrators, and Cucumbers, etc.)

I’ve watched woman masturbating in porn. And I’m by no means going to say, “Oh, God, that’s disgusting, make them stop!” Sometimes – depending on the particular woman, exactly what she’s doing, and what kind of camera angles we’re getting – I’m a little disappointed when her partner shows up and it goes from masturbation to sex. But that’s only sometimes. Most of the time when I’m watching porn, it’s to see women doing things other than just playing with their own pussies.

I’ve seen CJ masturbating a time or two (way back in the day), and it was one of the hottest things ever. I don’t know if it was just because I was a little goofy nuts about all things CJ, or if it because LIVE and IN PERSON female masturbation is infinitely greater than stuff on DVD. Could be a little of both.

All I really know is that I’d really like the opportunity to watch more women masturbating at some point in the future. Near future, ideally.

One Final Subheading

Well, all this talk about masturbation has made me more than just a little horny. So, I’m going to go grab the old bath towel and jack off now. Bye!

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