The first sexual thing I can remember happened at about age 9. I had left my bed, probably to get a glass of water, and on my way to the kitchen I saw that the lounge-room light was on. I went down the hall, and at the door I saw my father lying on the couch with his clothing pushed down to his knees and up to his chest. My mother was kneeling down beside the couch with my father's penis in her mouth. I watched for only 5 or 10 seconds before my mother realized I was there and sprang up, alerting my father, who also sprang up and started to adjust his clothing. He yelled at me to get back to bed, which I did as fast as I could go.
The second event took place about a year later. I think perhaps my curiosity was getting the better of me, as this time there were no lights but I still crept up the hallway to my parents' bedroom door. I don't remember if I had heard anything to attract me, but I probably did. When I reached the door I was confronted with the sight of my father and mother, covered by much bedding (it was very cold), in the throes of orgasm with my father grunting and my mother moaning and the covers thrashing about. I was fascinated with the sight and just a little scared by all the violent activity. I think I may have started to develop a voyeuristic streak in me, because I remember a few trips down the hall in the hope of seeing more of this vaguely exciting scene.
When I was around 12, in the middle of summer (it was very hot), my nocturnal trips up the hall struck the jackpot. My parents' bedroom light was on, so I walked quietly down to see what I could see. On reaching the bedroom door I saw my father and mother, totally nude, about to assume the missionary position. I could not have been more than 8 feet from the foot of the bed, so my view of the scene was totally unrestricted. My father entered my mother and began slow and steady movements that seemed to go on forever but probably did not last more than 5 or 10 minutes. The whole scene slowly became more frantic and the sounds of my father and mother more loud as his grunting and her moaning climaxed. As my father came to a rest and made movements that indicated he was about to break away from my mother, I thought I had been discovered, so I turned tail and fled back to my room. To this day I do believe my mother knew that I was there but for some reason said nothing. I remember I was sexually aroused by all I had seen, but at that age my fondling of my immature penis did not result in that rush of feeling and fluid I was to learn to love so much. From then on I made many trips up the hall but was never able to see again what would stick in my mind to this day.
Just before my 14th birthday, I went to boarding school and soon struck up a friendship with one of my classmates. His name was Doug, and during one of our conversations he asked me, "Have you had a 'wet-dream' yet?" To which I answered, "What's a 'wet-dream'?" He explained what it was, and I thought no more about it — until later in the dormitory. I dreamt again about what I had seen in my parents' bedroom that unforgettable night. I woke up with the classic wet-and-sticky PJs, but I knew what it was, so I wasn't concerned. I informed Doug the next day that I'd had a "wet-dream," and his response was I would now start "pulling myself." Sure enough, a few days later my penis began sending me messages about fondling and playing, and this over the next few minutes grew to much more urgent stroking, and eventually full masturbation. The feeling was amazing, and I think I knew then this was something I would be doing constantly all my life.
My school dormitory was a very large room with 4 rows of double bunks, 1 down each wall and 2, head to head, down the center line. Soon my masturbation sessions took on a nightly timetable, and after a short while I noticed that the metal frame of the bunks was transmitting a regular shaking rhythm from the bunk below. The boy below was obviously masturbating just the same as I was. I was curious to see if anyone else was doing it, so I checked out the bunks on each side across the aisle. There was a street light outside the dorm, so I had some light in which to observe the urgent up and down movement of all of the bunks that were lighted at the correct angle. My masturbation sessions seemed to set off the boy below me, and the same thing happened when he masturbated — it set me off, too.
The dormitory-block showers were spartan, consisting of 10 to 12 shower heads with no privacy screens. I constantly feared that my penis would stand up and disgrace me, which it did sometimes. It was common to see a teenage boy with an erection under the shower. One day one of the boys who was at the end of the line had a full erection, and he turned into the corner as if to hide it from view. After a while it became obvious he was masturbating. No one said anything about it, as we probably all felt it could have been us.
My friend Doug had discovered a trapdoor that led under the stage of the assembly hall, and he had established a hideaway with a couple of blankets, candles, and "nudist" magazines. Porno mags were not available in Australia then. We often went down there for a regular masturbatory heaven, totally private, and learned much about how to satisfy that wonderful thing between our legs. The activities were not homosexual, but we tried mutual masturbation and found that attending to our own needs was best. Watching each other was good fun, though.
One weekend a few of the boarders went for a walk in the bush outside of town, and at a clearing we had a rest. We were in a generally circular group, and the conversation turned to sex in general and masturbation in particular. Someone suggested a race to see who could ejaculate first, so I had my first and only "circle jerk." This only went to confirm that masturbation was universal and the rumors of blindness were rubbish — that would mean all the men in the world would have been walking around with white canes.
At the end of my 2 years at boarding school I returned to my own room at home. Here I learned the joys of humping the mattress and pillow. The yellowish stains mounted rapidly, and by washing day they must have been so obvious to my mother, but she never mentioned it to me. My masturbation rate was at 3 to 4 times per day, and I felt that the whole thing was getting out of control. One day at about age 16 I knelt beside the bed and prayed for help in getting the habit down to once per day. It did not do any good at all, for as soon as I got into bed I was at it again. Like all others I woke with a full erection, and it was rare for me to get through the morning shower without masturbating.
Just before I turned 17 I was transferred to Melbourne, the capital of the state of Victoria. We students needed to lodge in private homes, and fortunately I always had my own room, so I conducted my nightly masturbation sessions in privacy. In addition to my using the more traditional right-hand method, my mattress-humping accumulated many stains (6 or 7 per week). These could not have been missed by my landlady, but she never mentioned it, so I guess women in 1955 were just as aware of young men's sexual needs as they are now.
I was not very successful with women at this stage, and each weekend if possible I would return to my home town to visit my parents and catch up on my friends. My brother, who was much more successful with women than I, was going out with a girl my age. Her elder sister was unattached, and one weekend my brother and I went around to the girls' place, and after a while I was instructed by my brother to stay outside while he went inside with the younger sister. The elder sister and I went to the family car (her parents were out somewhere) and sat in the back seat. She was much more experienced than I, and after a short time we progressed to the point where she had removed most of her clothing — I had the object of my fantasies open and expectant before me. It only remained for me to release my raging penis, which at the time felt huge but was only average in size. I had partly accomplished this task when I ejaculated all over my fumbling hand, her stomach, and almost everything else in the area. I was disgusted, as at that point I remembered how my father was so slow and deliberate — and long-lasting — when he'd had sex with my mother. I could not speak for a while, and that fiasco was the last I saw of her.
Back in Melbourne I met a girl who "never did such things," as she was a good Catholic girl. However, she loved to massage my penis in the back seats of the picture theater, and many was the night when I returned home in the bus with a steadily growing wet spot in the front of my pants. But that was as far as I got with her. On another occasion my job sent me to a town about 200 miles from Melbourne. I met a girl there, and in an almost exact replay of my first fiasco, I was in a car with her lower body naked and very ready. This time I managed to release my organ from my trousers (buttons, not zippers, in those days) and had it only inches from nirvana. Splash! — I could hardly believe it had happened again. This time it landed on the bull's-eye and most of the surrounding area, but she was as mad as hell, and that was the end of that.
In Melbourne again I at last met the girl of my dreams — both wet and dry! — and knew very soon she was the one I would marry. It was over a year before we had sex. (Don' t laugh, youngsters!) We managed to figure out many ways to mutually masturbate without becoming too obvious, as her mother watched us like a hawk. We found out years later she used to stand inside of the front door and listen to her daughter's orgasms, with me rubbing my bulge against her clothed clitoris — damned awkward it was!
My girl's mother was a widow, and her fiancé had a holiday home down at an outer beach suburb, and we spent many weekends there. After our evening meal we would go for a walk down to the beach in order to get some time alone together. The beach was backed with tea trees, and this area had many walking tracks with grassed areas beside them. One evening we were sitting on one of these when the kissing, etc., got completely out of hand and desire took control of both of us. We had our first sexual intercourse right on the side of the path in full view of anyone who may happen to come past. I in particular was just too randy to care.
That was the beginning of our sexual life and over 40 years together. We managed to have sex about once a week, and of course I had to make up the difference with my right hand (and, less often, the mattress). We married in February 1960, and fairly soon afterward, my wife made it clear she considered any masturbation to be a waste of an ejaculation that she wanted reserved for her. So for some years my masturbation was confined to her period and when she may have been "off-color." My wife, though, was an enthusiastic masturbator since very early childhood, and our sex life together included many orgasms before, during, and after sexual intercourse. I was quite happy with this, as our sex life took all of my energy both sexual and physical.
At about age 25 something happened to me that my wife did not believe and I have not mentioned since. I was on the bus heading home after work — it was packed full, and the day was a scorcher. My seat was against the center aisle, and a woman was pressed toward me by the crush. After a few minutes I realized I could feel her pubic area against my left shoulder bone. I felt sorry for her, so I moved my body slightly away from contact with her body. To my amazement, she moved herself to re-establish contact with my shoulder. I am sure I could feel her clitoris harden as the road vibration traveled up and created stimulation of her clitoris against my shoulder. This went on for at least half an hour until the bus reached the first stop on the express run. She left the bus without making eye contact with me.
My sexual life with my wife remained very active over the years, but unfortunately at menopause my wife's libido began to fade until at about age 55 it was totally gone. My wife was very understanding of my needs and supported my need to masturbate either in bed with her at night or in the shower. After we retired we adopted the caravanning lifestyle so popular here in Australia and traveled around following the sun wherever we felt like it. This meant I was having public showers all over the country, and of course, masturbating whenever the need arose (which was quite often). One day I was in a shower stall that had a gap of about 10 inches under the dividing wall. I happened to look down and noticed that the overhead lighting, together with the wet floor, was creating a reflection from the next stall. I could plainly see that the man next door was masturbating and was amused to see someone doing that which I did so often. I am sure the events of my young days, when I made much effort to watch my parents having sex, has turned me into a bit of a voyeur. I made it my business from that day on to take note of the activities of the men in the next shower stall. The number of times I have witnessed masturbation in the showers is far too many to count — a very high percentage of the men who enter end up masturbating. I believe this is because many of the men in these places are retired and probably have wives who also suffer from menopausal loss of libido, and so they must gain sexual release. It's interesting to note that many men, perhaps as a territory-marking thing, leave their semen either on the floor or running down the walls. I have done this on a couple of occasions but usually take the time to clean up afterwards.
One day, after drying myself after the shower, I felt the need to masturbate, so I leaned against the wall with my left upper arm and proceeded to masturbate. It was a fairly long session, as I usually take my time (my wife always knows when I have "done the deed" as I take so long). After I had ejaculated and recovered a bit of my composure, I cleaned up. Something made me look to the left, and I saw a man standing outside the stall waiting for a vacant one. It was obvious he could see me masturbating through the gap between the door and the frame — and the big grin on his face as I left was confirmation.
The busiest time is when schoolboys are on some sort of excursion and staying in the camping areas. The showers are the most popular place around, and I have often been witness to their efforts. They seem to be more varied in their methods and seem to love sitting down, either on the floor or on the chairs provided. One youngster used two chairs — one to sit on and the other to rest his feet. He was at it for ages and used the shower only to clean up the ejaculation. In some toilets the occupants seem to take great pride in depositing their sperm on the inside of the door near the hinges so the cleaner rarely gets to see it. One of these seemed to have been the result of perhaps many more than one man.
That's about the end of the saga of a 61-year-old Australian male who relies wholly on my long experience of masturbating in all sorts of places and all sorts of ways. I have loved every one of them and look forward to 10 or 20 years of wonderful self love.
Do you find yourself masturbating more often during some seasons than others? Why?
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Marked territory
Gender:
Male