It's Thursday morning and I'm awakened by that slightly nagging feeling one gets when the call of nature beckons. Only 4 o'clock, and as late as I retired the night before, I had been hoping for a little more sleep. I try to return to this strangely comical dream I was having, but no luck. Call of nature gets more insistent, so I hop out of bed and head for the bathroom. Back in bed again I'm ready for another 40 winks. Except for whatever trigger sets off in my brain that "dicky boy" was getting ready for some action! I know from long experience this was a call I couldn't just ignore. Even if I tried. So, I reach over to the night stand for my K-Y, lower my shorts, and apply the requisite amount of lubricant...just enough to get going. Penis, scrotum, and general vicinity. I reach down with my right hand, holding my penis in one of my favorite positions, the "Backhand" position, but with my index finger reaching back behind my scrotum and pressing in gently on the internal part of my shaft. I roll over on my left side, not quite on my stomach. Thrusting begins, slow at first, then faster, and every so often switching to one of a hundred variations of massaging, kneading, rotating, sliding, and so on. It doesn't take long and I can feel my Cowper's glands kicking in. Wow. Now that's real lubricant, Pat, I say to myself. Too bad you couldn't bottle and sell it! At about the same time I get this warm feeling, welling up from somewhere inside around the base of my penis and I've got to ease off. Slower...do a few change-ups...keep sensing what I can do that won't take me over the edge. Thrust in, out, use my fingers to move my frenulum back and forth across the palm of my hand and over my wrist, and then I'm on the edge again. After a dozen or more times of almost going over the edge I take a look at the clock on the bed stand. It's just after 5 o'clock. Okay, dicky boy, time for a break. Let me sleep for a while.
I doze off for a while. But then, for reasons I can't fathom, I'm wide awake again. From my alarm clock on the night stand it's only 5:30. Hmmm. What now, I think. I'm definitely not ready to get up and start my day at the office. Within a few seconds, however, dicky boy is clearly telling me he's ready for another session. Well...okay...guess we'll do it. Reaching for the lubricant I apply a little more and settle back into a comfortable position. Within a few minutes I'm back to that intense feeling, a pleasure that I'd grown to crave for over 50 years. Back and forth...back and forth...at the edge but not quite ready to erupt. After another half-hour I ease off and try to sleep for a while. I'm trying to sleep, but can't quite turn off the myriad thoughts in my mind — about business, the kids, and a hundred other things.
I guess I dozed off for a few minutes because when I looked at the alarm clock the LED read "6:32." That was encouraging. At least it was only a short while before I'd need to get up to shave, shower, eat, and drive to the office. But without warning, dicky boy was signaling me again. "Hey, Pat, it's time to rise and shine. But give me some attention first, okay?" Okay, guy, let's do it. Get into my favorite position and away we go! The feeling is even more intense than the last time, and in less than a minute I can feel I'm close to having an orgasm. For the next 30 minutes I do my level best to not go over the edge, and with a fair bit of effort I manage to ride the wave without shooting it. Sometimes I can't believe how my Cowper's glands do what they do. What a fantastic feature...it's like they double the pleasure of every "sexual encounter" I have! I look at the alarm clock. It's 7:05. Okay Pat, time to move out. You have a business to run!
I was practicing my piano lessons at around 5:30 one afternoon and my dad came home. He owned his own business and didn't often come home this early. I saw him out of the corner of my eye and he sort of smiled and — when I took my fingers off the keys for a few seconds, he said, "Hey Pat, when you're finished let me know...I need to check with you on something."
A half hour later I finished and went out in search of my dad. Found him in the workshop (a small alcove off the end of the house) and dutifully let him know that I was "finished with the piano for the night." "Great, Pat," he said. "Follow me." He proceeded down the hall and headed for the bathroom. I had no idea at that point what he had in mind or why in God's name we were headed for a short huddle in the bathroom, but what's a boy of 12 to question. My dad was strong-headed and whatever he said, went.
He sat down on the closed toiled lid and proceeded to tell me that, following up on the brief physical I'd had about 6 months earlier at school, he needed to "check me out." The doc who did the physical said I had an undescended testicle which — for a boy of 12 — wasn't terribly uncommon, but it was important to watch every so often to be sure it "dropped." Well, I had never even heard of undescended testicles, nor had I scrutinized by own body to even know at that point I had "a problem," as my dad relayed to me. But, apparently I had a problem. Thankfully, after dad checked me out, felt around just a bit and looked the situation over, he informed me that "everything now looks normal, son, just as the doc said it would." Apparently, undescended testicles dropped into position by the time one reached 12 or 13, I guess, and at this point I was declared normal! Apart from the general embarrassment of the matter, I guess I was at least relieved that whatever the doc thought he saw 6 months ago, I was now okay.
What came next was a surprise. My dad said, "Okay, Pat, looks like everything is in A-1 shape. Now, as long as we're talking (I actually wasn't the one talking here, believe me!), I need to mention one other thing." Hmmm. I had no idea what else might be important here, but as I pulled my shorts and pants up, secured my belt, and did my best to recompose myself, my dad proceeded with "Now that we've got that behind us, Pat, there's something I want to mention. It's about masturbation." He had to have noticed the perplexed look on my face because he then went on to say, "Do you know what it is?"
I responded, "No, I've never heard of, Dad." In truth, I had never heard the word, and had zero idea of what it meant. He then proceeded to spell the word for me.
He was undoubtedly expecting a more intelligent response, because at that point, looking a bit exasperated, he said, "Well, okay. Just look it up in the dictionary. And, please hear what I'm saying, don't do it. Just save it 'til you're married." Again, I had no idea what he meant by "save it."
That was the first, and last, conversation my dad and I had about anything related to sex for another 25-plus years. I had absolutely no idea what the "masturbation" stuff was about, nor did I have any notion of why he was telling me to "not do it." Do what? Jeez, was I in the dark.
Well, okay. He did, after all, tell me to look it up in the dictionary. Being the reasonably literate person I thought I was for being 12, I hauled out our family Webster's dictionary — within a half-hour of when dad and I were in the bathroom together — and of course looked up the "m" word. Found it without problem. But then I had a huge disappointment. I was expecting something really revealing, but all my Webster's said on the subject (a fairly new 1955 edition) was sex play. Jeez...another disappointment. Sex play, I thought? What's that? I want pictures...I want a real definition. I want an explanation of what this is supposed to mean. After all, my dad wasn't telling me this "secret" just for nothing, right?
I couldn't, or maybe wouldn't, check out the "m" word with my older brother. He was 15 at the time, and somehow I was sure it was something he knew nothing of or would otherwise have shared the info with me...we did after all share the same bedroom for years. As for friends, well, youthful embarrassment made that totally out of the question at the time.
Another 3 years, lacking just a few months, would pass before more light was shed on the subject.
Meanwhile, I had some maturing up to do. More than I could know, I suppose. As I entered my teen years I had this vague sense that I was growing up in a sheltered environment...living most of early years out in a Midwestern countryside, several miles from a town of about 1,000. When I was 9 1/2 my folks moved us all out west, to what seemed like a real city at first: population 14,000. Was in a strong church-going family, went to a parochial school until I reached the 10th grade, and while I heard a whisper or two from friends about something related to sex I remained clueless.
I'm basically one of these happy-go-lucky guys who doesn't sweat things too much...academically inclined but also with a fairly strong social bearing. But every so often I'd think about what my dad said. "Something called masturbation...just don't do it." Wished he would've said why. But okay, so I didn't sweat it, nor did I think all that much about it, but it was still one of those puzzles lurking in my adolescent mind.
The 8th grade was a time — which seemed to last for a few years at least — when I seemed to be in my own world. Yes, I went to school every morning. I did my studies. I did my socializing. But I didn't seem to really "be with it," as I somehow thought my peers were. (If only I had known what was going through their own minds!) There were days I really enjoyed school, but there were days that I came to dread. Sometimes for what seemed weeks on end, I'd be sitting in class and for no apparent reason I'd get a boner. Jeez! Out of the blue...spontaneous as hell. This was a private school, which I'd been in for 3 years already, and I knew everybody and everybody knew me. And our teacher had this habit of calling out one or another of our names and demanding that we stand up, next to our seats, and give whatever answer she was expecting of us — the subject could be history, religion, grammar, you name it. So I was deathly afraid of her calling upon me to provide this or that recitation while I was in the midst of one of these spontaneous erections, with penis bulging beneath my pants, straight up to the best of its ability it seemed! One day it happened. With a hard-on thrusting up. Oh God. Now what do I do? Well, I faked it. Told the teacher I had no idea, I apologized, and said I'd be sure to be prepared the next day. Which I was...and she dutifully called on me. Thank God I did not have a spontaneous then. Jeez. That's all I would have needed.
9th grade wasn't too bad, and I managed to survive the year without great embarrassment. Other than having to make a formal presentation to the entire graduating class, their parents, friends, relatives, and practically the entire community, or so it seemed. I was president of the 9th grade class and hence it was my duty to be part of the ceremonies, presenting a gift to the principal and Board members, etc. I don't recall much of the entire ceremony, other than that I was terrified.
Then, leaving my private school environs I entered a whole new world, "public school," with kids I was told came from all sorts of backgrounds — religious, non-religious, poorer, richer, and the like, from every stripe and neighborhood. Amazing what we pick up from other kids, and parents too.
After a semester or so into high school a fairly new acquaintance, Aaron, suggested one day that we head over to the handball courts and have lunch together. Sounded good to me, so we headed off to the courts...about a 5 minute's walk to a place near the edge of the campus. We sat down on the cement, opened our sack lunches, and proceeded to eat. While we were munching our sandwiches, Aaron looked at me and said, "Hey Pat, what do you think about masturbation? Fun, eh?" He could have knocked me over with a feather. I hadn't heard that word since my dad uttered it.
I mumbled something to the effect of "Well, shucks, I'm not sure...whaddaya mean, Aaron?"
He thought I was pulling his leg and said, "C'mon, you know what I mean! We all do it, ya know!"
To which I replied, "Tell me more, Aaron. I've heard the term but suppose you explain some of the details, you know...!" He didn't go crazy, but could have, I guess.
"Come on Pat, whaddaya want me to do? Haul out my penis and start 'doin it'?" He had a half-smile on his face, making me wonder whether he might actually enjoy doing it, then and there!
Naturally I said to forget it. "Yeah...I was just cornin' off." In truth, I didn't really want him to pull out his penis and do whatever it is he says he does with it.
We had lunch together in the same place a few weeks later. He showed me a photo of a mutual acquaintance, posing naked with a hard-on as big as life — standing straddled between the window ledge and top of bunk bed in his bedroom. Aaron had just taken the photo the week before and had it developed that day. He talked a little about what they were up to, including something about jacking off together. Aaron asked me again if I had "done it" recently. I told him I hadn't done it lately, but that I was sure I'd get around to it. He gave me one of those weird looks which I wasn't quite sure how to interpret at the moment but he let it pass.
Months went by and I ruminated on this whole business of masturbation. What in hell was this, I wondered. The damn dictionary failed me, and I hadn't encountered the term in any other book I'd run across. And of course, given the age I was, with everything being embarrassing and all the stuff I was experiencing must "only" be happening to me (jeez, like I was the first teenage guy on the face of the earth!), I continued in a state of perplexity and ignorance. Too bad I hadn't felt comfortable talking with my buddies, I thought — many years later of course. Or that I hadn't mustered up the courage to approach my older brother.
So I continued off and on in a state of ignorance. Until one night, that is, near the middle of my 15th year. My brother was out on a date one Friday night in 1958 and, after I finished whatever homework needed doing, I went upstairs to bed. I turned on the TV (a small 12-incher my bro had built for us then) and stripped down to just my shorts as usual. I suddenly got this super erection. Okay. Nothing too new, I guess, since that had happened numerous times before. This time, though, for reasons I can only guess at, it seemed my boner was more powerful and insistent than ever before. And it wouldn't go down. I just lay there, watching TV, feeling this hard, firm, protruding "being" that was a part of me, holding up the sheet and blanket over me like a tent. Minutes passed and I kept wondering what in hell was going on.
Well...for reasons I could never fully explain, but most likely stemming from a few dim glimpses of what I might do with my boner based on conversations I'd been in on over the past few years, I pushed the blanket off me and put hand to penis, wrapped it around in a sort of fist-like fashion, and began stroking. And stroking. And stroking. Wow. I had never felt anything like this in my life before. Holy mackerel, I thought. This is neat. No, it's better than neat. It's fantastic. No, it's not fantastic. It's heaven. Wow. Stroke...stroke...the intensity of pure pleasure rose within me, and while I had absolutely zero idea what was really happening, I did in fact know that what I was doing felt better than anything I'd ever experienced. Indescribable, wondrous, exhilarating, hot...everything I suppose one might wish for. I didn't — couldn't — know what was about to happen, but there was a drive inside that kept pushing me on...stroke after stroke after delicious stroke. Every which way I touched myself felt absolutely fantastic. Even if I wanted to stop there was no way I could. The drive was so powerful I kept on going. Until suddenly, I felt an explosion, like there was a volcano inside that had erupted, and as I stroked a bit more, this creamy white stuff shot out of me and up to the ceiling, then another couple of spurts onto the wall behind me, then onto my face, then my chest, and finally a couple more spurts around my hand and penis. What ecstasy...I felt like screaming except my parents were somewhere in the house. And every time I moved my hand so that it stroked over the end of my penis my body would jerk around. Talk about sensitive. Jeez...it suddenly became untouchable!
It took me a minute or two to figure out what had just happened. This was absolutely best feeling I had ever had in my life. So this is what Aaron was talking about! I've finally discovered what it is to masturbate. Good God, what took me so long, I wondered aloud. Come on Pat, you're sure a slow learner. Fortunately I didn't get hung up on my tardiness in discovering "the secret" and, for the moment, was thinking something more along the lines of "better late than never"! While I didn't know this at my full conscious level, I was hooked. The sheer ecstasy I had felt was something so truly wonderful that suddenly I had this feeling I had come of age.
The next night I could hardly wait to get to the bedroom and, fortunately, my brother hadn't gotten home yet. With eager anticipation I had an erection at the ready when I jumped into bed. Wow. Just like last night, I thought. What a fantastically wonderful feeling. It didn't take but maybe 3 minutes and I came off...again spurting up to the ceiling and onto the wall behind me. This time, though, I had a worn-out T-shirt with me to clean up the mess right away. I couldn't believe my luck. Here I was, alone, and able to do something that "I" could control...that I could have fun with...just on my own. It couldn't have been 15 minutes later that my penis was hard again. I tried ignoring it. No luck. After a few minutes, I started stroking and, no surprise, it felt terrific. Talk about being hot. Wow...it wasn't just great, it was almost like I was doing it for the first time again. After a couple of minutes, I had the same feeling of a volcano about to erupt and, sure enough, it did. Jeez. Is this possible, I thought? I just finished doing this a few minutes ago. I didn't know it then, but I had a refractory period that was shorter by several orders of magnitude than is now the case at age 62!
From then on, it seemed that high school was a different experience. I felt more "with it." But I also felt rather embarrassed at times during P.E., especially when we came back into the gym from whatever outdoor sport we were playing and, after stripping down, ran to the group shower areas. There were times I'd get an erection while soaping down. Other times while simply walking down the isles from the showers to my locker. And at still other times standing around the locker with other guys, drying off and starting to dress. I'd often start getting an erection, or would already have one by the time I got back to my locker, and I'd do my damnedest to hide it — pushing it down with my hand, covering it with my towel, or using any other means at my disposal to somehow hide "this embarrassment." Knowing what I know now...I should have been proud to show it off. After all, having an erection is not only normal, it feels good. So why hide it? But in high school...well, things were different. A lot different. It's like it was happening only to me! Right.
Despite the unmitigated pleasures of this secret that seemed to have taken me so long to discover, my mind would return every so often to my dad's admonition — Don't do it, son. I had to wonder, of course, whether he had ever done it. After all, he seemed to know about it. Whatever it was he knew that was wrong about it he never shared with me. But, under the circumstances, if he didn't really know what I was doing and if I kept it strictly a private affair, I figured I wasn't actually disobeying him. Or so I hoped. I also rationalized his words as intended "suggestion," not really a parental command. Even so, every now and then when I thought I was indulging myself a bit too much, I'd hold off for a day or two and see if I could restrain myself. Yeah, sure. My restraint never lasted beyond two days! Even so, his words still bothered me for a few years. I didn't get a huge guilt complex over it, thank God, but those words still lingered.
It crossed my mind every so often that there might be a moral issue involving masturbating. I had read the Bible several times over by the time I was 16 and yet I couldn't find anything there that gave what I considered "moral guidance," with the possible exception of "Do all things in moderation." Then there's the verse in Ecclesiastes 9 — in one of the newer versions, anyway — that's translated as, "Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might." Okay...well, there, I thought. If that doesn't give permission, I don't know what would! And, given that my dad seemed to have a strong belief in the Holy Scriptures, I could only conclude that either he overlooked this or was just trying to err on the side of caution in the "advice" he handed down to me.
I look over toward the bedroom window and see just the glimmer of a sunrise starting to take form. Figure it must be heading toward 6:30, and I'll need to wind down the easy-going solo session I've been enjoying for the last half hour. Now into my third since first waking two hours ago, I fight off the extreme urge to ejaculate for what seems like the hundredth time. I concentrate on alternately relaxing and tightening my pubococcygeus muscle to stay in control. No wonder they've shortened that to the "PC muscle," I think. Okay, Pat, better let it cool off...there'll be other times soon. I let my mind wander and suddenly find myself back in my senior year of high school. I start thinking of these games some of us guys would play — sort of like 20 questions, but with a certain knowing focus. We'd ask supposedly clever questions and see who come up with the best answer. "What's your favorite pie? Banana cream." Or, "What really makes the banana split? Whipped cream coming out all over," to which my friend Dirk says "C'mon man...you gotta work on that one!" And then there were aphorisms, always fun to play with and see if we could turn a phrase into some new, more suggestive twist. One I came up with that's somehow stuck with me goes something like, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, especially when it's your own penis!" I smile and try to remember a few others, but mostly I just remember the fun of trying — however miserably — to top someone else's witticism. Hmmm...back to the present and I find a rather limp penis in my right hand, warm and wet, thanks to those terrific little glands that British anatomist William Cowper got to put his name on back in 1698 A.D. It's about that time, Pat, I thought...time to rise.
As I wended my way through 11th grade, with Latin II, Algebra II, US History, World Lit, and assorted other college-prep classes, social life became a bit more comfortable, although I still felt awkward dating. Very awkward. I chalked it up to youth and inexperience, and maybe that sheltered environment I came from. But, being under the peer pressure that we were, I was valiantly trying to hold up my end of the social bargain and do some occasional dating. Never a spark, however, nor was there to be one for at least 3 years. I continued to feel more comfortable going out with my male friends, whether to the drive-in theater, or for a ride up the nearby mountains for a few beers, or whatever other occasion might bring "the guys" together.
Which reminds me, sometime early in my senior year I and several buddies whom I had known since grade school were talking one day after school, and we all agreed to get together that Friday night after the football game. None of us was going steady at the time, so we figured, why not join up and find some action?
After the game ended — and I can't to this day recall who our team played and who won or lost! — the 5 of us joined up and, in one of my friends' cars, we agreed to take a drive up to the mountains, about 30 miles from the valley town where we all lived at the time. For some strange reason the "gang" seemed to think I looked and acted the most mature, and they prevailed on me to go into one of our local liquor stores to procure a couple of six-packs. We went to a place where I'd bought before and felt reasonably confident. I walked in, picked up two or three six-packs of whatever beer was on sale, took it to the counter, pulled out my wallet, and the 20-something male cashier simply rang up the tab, took my cash, gave me the change, and out I walked. Could this happen today? Probably not, at least I hope to God not. But then...well, that was then.
We headed up the mountain drive, and after 45 minutes or so, found our way to a deserted camping ground. This was October, at an elevation of 6,000 feet plus, so there were no "summer tourists" to contend with. Nor, in those days, did we need worry about officers of the law lurking about at odd hours. We could find ourselves a completely secluded spot and be comfortable knowing that the five of us could "drink and be merry" without concern.
On the way up the mountain drive we talked of the game that night, of girls we'd seen, of our teachers, and of sex — and not necessarily in that order. After we arrived at the campground we found a place to park, got out of the car, and each of us opened a beer. We stood around for a while but — since two of my buddies had failed to bring a jacket — they said they were starting to get cold and wanted to head back for the car. A few others of us stayed on for a while, simply chatting and walking around the campground, checking out the scenery as it were.
Finally we were all back in the car together, popping a Coors now and then, and talking about whatever any of us thought might be of topical importance. By this time I had been "into" my private dream world for a year or more and knew that — in some general sense — this whole business of masturbation was no big secret. And, given that I was feeling horny at all odd (and even) hours of the day, I said something like, "I don't know about you guys, but I've got a penis here that feels like it wants a little action! Hope you don't mind, but I think it's time!" At which point I opened my zipper, pulled out my penis, and started going at it. For maybe five seconds my buddies looked at me as if I was crazy, as if to say, "You, Pat? The straight-laced academic who's always working and studying?" Whatever their opinion, they happily joined in, and within a minute we were all doin' it...and what still amuses me to this day, my four buddies included two sets of brothers and, as far as I could tell, what each of them was seeing that night was a first...like they didn't know their bros were "doin' it" too. How incredible is that? And it's amazing what one remembers. Being the jack rabbit I seemed to be at that point, I ejaculated first. I was followed by my buddy in the driver's seat, Lance, and not long after by one or another of the three in the back seat. We've never spoken of our mountain excursion since, with one exception, but I'm sure we'd have a good laugh about our one and only circle jack if all of us were to meet and talk about it today. I should hasten to add that it's the one and only that I've been a part of. Who knows whether it built a tradition!
That one exception occurred just a couple of days later when I was on a study session with Lance. Rather awkwardly, he brought up our mountain drive of the previous weekend, and of our masturbation session. After beating around the bush for a minute he suddenly burst out with a sort of half question-half statement: "Pat, I couldn't help but notice your penis. I mean, with you being six feet four and all, I figured you for at least a seven-incher! But, as nearly as I could tell — and you remember I was in the front seat with you, well, yours looked about as average as mine. Like, ya know, five or six inches."
I looked at Lance with about as incredulous look as I probably had ever had up to that point and said, "Well, whaddaya think I would have? Just 'cause I'm 6 feet-four doesn't mean I've got a penis to match, ya know. I mean, what if everyone's prick was proportional to his height? Wouldn't that be a scientific giveaway, right? You could walk around and, well, pretty much gauge what a guy's full-bore erection would measure based on his height. Well, from what I've seen in the locker room to date, and from our bio class, it just doesn't work out that way. Jeff, for example (another buddy we both knew), is only five feet ten but has a hard-on that probably measures seven inches at the least. He even showed it to me when we were up on a farm job he and I were assigned to at the end of the summer." Well, okay, so much for the measurements, we both concluded. Apparently neither he nor I could discern with any finality a clear relationship between one's physical build and the size of our penises. That was the end of it from my point of view, and I thought little of the "size issue" for perhaps another 40 years.
As bored as I often was with various classes, the experience through the rest of the 11th grade and all through the 12th was made more bearable by knowing that, with just a small bit of maneuvering, I could put one hand in my pants pocket and have an abbreviated solo session. This was typically possible, however, only if I had a seat in a row where no one was either behind me or to my right (me being right handed!). I nearly always managed to keep from ejaculating. After all, I didn't want to (a) get my shorts and pants wet and (b) take the risk of my body jerking around and in so doing really create an embarrassing scene. The one time I went over the edge I was lucky enough to ejaculate in a way that got my shorts wet, but not my pants.
I couldn't wait to graduate from high school and start getting on with the rest of my life. But after working for a year I decided I really preferred school to the working world, so I checked out the nearest state university — which was all of six miles from where I lived — and signed up for classes. Got through those boring gen-ed courses the first two years (but wish now I had taken more time to enjoy them) and launched into my business major/math minor. College was a blast, and if I could have been a professional student, I probably would have. My wife suggested one day several years later as I was nearing completion of my Ph.D. that I was already in danger of becoming one of those proverbial professional students. It was on the occasion when I mused something about going on for a law degree after finishing my doctorate. But, that's another story.
My one steady pleasure from the time I learned "the secret" and for the next five years was each solo session I had, practically day in and day out. And frequently several in a day. And in all sorts of places...while driving, or sitting in the car doing homework, or in a corner of the library, or in a wide range of men's rooms around the university campus, out in the woods on a hike, relaxing in the family ski boat — wherever I happened to be when I got the urge. The list goes on. While the privacy of my bedroom was the most common venue, I never had trouble finding a suitable place whenever dicky boy started acting up. Including on the living room floor of my parents' home one evening when they were out of town. Except it was with an audience!
Three of my old school buddies and I were sitting around talking, reminiscing about our high school days and generally shooting the bull. We had a beer or two and were trying to figure out what to do with the rest of the evening...should we go for pizza, or catch a movie at the drive-in...or what? We kept debating and, meanwhile, I said something like, "Hey guys, why don't we make our minds up here. The longer I sit the hornier I'm getting. I haven't had a solo since this morning." Whereupon the subject suddenly changed to our various masturbation patterns, except for one of my friends who said nothing on the subject. I didn't ask but I suspected he either regarded this as something extremely private, or that perhaps he wasn't sure what we were talking about. Not likely though, I figured. He was 18.
Anyway, just for fun I bet one of my friends that he couldn't masturbate in two minutes, from start to climax. He was fairly sure he could, but wouldn't take me up on it. So he challenged me and bet me I couldn't do it in one minute, from start to climax. It took me only three seconds to answer and I said, "Hell yes, man. No problem. What'll you bet me?" From my vague recollection of the details I think he said something like "I'll pay for your next six-pack, and a pizza."
"Okay, you're on, says I." I stood up, dropped my pants and shorts, took off my shoes, and proceeded to lie down the living room carpet. Stunned may not be quite the right word, but they were all definitely surprised. Although the buddy who bet me probably had in inkling I'd do it, since I had been something of an exhibitionist on occasion, just corning around. I already had a full-bore erection by the time I was on the floor, and I said, "Okay, Matt, start counting." While he looked at his watch, I proceed with my usual solo ritual and could feel myself getting hotter and hotter. Since I wasn't trying at this point to relax and enjoy the moment, I let myself go all out to be sure I'd ejaculate within one minute. Like I had said, no problem. I beat the clock by a good five seconds.
They all laughed but all Matt could think of was, "Okay man, so we know you're a jack rabbit. I should have known better than to bet you!"
I said, "Yeah, you should have, but that's the most fun I've had ever winning a bet!" I dressed, and after a few minutes we headed out the door for pizza. By that time I felt I had worked up a pretty good appetite.
Zany? Yes, and maybe a little crazy, but those were times I was feeling pretty comfortable about my own body and for some reason didn't feel that masturbating was necessarily limited to being a private affair. Maybe I was coming out of that shell I thought I was often in during high school. I'm not sure.
One night I was studying with a friend whom I had met earlier in the year after joining a social fraternity. Along about midnight Brad and I decided we'd call it quits. We poured another cup of coffee and, sitting in his apartment living room, we started talking "philosophy of life" stuff, and generally trying to solve one or another human mystery that we'd been contemplating. The subject wandered into the sexual realm, and I don't remember who first raised it, but somehow we got around to talk of masturbation. He got the hint that I did it, and vice versa, without really using specifics. As the conversation wore on and we continued our focus on what a great solo session could be, we ventured into the "idea" of maybe doing it together. I hadn't heard about mutual masturbation at that point in my life, but that's what we were somehow getting to, I guess. At about the time I noticed this bulge in Brad's pants creating a sort of tent over his fly. He noticed I had a definite hard-on as well. We agreed to get naked, head for his bedroom, and give it a try. Somehow I drew first, and proceeded to lie down in a position where he could comfortably start stroking my shaft. We had no lubricant then, and I'm sure I never heard or thought about it. Either way, having someone else's hand on my penis for the first time in my life felt strange, but oh, what a good feeling. He didn't need to stroke very long, maybe three minutes at most, and before I knew it I ejaculated, over his arm, hand, my stomach and the bed. Wow. Unforgettable.
Brad smiled at me and said, "Good grief, man, you're like a jack rabbit!" I agreed that I did sort of have that tendency! Then, I cleaned up the semen with a Kleenex, got up, and changed positions while he lay down where I had been. He didn't seem to have quite as firm an erection as I had expected, but then of course I had never handled anyone else's but my own. Anyway, I proceeded to stroke his penis, picking up a little speed as I went along. He had his eyes closed, and after a short bit I was getting the impression he wasn't "quite into this" yet, although I couldn't be sure. He didn't seem to be getting squirmy, nor did he give me any clues as to whether I should try a different technique (as if that would have helped...all I knew was the standard "fist" method, anyway). But I kept stroking for another minute or two until this strange feeling swept over me as if to say, What are you doing? Is this okay? Why am I doing this with Brad? He noticed I had stopped and said, "Hey, you stopped."
I said, "Yeah, I know." I really was at a loss for words.
"Well, tell me more," he said. Brad had this strained look on his face, actually more hurt than strained.
All I could think of on the spur of the moment, not really knowing exactly what it was I was feeling right then, was "Brad, I just don't feel right about this. And, seems to me you're not quite into it either. I think I'd better call it quits. I'm sorry, man." He had this look of hurt disappointment on his face, and it didn't take a genius to know immediately that I had let him down. He had satisfied me, but now I was not going through with my end of the bargain on his behalf.
Brad said something like, "C'mon, man, how can you do this to me?" All I could do was mumble another apology and started getting dressed.
We said a brief goodbye to each other shortly afterward, mumbling a few words about "seeing each other at the frat house the next day," and I drove back to my own apartment across town. I kept thinking about what had just happened between Brad and me. I really was sorry — that I had let him down — but for reasons I couldn't explain, even to myself, I had gotten into a situation that I wasn't emotionally ready for, I guess. But as far as my friend was concerned and how I had treated him, this was definitely not a shining hour for me. You're a lousy heel, Pat. And a kid, and yes — with a helluva lot to learn.
He and I continued to see each other and got along pretty well, but the subject of masturbation, mutual or otherwise, never again came up between the two of us. One time, about three months later, I thought of asking him whether he'd give me another chance, but I decided against this. Whatever else, I guessed he'd probably say no thanks, figuring that he couldn't trust me. If I learned any lesson at all, it was that I'd better be careful what sorts of situations I got myself into with others, and think a little more about consequences, not what might feel good at the moment.
Meanwhile I dated every now and then, although I didn't have a lot of time between working 30-40 hours and going to school full-time every semester. Nothing ever got serious, although there were a couple of gals I met in college that I would have liked to get more serious about. I envied my apartment roommate, though. He and I met in our first accounting course, and I ended up tutoring him all the way through...and we eventually wound up sharing apartment expenses. Anyway, he was dating a high school senior at the time, someone he had known back in high school, I guess. Nearly every night they'd come to the apartment together and after a quick hello, off they'd go to his bedroom. Jeez, I envied him. And then he'd even tell me a few things...just enough to make me drool, of course. He was a fairly quiet, sensitive guy, and I knew he wasn't going to share anything that would turn out to be an embarrassment to or for his girlfriend.
There was one night, though, when he thought I did a pretty good job of making up for lost time. I had invited over an old friend from grade school days and whom I had known all the way through high school. When I had called her, just on a whim, she sounded friendlier than ever, and seemed eager to see me again. In the course of the conversation I told her a bit about my roommate, his girlfriend, that sort of thing, and I could tell she was getting the picture that maybe, just maybe, something might happen between her and me if she came over. With as sexy-sounding a voice as I had heard up to that time, she assured me she'd "love to come over...we'd have a terrific time."
And so she did, and we did. By the time 10 o'clock came we were both in the sack together, naked of course. (My roommate and his friend were already in his bedroom.) I had a pack of condoms at the ready, not being one to want to take chances at that point in my life. I used up one condom, and then another, and then more. Jeez...we made like rabbits most of the night, it seemed. She or I would doze off for maybe a half hour, one of us would wake up, touch the other, and we were back at it again. What a night. I was 19, maybe just 20 when this happened, and similar to how I was a bit slow on the uptake by not discovering masturbation until I was 15, this was now the first time I'd experienced sex. I must have acted like I was starved for it, I guess, since my bed companion seemed most willing to help out my appetite. The next morning, after all of maybe three hours' sleep, we got up, showered and dressed, and she drove off after a warm goodbye. What a first. I had no idea how I'd get "broken in"...one never knows until it happens, I guess. We never got together again, although we did see each other from time to time. Her life went one direction, mine was taking another.
I was a college junior, in a frat and continuing to make headway in my business major. Other than being pretty busy most of the time, life was good and I enjoyed the whole college scene. Still not dating regularly, I continued the more-or-less normal routine of having my own solo sessions whenever I felt the urge...meaning once or twice a day, and often more. I was 20 at the time, close to beginning my senior year, and in an idle moment one day — being the sort of numbers guy that I am — I calculated that I had masturbated something over 2,000 times since I first started. And figuring just a teaspoon for every session (which, after measuring on a few occasions I concluded this was pretty conservative), that worked out to nearly three gallons of semen I had ejaculated. What a thought! Not impressive, I suppose, but I wasn't trying to impress anybody. I was just doing what I felt came naturally, as the song goes.
I couldn't know it then, but my life was about to take a few turns. Had I had a crystal ball, I would have seen a whole new world in front of me...and about to welcome me in.
Thank God it's Saturday. It's been a long week of buildup and I know I can't hold out much longer. For the second time this morning I reach over for the K-Y and re-lube. With my thumb curved back around the base of the shaft I reach back of my scrotum with my index finger, pressing in against the perineum just enough to feel the internal part of the shaft as I thrust back and forth, backhand-style. Stroking, slowly thrusting in and out, it feels like I'm masturbating a 10-inch shaft, from the internal base out to the tip. And being lubed up the stroking gets me going even faster. In what seems like only a minute I'm back to the edge. Ease off...re-start...ease off again. After a half-hour or so I can hardly take it. It's like I've got a load of screamin' semen just begging to burst out.
I doze off for a few minutes, and by 7:00 or so I'm wide awake again with, as usual, dicky boy stiffening up to await another solo. Again, I thought? Sometimes it's almost like dealing with some kind of "external being" that I'm trying to control! I listen to my wife a few feet away in the bed, softly snoring. Between the two of us, I'm the early bird and am usually awake hours before she rouses. This is the weekend and time to sleep in of course, but I'm eagerly anticipating our intimate times together today and tomorrow
It feels so damned good I can hardly stop, riding up to the edge and back a dozen or more times...but at quarter to 8 I decide to get back away from the edge, cool down, and head for a shower. Sex later. Wow, will I ever be ready. Over the course of the week I've enjoyed 10-plus hours of solo activity and didn't ejaculate once. Self control, that's what you've got, Pat, but it's taken you 12 years to get to this point.
I was 21 and finally met the girl of my dreams. No, actually I've known her as a pal ever since high school. Called her one day, we got together for coffee, and in 6 months we were engaged and madly in love. Got married 7 months later. Everybody thought it was too soon, like a whirlwind romance or something, but after all we had gotten acquainted, just as sociable friends, way back in 10th grade. We knew a good deal about each other's families, we had some friends in common, plus lots of high school memories in common. A fantastic combination, we both agreed.
For about the next 10 years — being young marrieds, starting a family, going through grad school, and beginning a career, I essentially put thoughts of masturbation up on the shelf. Life was busy but good, and because of a possible hyperthyroid problem I was turned down by the U.S. Navy when I applied for Officer Candidate School in 1969. (The Vietnam-generated draft was in full swing then, and my semi-high lottery number wasn't far from coming due.) At any rate life went on like there was never a dull moment, and I honestly can't recall whether I had a solo masturbation session during this entire time. I suppose I did once in a blue moon, but I certainly don't remember. Too many other wild and wonderful things were part of that time and somehow filled my memory compartment.
Not long after my wife and I each turned 30 it seemed as if our world started going crazy — or crazier than ever before, to put it more accurately. For the next 12 years or so we found ourselves on a madcap rollercoaster. The challenges of raising children, carving out careers, going through various job relocations, participating in church, social and community activities...all of these and more seemed to consume nearly every waking moment. When one is on such a rollercoaster, I thought, the challenge of nurturing a relationship is no easy one, even with the best of communication. So, for more reasons than I can name, I gradually took those thoughts of masturbation off the shelf and, before long, returned to what used to be a favorite pastime in an effort to pay some additional attention to my undiminished sex drive.
An inveterate night owl, I usually turned in at 11 o'clock or later, my wife already fast asleep from an exhausting day and typically needing more sleep than I at any rate. Not usually able to drift off quickly, my mind would turn to thoughts of sex, and within a minute I felt the arousal that I knew would follow. Stroking my penis, I'd settle into a comfortable position and continue a variety of slow movements, speeding up occasionally, slowing down, and varying the action in ways that would inevitably build the sort of intense pleasure I'd enjoyed thousands of times before. I always kept an old, clean sock handy in the night stand, and when I wasn't far from ejaculating, I'd reach for the sock and have it ready to slip over my shaft. My frequent problem was that if I moved the sock too much at the wrong time, or slid my fingers over the glans while ejaculating and for even a few minutes thereafter, I'd have one of those pleasure-sensitive spasms that would make my body jerk once or twice. It always felt great, naturally, but it didn't seem wise to risk creating a disturbance that might result in waking my exhausted partner.
A new chapter in our lives opened around the time I turned 45, somewhere in the mid-1980s, when my wife and I decided to do some extracurricular reading and see what we might learn that would give us some fresh ideas for the bedroom. One Saturday morning we made our way to the bookstore and found the section on "Sex and Intimacy." Wow, I'd never seen such a variety of how-to books in my life. The bestseller The Joy of Sex seemed to be all the rage then, so we picked out that one for starters. (Within a year we heard about a few others, and likewise procured them!) I thought myself reasonably well read...until, that is, I started digging into this newfound literary treasure. Techniques and positions I could never have dreamed of. Jams, jellies, and marmalades...and of course whipped cream. While there was much that we didn't think was our cup of tea, okay, that's fine. The whole idea was to open up horizons. And did it ever.
I learned about Kegel exercises and began spending at least half-an hour daily practicing these, each day trying to go a little longer than the day before. Alternately tightening my pelvic muscles for numerous times and then "pushing out" and holding for up to a minute did seem, over time, to give me better control over when I would ejaculate. While I didn't exactly enjoy these "exercises," I figured this was all part of the new way of looking at things and that it — like many other things — needed to be given a chance to succeed.
And then there was another revelation I read about. Lubricants. Hmmm, I thought. Never used them, never even thought of the idea. Don't know why not. One recommendation I decided to take was for using a safe, water-soluble cream called Albolene (commonly used also as a women's makeup remover). The Joy of Sex said it worked, so who was I to argue! I bought a large jar and from then on discovered a whole new possibility for increasing the pleasure of intimate moments, either solo or otherwise. This became a staple and, given its almost immediate effect when I applied some to my penis and scrotum, my only problem was in dealing with the even-greater pleasure I had in stroking and massaging myself. I'd try the Kegel techniques, naturally, but even this wasn't always successful in stalling a wild climax. That lubricant felt so good, and given that I hadn't used anything before — ever — this new and heightened sensation for me was as fantastic in producing ecstasy as it was daunting in my attempts at managing some semblance of self-control.
One of the things our new-found special library helped accomplish for us was to broaden our thinking about not only new techniques and positions but also to seek out new and different places in which to have fun. There is, after all, more than just one's bedroom! A whole new set of opportunities opened up when we had the good fortune to be able to acquire a lake cottage just over 100 miles to the north of our home. Nestled in the woods near the shoreline, the cottage was situated with a view looking to the hills across the lake, and with hundreds of miles of hiking and snowmobile trails traversing the region. Berry patches abounded, and with a pleasure craft down at the dock, it was just a short walk down the path and we could be off and out of the bay, touring more than 75 miles of shoreline — most of it undeveloped. Over the course of several years we managed to scout out a half dozen or so places where we could enjoy life!
One day while at the lake alone I decided to take my paperwork with me on a trip "up" the lake and find a secluded spot along the shore where I could park the boat. I found such a spot about 18 miles distant and on the opposite side of the lake from our place. And, I was lucky to immediately come across a tiny clearing, of perhaps no more than 12 x 12 feet, where it looked as if someone might have pitched a tent not long ago. And, just beyond the edge of the clearing I could see some sort of trail, leading up toward the hillside to the west. I retrieved my paperwork, a chaise lounge, and the cooler I had packed with lunch and a few beers, and proceeded to lay these out in the middle of my "clearing." Although I brought a beach towel with me I hadn't brought along my swim trunks, since it was my habit to swim in the buff whenever I could. I then stripped down to nothing and settled onto the chaise lounge chair, spread the towel over my midsection — not knowing if a few hikers might stray off the path and come down to visit me — and got out my paperwork to do some reading and note-taking.
Fortunately I remembered to take my trusty lubricant along since, in less than a half hour, I started feeling aroused and decided it was time to set my paperwork aside for a short while. I applied the lubricant to the appropriate places and, after a half hour of slow stroking, I finally gave in to the urge and ejaculated. What a feeling — here I was, looking out over an unforgettable lake view, alone in the seclusion of the woods, and able to feel the freedom of nature. The psychology of it, I think, made the pleasure of climax all the more intense.
I resumed my reading and note-taking, looking up now and then through the trees, listening to the breeze and the great variety of bird calls, and watching the occasional trout jump out in the cove. An hour or so passed and, without any conscious thought I can recall, dicky boy started up again, and regardless of my attention to the paperwork my erection was definitely persistent. Well, okay, I have the time of day, I figured, so why waste the moment on just more paperwork? After spreading a little more lubricant around I settled back in the chaise and dreamily started in.
Another 10 minutes went by and I was feeling pretty good. Had I known, though, that one of the most startling and funny surprises of my life was about to occur, I wouldn't have been feeling so soporific!
As my head was tilted back and my eyes closed, I thought I heard a twig snap fairly close by. Couldn't be a squirrel, or chipmunk...they were all around this area of the woods but not generally snapping twigs. I sat up a little, turned my head, and suddenly saw 10 pairs of eyes looking down at me from about 6 feet away. Well, I don't know who was more startled, the 5 white-tailed deer or I. I must have jumped and at the same time the doe closest to me sprang up on all fours. She and her companions turned tail and in lightning speed bounded up the path and out of site. It was all over in no more than 4 seconds. My heart had to be racing momentarily, and naturally my penis went soft about as fast as I could say "jackass." I couldn't help but laugh out loud. Then, taking a more studied look at my surroundings I saw quite clearly that the precise spot I had set down the chaise lounge, about 15 feet up from the water's edge, was dead center in the game path that led to the water and back up the hillside behind me. I'm afraid I inadvertently interrupted their daily trek down to the lake for a cool drink. As for the curious deer, given how quiet I had been up to the time I turned my head, they perhaps thought I was some fixture planted in their path that — unless they sensed otherwise — they might side-step and continue down to the water. I'm not sure what deer think, but if they do have thoughts, they may also have been curious about what this "human" was doing, slowly stroking this shaft poking up from his midsection!
I had a couple more solo sessions that day, each with a climax, but I must confess that I exercised a tad more caution in occasionally looking around while in the act. After all, lightning has been known to strike twice in the same spot, however rarely!
A few more years passed, and based on what our extracurricular readings had shown us, we continued to enjoy sex and I also found the time to have a few solo sessions of my own more or less weekly. It was around the time I turned 50 that I had what might be a small epiphany, even though that's probably a stretch. Whether from reading, talking with friends, or otherwise, it dawned on me that I might well be able to heighten the pleasures of sex and increase both the duration and frequency of my masturbation sessions if I developed more self control. Up until then I routinely pursued each solo engagement with the idea of concluding it with a good ejaculation. Not that they were all good, actually. Some were definitely in the category of phenomenal, but there were others that I'd have to rate as pretty low-key, if not outright unsatisfactory. But I also learned over time that not every occasion is going to produce the ultimate high.
Anyway, I consciously followed the advice I had read about in managing my sessions carefully. Using the private alcove of our downstairs family room I'd lie or sit in one position one time, a different one at another time, and so on, trying to discover a variety of positions that would allow me to touch myself in just the right spots, using either or both hands. Usually I'd be up early enough in the morning so that I could start at 5 or 5:30, and be able to continue masturbating for at least 90 minutes and often another hour more before having to sprint upstairs, shower, shave, and head for the office.
Keeping my eye on the clock, I'd try to go at least two hours, moving very slowly most of the time but backing off and stopping for a moment if necessary so that I wouldn't move into full-speed orgasm. It was hard at first, controlling that all-powerful urge to press on towards ejaculation. But the more I worked at it...Okay, Pat, you know it wasn't really "work"...the more I found that it was a fantastic experience, being able to feel almost continuous pleasure for an extended period of time, moving almost in waves of one ecstatic sensation to another. I learned, albeit gradually, how touching this or that part of my body produced a different sensation, or a different level of intensity. Sometimes the feelings were more external, some of them more inside me. Since we're all built a little differently, I've always supposed that what excites me, or what doesn't, may not necessarily produce the same sort of feeling in someone else, and so for me — I knew that all the reading I might do would only take me part of the way. I had to experiment, and keep on experimenting, in order to find the kinds of techniques that would work consistently for me.
Twenty or 30 solo sessions would pass and I'd be able to hold off ejaculating. But, once a month or so, I'd "lose it"! After stroking for an hour or two, building back up to a state of near-orgasm for about the 15th or 20th time, I'd move my frenulum across the palm of my hand and over the wrist with just enough pressure to keep me right at the edge. Then, suddenly, I would feel that warm, pulsing sensation somewhere near the base of the internal part of my shaft. I had stroked, however lightly, one second too long, and I was at the point of inevitability. And once it started, I was rendered powerless to stop it. But, this occasional "oops" of going over the edge also had its reward, in the intense feeling of pleasure as the first ejaculatory pulsation started and then immediately followed by a series of strong ejaculations until they tapered off for the next minute or two. However fantastically delightful the feeling was, I would still chide myself a little for having gone over the edge.
As I was exploring every avenue I could find at improving self-control, I also discovered the kinds of movement and buildup that would continue that slow, steady appearance of clear fluid appearing at the tip of my penis. For reasons that escape me, somehow I either hadn't produced much of it to date or simply hadn't taken notice that there was a lubricant of my own that was forthcoming during my solo sessions, something I vaguely recalled from a biology course as emitted by Cowper's glands. Part of the reason, I'm speculating, is that I wasn't usually spending too much time exploring, building up, easing off, and so on, but had instead been habit-driven toward pumping away, and "efficiently" moving toward the inevitable point of ejaculation and wasting no time in so doing!
I don't pretend to have ever produced what some have referred to as "copious" amounts of Cowper's fluid, as apparently some guys do, but what I now routinely produce is more than sufficient to get and keep me well lubricated — all over. During one of my extended sessions in my 50s I decided, just for kicks and grins, to do a bit of measurement. So, I sat on the couch, reclining in a way that I could continue to do all the usual stroking and massaging with my right hand, with penis at vertical and, with the other, have a teaspoon at the ready so as to capture the next big drop of pre-ejaculate that would emerge. I'd wait until there was as large a drop forming over the opening at the tip, just before it would run down the side of the glans. After an hour I managed to capture a level teaspoon. Didn't seem like much, but I could sure tell that — not having permitted this lubricant to mix with the Albolene I had spread over myself at the start — prevented the usual slickness from occurring as well as the added pleasure that accompanies it. That was the last time I decided to measure, I figured. Whatever I've got, it does the trick.
Somewhere in my early to mid 50s I began noticing a few changes in my response time, ability to maintain an erection on occasion during or before sex, and in general feeling that somehow I was "losing my edge." Libido was fading, at least occasionally it seemed, and on the occasions when my wife and I had sex before retiring at night, I was starting to sense a certain slowing-down. While this feeling didn't seem to affect my solo sessions then (that started a few years later), it somehow did have an effect on my ability to consistently "perform," something I hadn't had to worry much about before. To counteract this, and based on how I knew I generally felt in the morning hours of the day, my wife and I agreed that we'd simply change course and, for a while anyway, regard the normal time for sex as — what else — the morning! The "for a while" became permanent, to this day.
Even though adjustments were made in the timetable, I continued to have those occasional feelings of reduced libido. So, as I sensed that my physical capabilities and feelings were changing, however slowly and erratically, I finally decided to bring up the matter with my doc, a great guy whom I had known professionally in earlier years and who, subsequently, became our family physician. He always struck me as a person-in-the-know, and I knew he read widely and had quite an assortment of patients, young, older, and old. I opened up the subject with him as part of my routine physical that year and, sure enough, he knew what I was getting at, and in short order had some advice. Narrowing down to the basics he essentially said I ought to try something either mechanical, or chemical, or possibly both depending on my proclivities and what I thought might be more practicable. The mechanical? A genital ring...and he further suggested a few Web sites I could check out and research. The chemical? Viagra had been on the market for about two years and, based on all the results to date, my doc believed this would be worth trying.
I graciously accepted my first Viagra prescription and, meanwhile, told my doc I'd do some Internet research on the mechanical side of things. Which I did in fact do, but search as I would, I simply couldn't find the kind of ring that I thought would feel comfortable and "do the job" for me. None of them were accompanied by testimonials — and even if they had, would I believe them? Probably not. So, no ring. And not to this day. As for Viagra, however, it was like instant success. Sparing the details, it's been my companion for at least 5 years and continues to do the job. While I don't always feel the need, it's there when I do need it.
Out of the blue one day, or so it seemed, I began thinking about size. All I can figure is that all the articles — and ads — that I'd seen on the Web or in one or another magazine must have triggered a question mark for me, like: Patrick, you keep seeing these "size matters" headlines. Are you happy with yours? How, indeed, do you measure up?" And other equally odd puzzlements. I ruminated on this for a few months, and one day near the end of a particularly enjoyable solo session decided to get out the tape measure. Okay...so there it is, Pat. Same as the last time you measured when you were 18. Remember the empty toilet paper role you managed to squeeze over your erection with just a half inch peeking out of the end? You figured it at just about 5.5 inches dead even. It hasn't changed! I'm frankly not sure what I expected. That it would have magically grown another two inches in my lifetime? Well, not rationally anyway.
So, with my number firmly in mind, I pored over the sizing concept for a while and kept asking myself questions like: To whom, exactly, does size really matter? Should I know them, or care about them? Or, "how" does it matter? Does larger size mean more happiness, or the reverse? And for whom? Oneself? One's spouse or bed partner? And so on.
Finally, after my subconscious went to work on this for a while, I once again began considering the whole size business early one morning. I finally concluded, in no uncertain terms, that the size hype was just that. As I lay there I said to myself, Okay, there may be a few guys out there with the kind of ego that demands 7-plus erect inches in order to feel macho. Or there may be a few women out there who somehow believe that all there is to love-making — never mind a loving, intimate relationship — is having a guy with a huge penis in them. There, that's it. You can put the matter to rest. You're okay, Pat. First, your wife loves you and thinks you're great. Second, you've had solo sessions by the thousands over the last 40 years and they've given you enormous pleasure. You would not, repeat not, have had any greater measure of ecstasy had you been endowed with another half inch, or 2 inches, or for that matter if you'd had an inch less. No way. It's what you do with it and what you know you're capable of feeling that's important.
It occurs to me that, in a way, there's a very new age of enlightenment that has gradually emerged over the past 5 to 10 years. I've wondered sometimes how I would deal with adolescence were I to turn 12 or 13 in this time, learning, living, interacting, making the usual "social adjustments" and so forth, rather than when I turned 13 in 1956. Then, our family had no TV (nor did we for another 5 years — the very last on our block!). Books on sex and sexual relationships seemed nonexistent (other than Lady Chatterly's Lover, the favorite "must read" of nearly every high-schooler, and of course the wildly popular Peyton Place), and nothing of any substance that I can recall was published for another 15 years or so. None of us would dare talk about our sexuality openly...at least not until sometime in high school or college. Whatever we learned, it seemed to be by osmosis or, if we were lucky, a chance comment or two from a more enlightened acquaintance who had discovered something before we did! Being in a small town, most of us youngsters generally felt we were somewhere in the back-water of modern civilization and those lucky guys "in the know" were likely to be in the big city — wherever that might be!
But now, there is information available by the truckload, right at our fingertips. In magazines, on the Web, and practically anywhere you go. Not long ago I Googled a search on male sexual arousal. Nearly 1.5 million "results" (Web pages and sites, although with many duplicates no doubt). I could hardly fathom this. So I checked on male masturbation. Wow, 2.9 million references. (Female had close to the same number, interestingly.) Masturbation showed up with 6.4 million results, masturbation techniques with 3.6 million-plus. A site that I've enjoyed using for quite a few years is Ask Jeeves (now ask.com), since it seems to give quicker, more relevant research results along with related terms and topics one can go to. Male sexual arousal yields about 132,000 results on this site, male masturbation "just" 63,700. Enough, I suppose, to keep one occupied for a couple of years!
Among the Web, movies, and all the explicit reading material now available, I'm guessing a teenager would have to be leading a hermit's life in order not to be in-the-know on matters of sexuality at a fairly early age. And, from what I hear from friends and my own kids, there's a great deal more openness amongst young and middle-teens about all things sexual. This added enlightenment is healthy, I think, and recalling how curious I was in my teens and how slowly I caught on to things (or at least it seemed that way!), I'd rather our sexuality could have been a more open, matter-of-fact kind of thing back then. I wished the same for my two sons. While I know I could have done far better on the education front with them, at least they knew — both from what I said and didn't say — that their penis was something to touch and play with, that masturbation was not only "okay" but normal, and that I was open to talking about it.
And talking about it has indeed become easier over time. A few days ago I met a friend over coffee, a guy in his early 40s whom I hadn't seen for several months. We talked about all the usual stuff....jobs, careers, family, sex life, and so on. When we got into the realm of sex he asked if he could get my advice on a couple of things, one of them having to do with masturbation. Questions like, "Do you think it's strange that I still like to do it? Is there a point I'll notice a slow-down?" And the like. So, I proceeded to give him the best "wisdom" I could come up with and, for starters, let him know that in fact I was still, at a young 62, masturbating with fair regularity.
I said, "Jerry, to the best of my knowledge most of us guys keep enjoying it all our life. For me, I look forward to at least a couple of good solo sessions every morning — or, maybe I should just call them one extended session, interspersed with a few short breaks. Anyway, just a few days ago, in fact, I'm pretty sure I broke my one-day record with 8 sessions, thanks to having a fairly quiet day to myself."
Jerry interrupted, jaw open, and said, "Patrick, I've known you to exaggerate, but never on a scale like this! C'mon, man. I know you're healthy and all that, but really — 3 times a day? Hell, that's 20 times a week...or over 50 a month! No way! Look, I'm 43 and couldn't handle masturbating once or twice a day — either sex or solo — and keep doing it week in, week out!"
"Well, believe it or not, Jerry, I'm not feeding you a line! Lasting anywhere from a half hour to an hour or more, in some months I probably do end up with well over 50 sessions, although I've never really kept an ongoing tally. And over the past 4 or 5 months, I went over the edge and accidentally 'lost it' just once. Now, don't get me wrong...there are days, or weeks, when I don't do it as much. For reasons that I don't always know, sometimes I just don't get the urge or feel up to it, for several days in a row."
I could tell he still wasn't with me, so I continued, "You talked about ejaculating every time, right? Well, I don't. I don't have the short refractory period I used to, so when I do ejaculate, I've literally shot my wad for at least the next day or two. Yeah, we both know it feels great, but it lasts a minute maybe. Then what? So, anyway, as long as I control myself and don't slip over the edge, I know I'll continue to have the urge, from one solo session to the next, and as often as I have the time. Spending a total of 3 or 4 hours, interspersed with maybe a few half-hour breaks, morning after morning — wouldn't you agree that adds up to a lot of enjoyment? Like I said, it comes down to self-control. Try it. It feels fantastic to be able to ride the edge and not climax, time after time, for every session. The intensity builds. Know what I mean?"
"Okay, I guess I follow you," Jerry said, "but I'm not so sure I can hold back like you're talking about. When I get a hard-on and decide to masturbate, I've just got to ejaculate!"
"It's a tradeoff," I told him. "For me, the pure pleasure of multiple sessions on a regular basis means a heck of a lot more than the short-term feeling of that final release! Like you, probably, my goal when I was a kid was to reach a climax in pretty short order, anywhere from one minute to ten. But then...we could get it up again within the hour, right?"
Jerry and I went our separate ways that day, and it was a few years before I saw him again. We didn't have a chance to talk privately for more than a few minutes, but when I asked him how things were going — "you know, in general," he just smiled and said, "Pat, they are absolutely great. And 'it' is just fantastic." I knew that he knew I would understand.
It's going on 8:30 and I'm into my 4th solo session in as many hours. I nearly slip over the edge, trying to ride the wave a bit too close. Hold on, Pat, I remind myself. Your split-second timing might fail you the next time. Okay...better slow down, relax, ease off. I do a slow massage, then moving my hands back around my scrotum, pressing in against the internal part of my shaft, and then rubbing my thighs, sliding over my stomach, and basically cooling down. After a few minutes I'm soft again, but feeling that sort of warm glow that comes over me after a particularly intense session. Lots of thoughts start entering my mind...but the one that sticks with me as I start to hop out of bed is, "Dicky boy, you've had a good morning...and whenever you're ready to go again, so am I!"