I've long wanted to talk about masturbating. The problem is that in my society (South Africa), it's regarded as either childish or perverse (or both!). Only two people I know have admitted that they enjoy this activity, and even they tend to shrug it off as something to do between sexual encounters. Now, we know that masturbation is something quite different to sexual intercourse.
I've been with several woman, and having sex with another person, particularly someone you love, is a truly beautiful experience — spiritual at its best. But the positive of intercourse is also its negative: relating, caring for, showing consideration and sensitivity for the needs and feelings of another — these enhance the intercourse but reduce the concentration of personal pleasure. Playing with yourself, delving deep into your most personal and subtle feelings, excluding the outside world, can bring an ecstasy beyond description. At my most intimate time it's like floating in a warm ocean inside myself, secret and comforting, shot through with intense pleasure.
I've been physically handicapped from birth with a neuromuscular condition known as spinal muscular atrophy (it's part of the motor neuron group). I started life weak and have become even weaker since. I didn't sit up or crawl as a baby and never could do more than stand with support, certainly never even took a single step. I have been in a wheelchair since 15 years old and I'm now 59 years young.
I don't remember very much about my sexual nature as a child, which is a major regret. I've even considered trying hypnosis to delve into my subconscious! No memory of my early masturbation remains, and I don't know when I started; it just seemed something I had always done. Considering my intense interest as an adult in sex and masturbation, I must have been pretty active "down there" as a youngster.
My lack of mobility made it difficult to explore and enjoy my body. This is an aspect of disability seldom mentioned but is, I'm sure, a significant handicap in the psychological development of the disabled child. Reading many of the stories on this site, it becomes clear that the simple and innocent joys of children enjoying their bodies is necessary to complete maturity. It resulted, for me, in a much delayed progression through the stages of sexual maturity. I didn't know much about the reality of girl or boy bodies growing up, didn't play-discover the wonder of sex with children my age — my learning was through sidelong references in books. I learned anatomy from Arthur Mee's Children's Encyclopaedia by studying the sections on classical sculpture. I'm sure, had my parents known, they wouldn't have approved of my prurient use of this splendid set of books!
I remember persuading a child friend to take off his clothes so I could see what another boy looked like. But not being able to do this in a secure place (going behind the garden shed, for example, isn't easy in a wheelchair!), we were discovered, "red-handed," by my mother. I don't remember her reaction, but my parents — although not obsessively straight-laced — were not particularly open or liberal, either, so she probably didn't make me feel free to experiment further.
I recall some games with my brother when he was still quite young; perhaps early puberty. I tried to suck his penis but couldn't take it into my mouth. He is 9 years younger, so in today's world I would be in serious danger of being accused of child molestation. Then, of course, we were just "naughty" boys. We weren't discovered, but I have only one recollection of further sexual activities with my brother, several years later. I was curious to see him ejaculate, so we had a very brief, single episode of mutual masturbation one night when both parents went out socializing. His penis was incredibly hard to the touch, so much so that it is the main impression I retain of that incident. After ejaculation his penis crumpled up very small, and the loose skin puffed up quite alarmingly, but no harm seemed to come of it. Neither of us has ever mentioned it again.
As a side issue, isn't it noteworthy that many of the stories on this site have reference to the writer experimenting with oral sex as part of learning when still very young? If so many youngsters spontaneously try oral sex, well, surely this is evidence that it is natural behavior? The moralists would have that this is a sinful activity — yet if children too young to have learned it from others instinctively regard it as a normal way to have pleasure, how can it be immoral?
My sexual experimenting with girls as a youngster was very limited, so much so that I can remember only one little girl as a sexual play partner. Her family lived nearby, so we saw quite a lot of them. She had a much older brother and a younger sister. Valerie was well aware that certain parts of her body were of great interest to me — and, I suppose, to other boys — but unfortunately for me, she was by nature a bit of a tease. She delighted in driving me half-crazy with frustration by acting so charming and affectionate one minute and then turning indifferent the next. Remember, I was immobile in a chair or on a couch. She would flip up her skirt to show me her thighs, or even, on a good day, her panties. She often asked me whether I wanted to see her "bottom," to which I invariably said yes, whereupon she sometimes, if in an excited mood, would turn her back to me and lift her dress above her waist. Once, just once, she did something so sweetly erotic that I've never forgotten any of it. I was sitting in her room in an overstuffed armchair. The other children and the adults were busy outside the house. She came to me and sat down on the left arm of the chair and told me to put my head back onto her lap. I was only too willing! As I turned and lay back, she lifted her skirt and threw it over my head. Never, as long as I live, will I lose the memory of this. The smell of her slightly sweat-damp body in the semi-darkness ... the soft cotton of her panties against my cheek ... the sense of intimate enclosure between her thighs. This single event must have shaped my personality profoundly.
And, single it was. No matter how I begged and pleaded, Valerie never again came that close, emotionally or physically, to me. Why, I don't know. It could hardly have been something I did, since I was almost paralyzed with surprised joy, so perhaps she had expected more from me. I loved her with great intensity.
Meanwhile, my brother was making hay with Valerie's little sister in some private place and would often tell me about his exploits. This didn't do my mood much good! No wonder I'm shy with women.
That is all I can remember about sexual contact with other children as I was growing up; as I've said, a real cause for regret.
I lived with my parents until I was 30 years of age, apart from about 3 years away at boarding school. Because of my disability I was unable to mingle with the other children and was regarded as rather frail and delicate — a "Mama's boy" — so I was pretty unhappy at being away from home and was bullied mercilessly until I learned to oppose the tormentors. On the other hand, I enjoyed the sexual freedom that an unremarkable boy amongst many others can enjoy.
I wanked in the bath, in bed, and remember masturbating during an outdoor excursion, while left alone by my wheelchair-pusher for what couldn't have been over 5 minutes. I climaxed just as my fellow "walkers" were returning and had to hastily wipe my semen-spattered hand on some tall grasses growing beside the footpath. Even in this milieu, a schoolboy amongst other schoolboys, "playing with yourself" was occasion for mocking and led to an unsavory reputation.
One benefit of being weaker than the other children was that I often received permission to go to bed relatively early while the others had to attend an after-supper study hour. I spent this time not reading my prescribed school literature, but playing with myself — delicious!
In 7th grade I became seriously ill with influenza and was taken out of school to recuperate at home, never to return. I studied by correspondence, without much enthusiasm, preferring to read (anything and everything: fiction, non-fiction, comics, newspapers), which taught me all I know today.
As I mentioned earlier, my parents didn't approve of masturbation, but neither did they punish me, so long as I was discreet. At this time, and for some years after, I was still physically strong enough to untie the cord of my pajama shorts, once in bed, and push them down. Then I would spend an extended happy hour or more stroking, holding, pulling and pushing the enchanting "naughty parts down there." Eventually I wouldn't be able to hold out further and would ejaculate over my chest and pajama-top. After this I'd fall asleep. Problem was, I didn't have enough strength to pull the pajama-shorts up again, much less tie the waist-cord nor do any cleanup. So, come morning and time for my mother to get me out of bed and into my clothes, it was only too obvious what I'd been doing. But she always ignored the semi-nakedness and characteristic musty odor of half-dried semen. Thanks, Mom!
Nevertheless, I felt sinful about this pleasure. Where the guilt feeling came from I can't say, but I well remember that it caused me much soul-searching. I would promise God that I'd limit my wanking to 3 times a week (I obviously didn't think I could really hold myself to fewer sessions!), and would He therefore please not book me a place in Hell. At an age when the blood is running strongly and the senses at their most aware, to be diverted by such absurd fears...what a waste of youth and strength.
At one point my mother took a half-day job that required her to leave home fairly early in the morning, which meant that the young man we employed as part-time gardener was delegated to dress me after the rest of the family had departed to work and school. A new dimension in masturbation opened for me! The houseboy, as he became, didn't comment or seem to care about what I asked him to do. Nothing sexual ever happened between us. It never even occurred to me. Perhaps the fact that I was in my mid teens and he was probably 10 years older had something to do with this lack of enterprise. Be that as it may, I almost immediately had him remove my pajama-shorts after my mother left. I'd sit up in bed, wanking to my heart's content, eventually to ejaculate into a paper-towel. The great difference was that now I could see myself as I played. The sight of my erect penis in my hands, spurting thick, milky fluid, was absolute ecstasy. I'd sometimes ask him to prop up a mirror for a different view. I also enjoyed covering — soaking, really — my whole genital area with saliva. Silly, perhaps, but just being able to play with myself, unafraid of discovery or consequences, was such a novel delight, and the slippery spit added to the sensations.
Regrettably, this period lasted only a few months before family dynamics changed my options. The upshot was that when I was 30 I chose to leave home and enter an institution that cared for the disabled. This was a fearful change. However, masturbation came to my rescue! I'm quite serious when I say that. Within days of arriving in the home, it dawned on me that I was now gloriously free to masturbate as much as I liked: no parental authority and disapproval to worry about. The staff in the home were accustomed to clean the residents of far worse than semen, besides which, since they had no emotional or regulatory obligations about me, didn't personally care much what I did so long as their workload wasn't significantly increased.
I abandoned myself to pure uninhibited masturbatory pleasure! Every night, as soon as I was in bed, down went the bed linen and up came the penis. I stopped wearing pants in bed (so sexy!), and although I shared a room, I didn't care about making a reasonable amount of noise. I never asked my roommate what he thought, and he never commented. I just rubbed and fantasized and ejaculated and ejaculated and ejaculated...what joy!
My technique has been fairly consistent over the years. Physical weakness (which also involves dexterity) always restricted my options, but I never let that spoil my pleasure. I'd find some other way to feel good. (It's all in the mind, anyway.) As a youngster I would use my left hand to caress my balls while my right hand, wrapped round my penis, rubbed lengthwise, palm against the sensitive underside and fingers/thumb curled round the topside. I probably used saliva as lubricant. In later years I had a type of foreplay during which I fantasized elaborate sexual scenarios — complete little stories with plots and characters. This period was the longest, perhaps 30 or 40 years, and I still love this mental masturbation today. I cup my balls in my left hand, taking enjoyment from the rounded weight in my palm and gently squeezing them with my fingers; my right hand lies under my penis, which is stretched toward my right side. Sometimes my balls are cool and the skin silky dry; other times I'm hot and sweaty, so the skin is slippery — equally delicious. My sac usually starts out soft and floppy-big; then it shrinks and hardens, pulling up against my crotch as I become excited. The head of my penis is positioned in the hollow between my thumb and forefinger, and I try to retain the drops of "pre-cum." I used to enjoy tasting this liquid; it's such a pity I can't manage the physical exertion nowadays. Occasionally I would have enough of this slippery stuff and enough strength to hold my penis straight up and rub just the side of the glans and its ridge in the hollow mentioned. If I got it right, the sensation could be so strong as to make me cry out with pleasure (something I otherwise never do).
The last 5 years or so has seen a significant drop in my physical ability. I fantasize even more now, often spending an hour or more just enjoying holding myself while building a lovely story in my head, before going for a climax. (Many times I seem to go beyond the need/desire for an orgasm and just go to sleep.) To me now, the orgasm is no longer an imperative; caressing myself, imagining, as intensely as possible, a sexual situation just the way I would like it, above all trying to experience my sexual self as deeply and fully as my mind can manage...this is a subtle yet satisfying self-love personal desire.
Getting to orgasm is difficult now for me. I usually need to build sexual tension for several days before my limited strength (influencing both movement and stamina) is enough to carry me over the edge. I try to catch that last delicious few seconds and relax completely. At that point simply flexing the pelvic muscles will continue the orgasmic cycle, delightfully prolonged, or, ceasing all stimulation, makes it possible to resume stroking a while later. This is risky because my strength and body posture may fail me and I then become unable to ejaculate ... but orgasm by itself has become far less important. The fantasy stories in my head, the sensual pleasure of holding and caressing myself — these are becoming the sum and substance of my pleasure.
My arms and hands have to be placed by the staff in a position not openly sexual yet so that I'm able to make just a small movement to get them to my genital area. When the weather is warm enough I have the bed-sheet folded down to just above my groin so I can hope to push it further down and enjoy an open-air romp with an upright lad and two balls!
Coping with the messy ejaculate is another management problem. I am not one to shove my personal habits "in your face," as it were. Staff attitudes have significantly changed so that the personalities of the care-staff must be taken into account. Furthermore, HIV/AIDS has resulted in a general reluctance to touch other people's body fluids. At one time I could handle a condom well enough to be able to cover just the head of my penis; the reinforcing ring could hook behind the glans-ridge but still be pulled away from the lobes of the glans above the frenulum, thus retaining the sensation of bare fingers on naked penis. Nowadays, I have to overcome my shyness sufficiently to ask for a paper-towel to be placed in my fingers; then, if nothing goes awry with pajama-top, bed-sheet, finger-strength, etc., I can spill my semen onto the paper and, usually, fold it safely into a reasonably dry bundle.
I would really like to find a masturbation buddy. However my ability to stimulate my partner is limited. She/he would need to position themselves very exactly, and this might become too tiresome. Security is a factor: If I were taken in by a weirdo, well, I'm much too weak to resist. I've used both gender terms, but really a true buddy must be same-sex — otherwise the temptation of full intercourse would certainly divert us from wanking. Anyway, although I'm heterosexual, I think only another man can masturbate a man with the same depth and skill.
Which brings me to a memory I'd lost. As a youngster at boarding school I tried inserting objects into my anus with considerable enjoyment. In those days I still could manage this maneuver with some ease. The feeling of something sinking slowly into my body is quite indescribable — I wonder how it compares with the sensations to a woman of something penetrating her vagina? Later, at the residential institution, I obtained (from a very good and true American pen-pal) a small vibrator (see further on). It was made for a woman, but I thought this was great fun! I loved greasing it with Vaseline and pushing it slowly into my anus. One night I pushed an old-fashioned pen-holder too deep and couldn't get it out again. I panicked and made the staff take me to the toilet. I couldn't feel it emerging and they didn't comment (I was much to embarrassed to confess!), so I spent a very worried night wondering about perforated intestines.
Whether I would enjoy a homosexual encounter is something I've often thought about. I can fantasize, quite delightfully, accepting a man's penis into me (my only worry: pain and permanent injury), but I am turned off by other intimacies with another man, such as kissing and cuddling.
I need a lightweight and quiet but quite powerful vibrator to supply the vigorous stimulation when my strength fails me. Even the weight of a couple of batteries demands considerable effort from me. I mention the strength of the vibrator — perhaps it's advancing years, perhaps simple weakness, perhaps excessive emphasis on pre-orgasmic pleasures, but I don't climax easily. In my sexual relations with my lady lover, this is, in one way, a tremendous advantage, because she can ride me to her heart's content and I stay erect and enthusiastic.
I have ideas for sex toys which I've never seen described. One is simply a sleeve made of some stretchable semi-rigid substance that fits comfortably around the penis and is held in place with tape/cord around the waist and/or behind/under the scrotum. The thought is that as my penis grows from its quite small flaccid resting state it will be delightfully stimulated by friction as the sleeve tightens around it. Becoming longer and thicker, the penis encounters friction and slight constriction, which could be very pleasurable. The problem for me is that I couldn't fit such a toy myself; I would certainly be mocked and the gossip widely enjoyed.
I'd like to run a video camera while I pleasure myself and enjoy the visual aspect from "outside', as it were. I'd really like to see what I look like in the excitement of masturbation. One wonders about using virtual reality.
I've come across several references on this site to "continuous male orgasm," "no-contact orgasm," etc. I've tried the technique of getting within a hair's-breadth of climax and suddenly relaxing totally, but it hasn't worked for me. I did once experience a day of repeated surges of intense pleasure without ejaculating; the slightest touch of clothing, even thinking something sexy, would set me into an erection during which the ecstasy grew literally overwhelming. But I've not been able to repeat this phase nor discover the cause. Often I can get very close to orgasm by imagining sexual intercourse and/or masturbation but I never could tip over the edge. Pounding heart, rigid muscles, intense pleasure, gasping breath — but at a certain point the sensations stop increasing and then fade as I become exhausted.
My penis is a blessing and a delight. It's short, about 5 inches, but reasonably thick and well formed. The glans has a pronounced ridge when I'm excited. I'm cut but the skin on the underside is quite loose, so I can work it up and down to great effect (just at the V of the glans is a fantastically sensitive little pad). My scrotum is lovely to touch: soft but with a pleasant texture and, I've been told, ball-wise, I'm "well hung" — superb to hold in the palm of my hand. I really love my genitals! Admiration, tenderness...this about sums up my attitude — they've been wonderful companions in many a dark hour.
A guy calling himself Stephen said something I fully agree with. I hope you don't mind me quoting the exact words: "Masturbation is something I love to do, but I hate the word. So harsh — almost like describing a medical condition. 'Self-loving' captures the spirit and essence of my masturbatory sessions." I like the term "self-loving" and also prefer using "playing with myself" as a masturbatory term. After all, play is one of the most fundamental human activities, beginning as a baby and continuing into old age, albeit with different toys. We learn by play, we experience and discover our abilities and preferences through play, we console, entertain, reassure ourselves in our games. Let's all play with ourselves more!
One of the disadvantages of a physical handicap is that you can seldom see yourself as a whole person (I mean visually, not psychologically). Able-bodied people take for granted the simple ability to stand naked before a full-length mirror — to bring a hand-mirror close and study intimate details — to lie on their back and lift their head to see a powerful erection bursting with joy.
Learning what it's all about. Very difficult. I once said, in a seminar on sexual options for disabled people, that parents of a handicapped child should go out of the way to facilitate his/her discovery and enjoyment of sex and masturbation by encouraging private visiting and making privacy available to their child. As I said it, I could hear the sharp in-drawn breaths of shocked people all round the room. Perhaps this has ramifications beyond the scope of this site (not to mention adult tolerance of "questionable" behavior by their children) — but think about it.