I kind of feel like the guy in Castaway — you know, he painted a smile and two dots on a volleyball for a friend. Well, I was circumcised, so, erect, there's that smile looking at me. My Wilson to bat around and make me smile through the years. There's been a few tears, too. But when I think about it, it's been me and Wilson through everything. The way I look at it, when I ejaculate, that's Wilson speaking. He's spoken to a few people, but mostly to me. I've felt him speak for several years on beds, forest floors, bathrooms, and beaches; airplanes, mountaintops, hotel suites, backseats and frontseats, and even a Japanese restaurant. Early on, and I mean early, I picked up that it wasn't right for him to speak. If it wasn't spoken in a vagina, kind of muffled, then his speaking was wrong. And letting him speak — or worse, enjoying it — was a weakness that usually had to be hid. Through all the orgasms, especially in the beginning, there was shame, guilt, and doubt coexisting. there's still some there, but in recent times, way less.
Before there was masturbation there was YMCA summer camp in 4th grade — a great camp on a Great Lake. Every day all of us 3rd, 4th, and 5th graders would spend the afternoon on the beach. Everybody was naked in July — lifeguards, counselors, staff. All male. I had never seen naked men, so it was interesting to check out what I assumed was coming my way. Everybody seemed free and happy. A lot of us would get "boners" (first time I heard the word) for no apparent reason. This was an unending occasion for glee, the erect member gathering laughs from everyone. I remember we would bury one guy in sand, and he would then flex his erection and break through the sand to everyone's shouts. None of the campers seemed to have a clue as to what any of this boner stuff meant.
A couple of years later my mother sent me off to the doctor for my physical — I was on my own now because I was "old enough." Well, the doc and I were alone in the exam room and he was gently rubbing and pushing his way down my abdomen to my groin area, slowly pulling my Fruit of the Loom jockeys down to the base of my penis, which to my delight and terror is getting really hard, a fact that could not have escaped his attention. He told me to stand and pull my underpants down. I did, but the camp joy was missing. He checked for a hernia, held my testicles, and ran his finger along my penis. That was all, except for a strange look on his face. I went home and asked my mother if that was the way they did exams now that I was older. (Details were never offered or asked in my house.) She said yes. I asked if I could see a woman doctor from now on. Wrong thing to say; I ended up feeling like a pervert for asking.
All right, couple more years and thousands of erections went by — I still didn't have a clue, but I sure admired looking at the thing. Family friends came on their annual visit. The son was my age, hanging out in my room, and he told me to look at his pants, which were bulging. "You want to see it?" he asked. Sure. We went to the bathroom, with the only lockable door in the house. He unzipped, peeled, and told me to do the same. I did, and to my surprise was as erect as he was. He explained wisely that if you rub it when it is in that state, you will feel like magic, and something white will come out. I was still slow at putting the facts of life together, so what this was all about was beyond me. But we both rubbed. His white stuff did in fact come out. Mine didn't. He told me to practice on my own. Downstairs my dad asked what we had been doing; I got the evil eye and blushed. He dropped the subject and never mentioned it again. He knew.
Well, I did practice — it was better than just looking at it. A couple of weeks later I did get "that feeling," and white stuff did come out. I remember thinking this was probably not okay, but wow. I also remember losing my erection after ejaculating, and there was my little used penis looking like a pistol grip! "Oh my god, I've wrecked my penis" went through my head, but I kept at it and things evened out. I couldn't wait until my friend came back — I had figured out all kinds of stuff. So had he, and we had a few, but guilty, times masturbating each other and ourselves. His penis was huge — by anybody's standards — so it was fun to stroke him. He seemed to enjoy it, too. We would do that for several years when we got together, but it stopped when we went to college. There were a couple of guys in my high school, though, who confided that they masturbated, too. We would have contests to see how few times we could do it in a week or month. There was always this nagging pressure to control it, hide it, not be weak. But on my own there were endless days through those years of stroking with my fist to secret enjoyment. I was a jock and scholar, always afraid of being found out. I kept reading the Boy Scout manual or Boys Life to find out if I was gay.
Off to college and a new life, sort of. I thought that when I went to college it would be time to stop masturbating. Really a big guy now. Didn't work — but boy, was it tough to find a place to do it There had always been my room or the bathroom. Here, both were shared. I spent most of the year waiting for my roommate to go to sleep and masturbating on my side. I joined a fraternity and moved in. I got a new roommate, whom I got along with. He invited me home on a break. The first night we lay in separate beds talking. The subject got around to sex; I asked him if he had an erection. He did; so did I. I asked him if he ever had a homosexual experience; he hadn't but wanted to. We turned on the lights and masturbated for each other. I had the usual guilt afterwards, but I figured no one would know. It was only once. The next night he showed me how to use lotion, and we did it again, and again. I felt awful — all these orgasms with guys, and never with my girlfriends. That summer I began masturbating with my girlfriend, and we even had intercourse. It can do a lot for your self-esteem, trust me.
Back to school and the same roommate, who wanted to continue. I did not, but he persuaded me to watch him. I did, and was so tempted to join him. The next evening we were sitting at our desks, and I told him I would do it with him. No way; I would have to do it in front of him first. I didn't want to, but terrified of a fraternity brother walking in, I began. I looked over at him, and he was mesmerized, looking at me masturbating. Crazy, but it turned me on, and I really got into it. No way around it — this was a homosexual deal. I was still a jock and a scholar desperate to have hetero-sex, a crazy man at parties, and I was beating myself up inside for having a good time masturbating, on my own or with him. Recently, many years later, I spoke with my former roommate. As I figured out with him, we were having sex at least once a week for over a year. I feel fortunate now to have had the experiences, as well as to be able to share with him, and with my wife — and here — what it was like for me. Sometimes just one of us would masturbate for the other one, or we would do it together, or we would masturbate each other. Usually it was great, but I would compensate by avoiding him until the pressure was too strong. Inside me there were all these conflicts — enjoying it so much, feeling close to a guy that way, the terror of being caught, fear that all this meant I would never have a girlfriend or kids. I was really doing a number on myself. But we kept at it; he even gave me oral sex and would bring me to orgasm by masturbating me, then himself. It ended when I went to another school (not because of this). It was time to move on.
But I kept masturbating! Not as much, though, and there were finally a lot of different women for a while. During the lulls I would always go back to pleasing myself, bringing up all the same old doubts. There were a couple of experiences with guys — masturbating and oral sex with them. I did a lot of work on myself, a lot of communication around acceptance and letting go. I think that as I did that letting go, the guilt subsided and I became a better friend and lover to myself, and then others.
The woman of my dreams really did materialize. We had great sex, we saw a future, married, and I thought, "Oh my god, I still want to masturbate!" It was tough for me to share that — what if it wrecked everything? It didn't wreck anything. I asked her to watch; she was okay with it. At this point we have been married for years, and we have tried all kinds of sexual positions. Mutual masturbation has become a big part of our life. A few years ago I read a book for boys on growing up that was very liberating; it said that everyone finds the way they are comfortable having sex and coming to orgasm. Some men prefer masturbation. I wondered where this book was when I was growing up — it would have saved a lot of hassle. That sentence must have been written for me! I have had some great sex in intercourse, but the truth is that the best orgasms I can remember have been with my wife while masturbating. Close seconds are great moments with myself. Some of the best times I have had ever — where I go beyond fantasies into a full-body immediate, total experience — come while I am stroking and lubricated, immersed in the sensations of my penis, sometimes fondling my testicles, or with my wife licking my testicles and my nipples. I go beyond.
JackinWorld is dynamite. For me it is a forum to share, liberate, and learn. When I read that others fantasize about swallowing their semen, or so many of the other things that I thought only I felt or wanted, there is a kind of inner relaxing that is also very stimulating erotically. In the last week reading about the techniques and stories, being able to interact with them, there has been an huge release of sexual energy. I've masturbated a lot the last few weeks. Using some of JackinWorld's techniques, I've ejaculated consistently large amounts of semen. You'd think I was some kind of teenager.
You know how those bumper stickers on cars tell you what people would rather be doing? Well, mine would read, "I'd rather be masturbating." I think I'll close on that note. My friend, Wilson, wants to speak to me.