You'll Never F*ck Alone

By Lisabet Sarai

Our topic this week, in honor of National Masturbation Month, is "Solo Sex". I'm not going to talk about my own masturbatory activities (that would be pretty boring!) but rather, the solo sex that appears in my writing.

My published work includes a number of scenes involving solo sex. As I was mentally reviewing them, I realized that they all had something in common. The character is never merely focused on physical pleasure. She (I don't recall writing any male masturbation scenes) is always engaged in some fantasy which usually includes another character.

It's the erotic charge of those fantasies that drives the character to climax. The character may be imagining that the object of her desire is actually present and responsible for the sensations she is inflicting upon herself. Or she may be running a mental movie, watching a scene in which she may or may not participate. Either way, the fantasy acts as an amplifier to the sensory pleasure.

Here's an example from Exposure:

By the time I hang up, my desire for Jimmy has me tied in knots. I can spare a few minutes, I figure, to do something about that.

I’m still wearing my robe. I shuck it off my shoulders and spread it on the carpet, then lie down on my back on top of the plush terry cloth. My nipples are tight, aching bullets of flesh. I cup the weight of my breasts in my palms and flick my thumbs across the stiffened tips, sending shocks through my body with each stroke.

It’s not enough. Readjusting my body a bit, I manage to take a nipple into my own mouth. I suck hard, imagining it’s Jimmy’s eager tongue that’s rasping over the sensitive flesh. I see myself feeding him my lush tits, first one, then the other, while I stroke away at his smooth shaft. Suckling me would be enough to get him off, I suspect. I sense his cock contracting in advance of his convulsion and let go, pushing his head down toward my pussy instead.

Very few men know how to eat pussy, I’ve found. I don’t know yet how Jimmy will do, but I picture him between my thighs, licking and nibbling. Meanwhile, I simulate the effects of his tongue, working my cunt with both hands. I’m as slick as if I’ve been oiled, inside and out. My fingers of my left hand glide over my swollen lower lips to settle deep inside my cunt. I massage the inner muscles, feeling them pulse whenever my other hand squeezes my clit. I bring in my heels, closer to my butt, so that I can rock my pelvis against my hands, one probing, the other circling, teasing, flicking across the rigid nub until I can hardly stand it. My thighs spread wider as I imagine Jimmy burrowing deeper. “More,” I whisper. “More...”

He’s using his hands now as well as his mouth, holding me open while he sucks me for all he’s worth. His thumb continues to prod and tickle my clit. I writhe and arch against him every time he touches it. Now his other hand is wandering. He slips two fingers into my cunt and pumps in time with his suction. “More,” I moan, close now but needing just that extra little push to send me over the edge.

He’s listening. He’s tuned in to what my body needs. There’s a brief awful moment of loss when he pulls his fingers from my cunt. Before this registers, though, he plunges his thumb into me in their place. And then, half a breath later, he slides one of the liberated fingers smoothly into my ass.

Oh, Jimmy, you’re so nasty, I think as I scream and topple into bliss. Who’d ever think a nice, respectful guy like you would be like that? My body continues to shake with the aftershocks of the climax, my pelvis jerking in the air. Would he really be like that? I wonder vaguely. I want more than ever to find out.

Finally, I relax and stretch out my legs. I cringe at the sharp pain in my ankle. Right. Until a few minutes ago half my weight was on that ankle, as I strained my pussy toward the ceiling, trying to come. Got to be more careful when I play with myself, or I’ll never heal. Next time, I should lie on my stomach. Or maybe do it on my hands and knees, so I can imagine Jimmy screwing me doggy style...

I’m actually getting turned on again, enough that the pain begins to fade. The pictures are rolling in my mind again, clearer than ever. Jimmy’s grinning at me, his cheeks smeared with my juices, as he positions himself behind my elevated butt. He leans over and slides his tongue up my crack from front to rear. The next thing I feel is his swollen knob, rubbing back and forth outside my well-lubricated cleft.

The telephone rings, rudely shattering my fantasy. I hope it’s not Jimmy again, trying to make me change my mind. Because at this point, I’m not sure I have the strength to say no to him.

Stella has a vivid imagination—it's a requirement for her job as a stripper—and she uses it to good effect when she's pleasuring herself.

Kate O'Neil from Raw Silk considers herself to be an independent, sensible, no-nonsense type of woman. Her unexpected urge to submit surprises and concerns her. She runs away to Singapore to get away from the charismatic Gregory, who kindles these disturbing feelings. However, she cannot escape from her own mind.

Alone with her thoughts, Kate enjoyed a fiery Szechuan dinner in the hotel restaurant. David would have appreciated this, she thought, full of longing for his comfortable presence. Recklessly, she ordered a bottle of Bordeaux and drank two-thirds of it with her scallops in garlic sauce. Then she wove her way up to her room, definitely unsteady on her feet.

The room spun a little as she lay naked and exhausted on the cool sheets. The room was basic, utilitarian, no plush carpets or silk draperies. Through the open window came the muted sounds of evening traffic. The ceiling fan washed her bare skin with an intermittent breeze, rhythmic and soothing like surf on a distant beach.

So, here I am, she thought, in a strange city, nearly a thousand miles from Bangkok and its temptations. But I can't run away from myself.

She ran her hands over her breasts, across her belly, lightly down her thighs, savouring the smooth curves of her own body. Gregory had said that she was born to be his slave. Some part of her resonated in agreement. Her sex stirred and tingled at the thought. She closed her eyes and listened to the whisper of the fan.

Is there anything that he could ask of me that I would not do? she wondered. As if in answer, images began to play against her closed eyelids. She saw herself bent over a chair, her rump exposed and vulnerable, while Marshall swung a flexible bamboo cane, that whistled through the air and left long red welts on her skin. Then she was on her hands and knees, and Marshall was fitting a bridle and bit in her mouth; she felt the horsehair tail embedded in her ass, tickling the backs of her thighs, saw the riding crop leaning against the stool in front of her. Now a more subtle picture: she knelt behind Gregory's back as he held open the cheeks of his own buttocks, commanding that she service his anus with her lips and tongue.

A shiver ran through her. Would she, could she do this? Here, by herself, the thought was disgusting and yet fascinating. Kate rolled over, and stuck a pillow between her legs, as she used to do when she was a girl. She rocked back and forth, the indirect pressure on her clit building a different kind of arousal.

The pictures continued to unroll in her wine-loosened imagination, becoming more vivid and elaborate. Where was she getting these ideas? She had never thought about such things before. Had Marshall somehow planted these notions in her subconscious? She felt his presence, now, radiant warmth as if he stood beside the bed watching her.

She was kneeling again, but now it was Noi, the seductive mamasan, who stood before her, one booted foot elevated on a stool so that her sex was spread and visible. The Thai woman's pubic area was shaved smooth; Kate could see every detail of her labia, ripe-looking folds of flesh that glistened with moisture, and her fat clitoris that peeked out between them. “Eat her,” she heard Gregory say, “eat her well, or believe me, she will whip you so hard that you'll think my beatings were mere ticklings.”

Kate moaned a little as she ground the pillow harder into her groin. Her nostrils were filled with the rising odours from her own sex. Or perhaps this was Noi's scent, as she saw herself lapping at the other woman's cunt, exploring the secret tastes and textures, while Gregory watched.

The scene shifted again. She was bound, hanging from an iron hook in the ceiling. Her legs were spread by a rigid bar fastened to her leather anklets. Gregory circled her, inspecting her, then returned carrying a lacquered wooden box. He opened it before her, to display an array of phalluses and dildos, of rubber, leather, even stainless steel. The smallest was longer and thicker than Gregory's own enormous penis.

“Your choice,” he said, his tone mocking and bright. “What is your pleasure, my dear?” Leaning forward conspiratorially, he added, “You must choose one for the front, of course, and one for the back...”

Kate thrashed and writhed on the pillow, as she imagined Gregory forcing these huge prongs into her orifices. Suddenly she craved penetration; she needed desperately to be filled. She rolled over on her back and thrust all four fingers into her vagina. But this still left her unsatisfied.

She opened her eyes and looked around the sparsely-furnished room. Little help here, it seemed, and then she noticed the bedposts. The bed had a plain wooden headboard, ornamented with smooth posts topped with a knob, like chessman. Drunk on wine and her carnal fantasies, she was on her knees in an instant, trying to unscrew one of the posts from the frame.

It seemed at first that the ornament must be glued, or a single piece with the headboard, but then she felt movement. A few minutes work, and she held the post detached in her hand.

It was heavy, and nearly a foot long. It tapered slightly near the end, then bulged out into a globe about two inches in diameter. Kate ran her hands over its polished length. A trembling ran through her limbs. Surely, she did not dare...

Then she heard Gregory's voice in her mind, through the haze of alcohol and desire. “You want to do it; you know you do. I want you to do it.”

You'll have to buy the book to discover whether Kate actually dares to impale herself on the bedpost...

As we've discussed here before, we authors are influenced by our own experiences and desires, even when we're clearly writing fiction. My own masturbatory efforts definitely tend to involve fantasy. I want to forget what I'm doing to myself and get lost in some deliciously filthy scenario that pushes my personal buttons.

I think that this is common for women; I don't know about men. The Chuck Palahniuk story that Garce wrote about a few weeks ago suggests that for men, solo sex might be completely about sensation, no fantasy required. Maybe men really can f*ck alone. However, I'm not so sure.

I was just editing Garce's story “Love's Tender Gender Fender Bender”, in his upcoming Coming Together Presents collection. The main character in this riff on Kafka's “Metamorphosis” is fundamentally a man, even though he's in a woman's body. He's taking that body for a test run, so to speak, masturbating furiously. To make it work, though, he has to fantasize—first about a woman and then, hilariously, about a lady cockroach.

Of course, perhaps Garce was suggesting that now that Gregor was a woman, she couldn't come without fantasy. I'll leave it to him to comment on this question.

From my perspective, however, solo sex requires a partner (at least one!)—even if he (or she) is just figment of the masturbator's imagination.