I’m not going to delve too deeply into the psychological side of self-love here. I’m looking more at the functionality, both in real world and in fiction, and those occasions where it seems there is no recourse but to get busy and rub one out. In fiction, I love those moments. I love reading them and writing them.
Mostly, I prefer to see and read female masturbation, for various reasons. One is, of course, I’m a heterosexual dude, and was born with a fascination for women which will apparently never be fully appeased. And I’m good with that. More study means more learning.
To my eye, women have a natural fluid grace in all things physical. I understand I was born with rose-coloured glasses in this aspect, but still, there it is. It’s in the sway of her arms and hips as she walks; it’s in the stretch of her ankles as she curls her legs around his back. And it’s in the dance of her fingers as she grinds her own (or her lover’s) clit. Even the in-out pumping of her hand seems to take a more orbital approach than the steam-piston engineering a man usually employs on her.
Of course, I’m talking only from the visual sense here. How it feels to her is something I don’t pretend to know, though I imagine many of the sensations are similar between the genders. Perhaps that mechanical insistence of a male is preferable in reality. It just doesn’t look as elegant to me.
But there’s still a bunch of hawtness in having my male characters take part in hand-to-gland combat. Just to wildly generalise for a moment, men are straightforward creatures. Hunt, kill, eat. That sort of thing. Though again, there are many subtleties to how a man might pleasure himself, the job can be done at its most basic level with just one hand and access to a couple of inches of himself. Doesn’t even need to be the whole thing, just the best bits. And sometimes, those desperate, inappropriate and furtive moments are hotter than the most elaborately-organised weekend love-fest.
There are some wonderful subtleties as to how an author might employ male masturbation as well. I’ve chatted with a few friends (most notably Sassie Lewis and Chandra Crawford) about it, and they helped me distill the act of going hand solo down to its heart. Their likes and dislikes, and their suggestions, enabled me to craft a particular scene in The Last Three Days.
We’re all highly aware these days of the level of temptation the world throws at us. And a single need unfulfilled will drive a story far harder than a hundred casual orgasms ever will.
For me, in fiction, masturbation scenes are essential at certain points. Usually it’s the situation of an overwhelming need which can not be fulfilled.
With that in mind, in The Last Three Days I had two characters, Opal and Luther, who’d come together by chance, who’d developed an intimacy neither of them truly had a right to, and who’d allowed that intimacy to stretch its legs in the physical world. At the point of this excerpt they hadn’t quite gone all the way… but by golly, they could see it from there.
He swore he could still taste her. Still smell her juices on his lips. Three days later, a dozen guilt-driven showers, and she was still all over him.
Luther pressed back against the cubicle door, searching for strength. His hands were birds of prey, tearing open his pants, eviscerating them, curling sharp talons around his cock. He felt her touch on him as he stroked himself. He leaned his hand on the wall above the toilet, all thought of hygiene displaced by the wordless blaze of lust within him.
In no time he was there again, with the heat and the sound and the feel of her mouth around him. How she’d salved her hunger; slaked her thirst. The reverence of her greed.
Every inch of his body prickled, a billion rogue sensations milling, on high alert. With his climax came the call to arms, a rush into action, to spill from him as if pulled from without. Hunched over, pumping like an engine, he released the only sound he could find.
He was weak flesh. More skin than bone. Condemned. He squeezed out his last drop of fluid, and wiped off with a square of paper.
Three days and no peace. He’d come good, pushed her away. They were done, they’d called it even.
Then she threw out that line, baited and hooked.
He’d come three times a day since then. With the spice of her pussy on his tongue. With the fire of her mouth around him. The raw weight of her body pinned to the wall again and again as he drove into her. Maybe that made them even. Or maybe she had to come another half-dozen times now to catch up.