The Word

by Daddy X

In the beginning was the Word.

And the boy believed the Word.

Then the boy listened to his friends’ words. And their words became stories. Real stories. Gleaned from real experience.

That if one fooled with it enough—that a spurt would rise.

That an accompanying sense of exquisite wellbeing would overcome the senses, engulf the spirit and afford a new satisfaction.

But Keepers of the Word harbored other thoughts. That the boy would learn shame.

And the boy came.

And it was good.

But Keepers of the Word told the boy that he would go blind.

That he would grow hair on the palm of his hand.

That his eyes would cross. (Before or after he went blind?)

That the boy would not enjoy a worthwhile life. That he would learn to satisfy only his base desires, which would surely produce a wasted mass of protoplasm unfulfilled by any normal relationship.

That the boy would render himself queer, attracted only to the male appendage of which he’d grown so fond.

So the boy told his sin to the confessor. “I have committed adultery, father. I have pleasured myself.”

And of course the holy man, full of fate and ire, a man who’d taken a vow of celibacy would be the most obvious choice to offer clarity for the boy’s sexual conundrums.

Ignorance of a subject would have no bearing on the Word.

So the lad would not be told the difference between masturbation and adultery. T’was all the same to a Man of the Word.

The boy was told no matter the form, youthful sex always ends up a disaster. That if this sort of thing progressed …  the boy would have no regard for the church or its teachings.

That he just had to stop jerking off.

Said a man who insulated himself against the very world of experience to which the boy deserved answers.

That the boy would burn in hell forever for some sordid thrill.

That the boy would say a penance of five rosaries.

And the boy went on his way, duly convinced that he didn’t want to burn for eternity.

That he’d better damn well say his five fucking rosaries.

When the boy finished his penance, he realized the confessor was correct on one score:

That the boy would lose his religion.  

That his punishment was not only a foolish waste of fleeting time, but heaped upon young shoulders, it made for a capricious and senseless burden.

And the boy would realize what a fraud it all was.

Within his soul, he found faith that no benevolent God would have issue with any earthly pleasure the boy accomplished alone with his own body.

That the Word had the value of the excrement of a bull. That he should trust his own instincts.

The boy had encountered critical thinking.

And the boy questioned not only the Keepers, but the very vacuity of foundation the Word rested upon.  

He learned to question aspects of what he was told by teachers, by adults and by the media.

And the boy discovered obvious answers to subjects not provided by the Word’s limitations.

Without the Word’s influence, he would learn the positivity of an evolution of all living things. None of the Keepers had ever told him that. In fact, the Word declared evolution not a fact.

And so the boy learned that he, more than others, went through life satisfied with his lot in life. Well-balanced.

That he had his head screwed on where others lost theirs to guilt, confusion, contradiction and despair. Unhappy with their own desires.

He found that he can jack-off, jerk-off, stroke it or wank.

He can polish wood, choke the chicken, spank the monkey, pound Sam, wax the cucumber or stoke the dragon. He’d be sure to whack Willie to experience the full spectrum.

It all comes back to one thing:

Having faith in one’s own sense of cause and effect, rather than relying on willful ignorance to determine the value of any phenomenon. 

The Usefulness of Masturbation by Suz deMello

Obviously helpful when one is between partners, "masturbation can be fun," as one of the characters in the musical Hair opined. But its usefulness isn't limited to life but extends to erotic romance.

Unless you're writing about a hookup (and why would one bother? They have a boring sameness unless someone gets killed) having a character masturbate is a good way of getting a sex scene into a novel early, if one is tracing an entire romance from "cute first meet" until "happily ever after."

I've done this several times. A masturbation scene is really useful in historical romances. In the past, loose conduct had penalties we don't worry about anymore--unwanted pregnancy, disease, death by stoning and so on. Heck, the "death by stoning" outcome still happens in some unfortunate parts of the world. So masturbation is really handy.

So I wrote the below in Desire in Tartan, set in 18th century Scotland:

She crawled back into her bed, grateful for the lingering warmth of her hot water bottle, which echoed another warmth…between her thighs. She squirmed, but wondered why she felt self-conscious, with no one around to witness what she did.

With a deep breath, she set her fingers upon her woman’s flesh and felt an answering throb. She caressed, and the throb increased. Warm liquid oozed onto her hand, and she rubbed that in the same way she spread lotion onto her cheeks.

The heat increased, and she became acutely conscious of the soft, worn linen of her old chemise against her skin. She cupped a breast while she played with herself. 

Desire in Tartan is at http://bit.ly/DesireTartan 

And in a futuristic I wrote set on the moon a couple of centuries in the future, my heroine is dreaming about a lost love:

A moan escaped her lips as she palmed her breasts and imitated her fantasy lover. Her hard nipples peaked against the thin film of her Slicksuit. Desire raced to her core and her clit twitched with need.

It rubbed against the Slicksuit, heightening her pleasure.

Tension gripped every muscle, and she looked around to make sure her car was still empty before opening her Slicksuit’s crotch. She sought her pussy with needy fingers, first dipping a finger into her slit, delving for cream, then spreading it on her clit. Wanton need whipped through her body and her heartbeat sped as she imagined Gideon making love to her.

She thrust a finger into her pussy and moaned. Fire scorched her nerve endings as she fantasized about making Gideon come. She curved her finger, seeking her G-spot, and rubbed it while caressing her clit with her thumb.

If you like what you read, find "The Moon Maiden's Mate" in Naughty Chances, an anthology that was released December 1, 2015. http://tinyurl.com/NaughtyChances

Solo Sex--Solitary or Shared

Sacchi Green

Does one-handed reading (or film-watching, or eavesdropping) count as masturbation, or do the stories or films or orgasmic sounds coming through the walls get credit as supporting characters? For that matter, is it really masturbation if it’s consciously done while someone is watching? Does it matter?

No, probably not. Fantasizing is a handy tool for masturbation, and stories, films, etc are fuel for fantasies, whether for solo scenes or pairs play. Masturbation is whatever you mean when you talk about masturbation, or at least think about it, because who talks much about that? Except, of course, erotica writers. And even we don’t talk about it as much as we write about it, which raises another question: is writing particularly steamy scenes that push your own buttons a form of masturbation? Or at least a prelude to the physical act?

You don’t have to answer that. And neither do I. But I’m sure I’m not the only writer who fantasizes about writing sex scenes during sex, as well as fantasizing about sex while writing sex scenes. There’s an extra oomph when just the right and new and intense descriptive phrase surges through your fantasizing mind. My own mind, anyway.

And now having brought the subject around to my own mind, I’ll confess that although I personally think of masturbation as a profoundly private pastime, in my writing I’ve tended to include a voyeur who is very nearly a participant in such scenes, so that I’m not at all sure whether the protagonist can strictly be said to be masturbating.

It’s getting hard to remember which stories have already provided excerpts. I thought of sharing “On Wheels”, my first story in an edition of Best Lesbian Erotica, seventeen years ago in BLE 1999. It was badly in need of editing, which it got, but probably in need of more from my perspective now as editor of the upcoming twentieth anniversary edition of that series. It turns out, though, that my file for that story is so old that I can’t open it on my current computer, and I don’t have time to pursue the matter, so I’ll just mention the details in passing. The setting is a mountain cabin in the midst of a snowstorm. The characters are a young woman confined to a high-tech wheelchair after a criminal assault that traumatized her, and the tall, Nordic woman who is her companion/caretaker/bodyguard. The injured woman can’t stand to be touched, so her companion, the narrator, more or less seduces her with an intense masturbation scene interspersed with quotations from The Song of Songs, aka The Song of Solomon from the Old Testament. This is one case where I wonder whether sex clearly involving two people can really be called masturbation.

Another story in this category is one I’ve shared before, “Freeing the Demon”, from Kristina Wright’s Dream Lover (reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica) in which a downtrodden call girl masturbates in view of a rooftop gargoyle in which a demon has been imprisoned. By the end of that scene the gargoyle has broken free enough to actively participate, if only briefly, but even before that he is definitely influencing the activities. Is this really masturbation?
__________

From "Freeing the Demon"

Sacchi Green

When Jayne finally climbed out onto the balcony she was wrapped in a deeply hooded raincoat. She knew the allure of mystery, and slow unveiling; she also knew all previous experience might be irrelevant. Could her demon be pleased like human men? Until she knew his pleasure, she would simply please herself.
The light from his depths glowed hotter than ever before. In anticipation of her coming? Or had he gained strength from devouring Leopold? A shiver of fear sharpened her excitement.
She pressed herself against the rain-slick stone and inched the raincoat open. Chill gave way to warmth wherever skin touched stone, and when she stretched upward from the balustrade a deep vibration pulsed through the rigid mass. She pressed closer, bruising her softness on his ridges, melding pain with pleasure, but when she sensed desperation in his trembling she loosened her grip and stepped down.
Jayne knew the art of pleasing watchers. They had been her only bearable customers. In any closer interaction it was she who would become the watcher, removed, unmoved, observing with vague repulsion what her other self must do.
She wondered whether he could see her, but when she raised the edges of the coat like dark wings the light beamed obliquely from his eyes to warm the pale flame of her body.
The coat, once released. did not fall but floated above and behind, supported by the light. She forgot the rain, forgot everything but herself and that burning presence, feeding on his hunger as it fed on hers.
Beginning with dance-like movements, slowly, sinuously, Jayne curved her hands from waist to hips, slimness to taut fullness. Her touch was the watcher's touch, but under her command.
Then she drew her fingers lightly upward, brushing them teasingly around the outer curves of her breasts, catching her breath at the sweet soreness. As she cupped them gently and then less gently the fullness, the firmness, grew; in her mind her outline transformed from slender to voluptuous.
The ripples of pleasure intensified. Urgency flowed down her body. She throbbed both with fullness and with an aching need to be filled.
Jayne thought fleetingly of pulling back. How could she bear it if this hot tide never flooded into release? But it was all she had to give. And besides, it was too late.
Hard nipples jutted from her round full breasts, yearning desperately for the stroke of hands that could not reach out, for the hot press and tug and bite of a mouth frozen in stillness. Her fingers teased their tips into greater, harder, unbearable tension, while her palms still cupped the swelling fullness. She thrust against her own hands and moaned, again and again, until a deeper echo sounded from the stone before her and she raised her eyes.
Red light pulsed from the depths. A low rumbling sound went on and on. How could she truly touch him, penetrate the shell of dark magic, bring his torment and hers to an ecstatic peak?
She had come to despise men's bodies, but now she cursed the spell, or sculptor, that had shaped the gargoyle, pressing the forelegs together to obscure the loins, leaving her without even a simulacrum of maleness to stroke, taste, press against.
Her hands slipped downward. Her breasts still yearned with fullness, but a hunger still more intense built in her depths, a pounding pressure that demanded a harder pressure in return, more, and more...
Detachment long gone, she could only open mind as well as flesh to him, projecting her own sensations, hoping for him to somehow tell her how to meet his need.
His vision of her flashed through her mind; eyes half-closed, lips full and parted, head twisting from side to side as damp, heavy hair coiled over her shoulders and slid across her thrusting nipples, rising and falling to the ragged rhythm of her breathing. It was his will that raised her hand to cradle and press one breast and then the other, gently at first, then harder, sending hot lances downward. She no longer knew which sobbing cries and moans were her own, and which reverberated from the stone.
Somewhere in the outer world there were sounds. Pounding on a door? Or her own blood pounding in her ears? The clamor of her body drowned any intrusion. Linked with this being who watched and shared and demanded, she moved in response to his will as well as her own, hips twisting, undulating, arching toward him, hands stroking and kneading and tantalizing but leaving the hot, pulsing void for him, for his filling, if only he would come to her, into her...
A sharp crack split the air. The balcony shook. A wave of force slammed her against the building, jarring her teeth into her lower lip until it bled. She force down pain-sparked anger; whatever she had incited she would willingly accept.
__________


Pretty close to not being, technically, masturbation, right? Except, possibly, for the author. I can’t say for sure that writing that turns its writer on will turn on readers better than writing that’s more detached, but really, wouldn’t researching that question be fun?


 

Wristy Business

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.

Excerpt:

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.

“Ooooooooooohhh…”

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. 

Of course, I came twice and you only came once. So, yeah, it’s not really even.

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.

Webcam Amateur

by Giselle Renarde

It was a simple curiosity that grew into a fascination, and then a fascination that became an obsession.

I'm talking about girls who get off in front of their webcams and post it on amateur porn sites. As I said, I tuned in solely out of curiosity. I knew how I got myself off, but I wondered how other women played with their bodies when they were home alone. Maybe I wanted to see if I was "normal." Who knows?

So I watched an amateur webcam video of a slim young woman using her fingers and then her toys to bring herself to orgasm. It all looked very familiar. I had to watch another to make sure it wasn't just a one-off.

The same sequence of events repeated in the next webcam masturbation session. This girl was plump with big boobs. To see her on the street, she would have seemed perfectly plain, but her arousal made her sexy.

Just like the first girl, she started with her clit. She played with it over her panties while she squeezed her tits, and then she stripped to get down and dirty with her pussy. She stroked her clit until her need to be filled was visible in her eyes. Then she sunk her plump fingers inside and fucked herself fast.

Patterns repeated, video after video. There were endless variations, but every woman—young, old, curvy, thin—seemed to start with her clit and her tits and then move on to fucking herself with her fingers or her toys. The pitch and intonation of her pleasured cries were so familiar they could have been my own. It was affirming, watching all this. It made me feel like, yes, I am one of them. I bring myself to orgasm the same way they do. We all are one.

Maybe it's strange to find webcam masturbation sessions cosmic, but watching one after another after another, I did.

That's why I decided to make my own.

My intention wasn't to satisfy the male gaze or feed the desires of the voyeuristic masses, even though I knew my clip would end up doing that too. I honestly don't feel like it was the exhibitionist in me that wanted to make this video. Well, maybe a little... but mainly, I figured I wasn't the only woman out there who got curious about how other women pleasured themselves. I wanted to be one of the average, everyday girls showing the world a woman is perfectly capable of satisfying herself. It was a feminist endeavour.

That said, I didn't want my video to one day end up in my mother's inbox with a note attached like, "Look what your daughter's been up to!" Unashamed though I am of my pussy and my will to pleasure, I wanted to make my video anonymously.

After a shower and shave, I set up my webcam so the only part of my body it captured was my cunt. Maybe it seems like a strangely intimate body part to share with the world, but the way I figure, only me, my doctor and my lovers would recognize it. Filming it segregated from the rest of my body made me feel like it was somehow separate from me as a person.

I lined up my toys so I wouldn’t have to get up and fetch them mid-shoot. Then I got into position and pressed record. I watched my pussy convulse on my computer screen before I’d even touched it, and I wondered if I should say anything to the viewing public. Ultimately, I decided against sharing my voice. Just my pussy. And my fingers.

Reaching down, I tapped my naked clit to wake it up. I rubbed my pussy lips with my whole hand. I did that slowly and repeated the action until I could feel the juices flowing inside my body. As soon as I sensed the gush of my natural lube, I slathered it all over my clit. I was surprised how it glistened, even on the cheap webcam video, like there was no disguising the blessedness of a cunt.

Setting a finger on either side of my clit, I rubbed back and forth. My whole body reacted—I nearly jumped out of the shot! I had to force myself to sit still while I rubbed my bud so the viewing public would get a good look at my self-inflicted sex. I thought about watching other women doing this, and of other women watching me. Out of curiosity.

When my clit wanted more than my fingers could offer, I turned on my cock-shaped vibe. It was a big one, and a powerful machine. It brought me to orgasm in less than a minute of pressing its smooth head close to my clit. I tried to stifle the sounds of my passion, but ultimately decided I wanted the watchers to hear what my orgasms sounded like.

I wore my clit out with the vibe, but I wasn’t finished yet. That’s when I pushed the fake cock inside myself with one well-lubricated thrust. It felt so good to pound my pussy with the big vibe that I came all over again. When I finished with the toy, I stroked my pussy lips with my fingers to calm myself down. After my body stopped jumping and my breathing returned to normal, I clicked stop on the video.

I think I watched it sixteen times before uploading it to the amateur porn site, each time asking myself, “Do I really want to put this out into the world?”

Despite my silly apprehensions, the answer was obvious. Yes!

"Webcam Amateur" appears in the anthology Secret Confessions, published by eXcessica.

No naughty encounter is ever complete until you tell somebody about it. And who doesn’t feel a tingle while reading a naughty story and wondering, “Is this true? Did that really happen?”

In this collection, you’ll find a whopping 36 erotic stories, as explicit as they are wicked! These confessions involve lesbian encounters, exhibitionism, porn appreciation, voyeurism, masturbation and self-love, cheating and deception, threesomes, group sex, sploshing, ice play, public sex, fisting, sex with a loving partner, female fantasies, rimming, anal play, stranger sex, double penetration, spanking, insertions, bondage, and so much more!

"His Last Hurrah" A Masturbatory Story

Brushing his teeth at in the mirror, feeling the dull persistent ache of yet another tooth going bad, a simple stinging thought came to him with the biblical simplicity of a revelation.  It stopped the rasp of his toothbrush and gave him pause. 

This will be my last toothbrush.

A bird was pecking at some old bread someone had left on a feeder.  That bird will be there tomorrow morning doing the same old thing.  The bird will go on eating bread.  The sun will rise.  The sun will set.  I won’t catch any of it.

This is my last day.  Maybe my last hour.  Maybe my last minute.  I don't know how I know that, but I know.  I’ll be gone before they call dinner.

The face looking back from the mirror was a soft map work of lines.  The road map of his gathered years.  The bed-head mop of unruly silver hair he had been so vain about only a short month ago, a soft mouth, framed a rabid looking ring of toothpaste foam over the silver beard stubble within.  The blood lesions of the cancer covered his face like a hellish case of acne, which was what everybody had thought it was at first when the bleeding spots first appeared on his back.  The lesions had made him stop shaving.  The brush paused in the air between his lips.

I'll be gone by the end of the day.  Yes.

I don’t know how I know that.  I don’t even know how I feel about that.  Will it hurt?

Leukemia hurts like hell off and on, especially if you stop treatment and you don't always take the pain pills.  I can’t believe I’m still walking around the hospice house with this going on.  Can’t complain, I guess. 

I’ve had these thoughts before, but this time it’s real.  Tonight they’ll carry me out of here.  My kids sent me here because the leukemia is terminal now.  Because I would never survive the chemo therapy a second time around without likely going septic.  I mean, Christ, old dog, what's the big surprise?  They packed you off to this place to die and it’s coming.  Listen.  You came here to die.  It’s what people come here to do.  Aren’t you even curious? 

I want to feel it, he thought.  Yes, I’m curious.  If the pain comes, I want to feel the pain.  If death comes, and it must today, I want to feel the death.  Whatever happens here on out, I want to feel it.  All the way.  When death comes, I've always believed there would be nothing after.  So when death comes, I want to BE there.  But I don’t want to die badly, screaming or crying or unmanned or any less than myself.  How should I die?

Live your day as if this were your last.  Fuck the people who say that shit.  What do they know about it?   What do you do when it really is your last and you know it?  What do you do?  Climb a mountain?  Read a book?  Blow your life savings on hookers?  Get right with God?  Fall apart and weep for just one more day? 

Jack off?

He let that thought settle.  It had been a cynical thought, but it stuck.  Maybe, yes.  It sounded dumb.  But it wasn't so dumb.  It made sense in a way.  Not that bad an idea, not really.  Won’t get to feel that anymore, that’s for sure.  A good orgasm, get up on your shit house and crow.  Give death the flying final finger.  Bible says somewhere Moses “kept his moisture” until the end.  That meant in Bible talk he could still get it up in bed right to the end.  And him being a hundred and twenty years old.  Now. That’s a mighty man.  

When was the last time he had made love?  With a person?  Joined his body with another person?  Where?

He couldn't remember.  For the love of God.  When?  Who?  How did it feel?  Feel?  How did it feel?  Only details.  You slip it in, hold it there.  You move it around.  But.  That's not how.  That’s just details.  What is it to be inside a woman?  The same woman, over and over, a thousand times?  How could that ever get old?

That would have been Aimee.  I think.  Before she took on Alzheimer’s and forgot who I was.  We were both fucking strangers the last time we did it, even when it was with each other.  Before me and the kids had her hauled off.   Was that the last time?  Or that crazy divorcee down the hall in the retirement apartments?  Her?  Nobody since?

I will die today.  I don’t know how I know this.  I only know I came here to die because that’s what you do in a hospice.  You die surrounded by nice people,

He went on watching the bird outside pecking at the bread.  The world is filled with ants.  Leaves will go on falling.  The sun will go on shining.  All this without me.  It seems unfair somehow.  The world should miss me.  But it won’t. I think a couple of people will miss me, but that's all.

I will never come again, feel that rising rush and spurt if I don’t go for it now.  I will never have that feeling of being inside another, of being deeply in her space and holding her and exploring the mystery of her.  I won’t have that again.   I hate knowing I won't ever have that feeling again.  Some things should never be over.  The feeling of entering into another who wants me to be inside her.  Woman's great gift to man, offering to him that eagerness, to bring him inside and hold him there, to keep him there inside awhile held by his desires.

He looked to the bathroom door, just down the hall way.  He’d never done this act in someone else’s bathroom.  Suddenly he felt like a guest here again right when he was beginning to get used to the place.

Honestly, I'm not even horny.  When a man gets sick, especially this sick, it’s the lust that goes overboard first.  It’s a challenge, I just wonder if I can get it up and go all the way with it.  By God.

He looked down at his feet in their floppy bathroom slippers, "I have ugly feet too," he said out loud to no one.  "I’m a ridiculous sick old man whose planning to jack himself off  while maybe dying at the same time with my dick in my hand and I have ugly feet too.  See how the morgue handles that.   Shit."  The room became a little gray.  He touched the wall with his hand to steady himself.  He swayed dimly.

Suddenly it seemed the most important thing in the world to him.  This act he was about to do.  When he was a little boy they had called it self abuse.  As if a person might molest themselves.  Such bugaboos and taboos they'd made against it.  Now it seemed like the most important  in all the world.  A statement or maybe a falling flag of defiance.

He took a few deep breaths. Felt his heart racing.  He moved one foot in front of the other.  With the motion his head felt better, his thoughts clearer. 

He was in the hallway now of the big, Victorian house, which  may have once been considered a mansion, but was now at least "a very fine house", with an upstairs and a downstairs.  Most patients were on the downstairs level.  Around him, here, outside the room there was a feeling of life, of activity, of a vibrant world he was about to vacate without leaving so much as a bubble behind..

Mercifully the door to the bathroom was open, available.  He went in and closed it behind.  Aagin that light sinking feeling in his head and the room began to gray.  He leaned against the wall and spread his feet.  He breathed deeply and ducked his head down to his knees.  His face throbbed.  His hair felt hot.  He looked up at the door, and turned the thumb lock.  The staff would have a key anyway, but just in case, to buy him a little warning jingle in case he was lost in the moment. 

If you die while you ‘re coming do you go to Heaven?  Or oesit just seem like it?

He put down the toilet seat and lid, checked for paper and waited for a happy thought to come.

Odd feelings of shame came instead and a light burst of excitement moved through his loins.  The shame of it.  The delicious sordid sin.  Pathetic maybe, at my age men shouldn’t do this, but still. It's like being a boy again, he thought.  He pulled down his pajama bottoms and kicked them free into a corner.  He looked down between his legs.

There you are old hound dog.  Let's see what we’ve got.  What shall I think I about?  Who, rather?  A young nurse, that well intentioned, good hearted college grad Lara who keeps checking on me at night to see if I stopped breathing? 

The idea of fantasizing about a woman so young was wounding somehow beyond words.  The thought,made him feel irretrievably shameful about what he was about to do. 

He sat on the toilet seat, looking down at his limpness.  He touched himself there, moved it gently in his fingers trying to get the motor to turn over, but it remained flacid and somehow despairing.  Like a dog with its sad head on its paws.  On the floor there was a small pile of ant bait and a few lone ants carrying it away.

He thought of his favorite presidential candidate, with her raucous cackle and her pantsuits.

Yes.  Her.  She'll do.

A train.  We're in a train station and the train is pulling in and her entourage of media experts and staff are  with her and they have been planning the next stop.  Our eyes meet across the room.  She sees me, my salt and pepper hair, and sees an interesting man.

A stirring of anticipation below.  Hello there, old friend.  Are you awake?

We board the train, she snaps "Excuse me," to her staff and moves away from them.  She comes up to me and whispers "Follow me," with the authority of a dominatrix.  I follow her.

Below the anticipation moved to outright interest and a tentative firmness.  He rises!  It is Moby Dick!  The image conjures another, a pacific island back when he was in the navy.  He is young and strong now.  And the woman is bare assed under the grass skirt, round bare breasts swaying pendulously,  small faced, with thick shining black hair that smells of coconut.  He has saved her life from . . . from . . . a shark! - and she is grateful.   She has a hero's reward for him. There's a huge pink blossom tucked in her hair.  She takes him by the hand and leads him from the beach to a hut.  As they enter the straw smelling coolness, she turns her back to him, undoes a string of her grass skirt and it falls to the grass.

Her ass is turned to him, shaped like a mandolin, her cheeks round and caressable.  She looks shyly over her shoulder, waiting.  Past the swell of her strong right arm he sees the poke of her erect black nipple.  She is wearing nothing now but the flower.

"Goddess Lalani," he whispers, "The gods have sent me to be a gift of love to you in your loneliness."  These are not his words.  He doesn't know how he knows this.  Where does this come from?  She turns to him and the vision of her smooth brown skin and bottomless black eyes stuns him with lust.  He is young and vigorously erect.  And for the first time in years he is not lonely and knows he will be happy.  She touches his cheek gently and suddenly the pink petals of the flower fall away from her hair landing on her breast.  He bends his head and licks them away.

"Robert?"  The knuckles rapped softly at the bathroom door.  "Robert, it’s Lara.  Are you all right in there?  Have you fallen?  Robert?"

Someone had heard a hard thump of someone hitting the floor.  Now the hospice staff  were gathering around in the hall.    "Mr. Zimmer, are you in there?"  Lara rappedagain, but there was no answer.  She jiggled the door knob.  "Mr.  Zimmer, please unlock this door.  Can you answer me?  Can you speak?  Mr.  Zimmer?"

Lara turned to a young man behind her.  "Bring the key for the door.  Don't call his family just yet until we know.  Hurry."  She rapped at the door again but there was only silence.

Explorations in Masturbation

Somewhere along the way, I lost the track of the real reason for masturbation.  I got so caught up in having a quick tug before a shower or a quick wank before bed -- I just needed a few minutes to get that build-up and release.  But, really, masturbation should be about feeling good and about making me feel as sexual as possible -- and not the "quick, get it done!" attitude I seem to have.

I think the source of this is obvious and I think almost anyone can relate.  When I first discovered masturbation, I had to be secretive about it -- and quick.  I had to get it done and clean up before any of my family would know I was up to something.  Those early beginnings seem to have stuck with me; though I know masturbation can be much longer and much more enjoyable, I still pretty much only masturbate in quick moments.

The other aspect that I think is missing in my masturbation is a focus on my own body.  Instead, I'm usually watching porn or scrolling through a dirty Tumblr blog or perhaps reading a filthy book, and my masturbation becomes a reaction to what I'm seeing and reading.  This is, of course, totally fine and I certainly don't discourage it.  But masturbation should (at least sometimes) be about focussing on my own body, on exciting my nerve endings, on exploring the pleasure I can give myself.  In short, the focus should be on me, not what's on my computer screen.

So this past weekend, I set out to challenge my masturbation behaviours.  I planned to take the time I needed, leave my computer, phone, and books aside, and just see where my hands take me.

I got on the bed (and put a towel under me so I wouldn't have to worry if I made a mess) and got naked.  I was already hard -- my lust was anticipating this act, perhaps I was excited to focus on myself for a change.  I started stroking.  Being a bit more of a bottom, I soon found my fingers exploring south of my balls and poking at my hole.  I squirted some lube on my fingers and pressed against my opening, sliding my finger in deep.

Hmm... I'm in a coffee shop as I write this and getting a hard-on from the memory... I better calm down a bit.

I had a good time pleasuring myself.  It was a much different experience from that quick tug before I hop in the shower or the before bed jerk-off session while watching a video online.  This was much more focussed on the pleasure coursing through my body -- my entire body -- rather than just pleasing my dick.

Those quick wanks are often entirely dick-focussed.  Stroke and tug and stroke and tug until I come and I get that quick rush of pleasure through my body.  But the slower me-focussed masturbation included pleasuring my whole body -- my dick, my balls, my hole, my prostate, my nipples, and even the irregular breathing as I gasped in pleasure as my finger brushed against my prostate.

This, of course, isn't something I can do all the time -- I can't always spare a half hour or more to jack off and my ass isn't always ready to have fingers shoved deep inside.  Besides, sometimes I really do want that quick release in the morning and I often really do want to look at porn and stroke as I admire the raunchy scenes playing out on my screen.

But what this exploration in masturbation has shown me is that I should be treating myself and my body to this pleasure every now and then.  It's about being good to myself.  And it's about embracing masturbation as a healthy part of my sexuality; it's no longer that quick and dirty deed I did as a teenager.  Masturbation is about treating myself to pleasure and touching myself in ways that no one else can.


Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Go-Go Boys of Club 21: The Complete Series. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.