|Blogs > pickngrin17 > Graceland Blues|
I discovered the joys of masturbation at age twelve, and I’ve been off to the races ever since. I wish I could remember the name of the older boy who clue me in on the practice while I was away at camp that summer, for I would like to thank him for the incomparable gift he gave. The ability to arouse and bring myself to orgasm with my own two hands has carried me through innumerable life situations that would have otherwise been insufferable. It was like I’d been given me a true map to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and my copy of that map is now so worn and dog-eared, with steps so frequently retraced, that I know it better than the back of my hand.
Of course I was incredulous when he first told me about it, but as I lay in my bunk later that evening my mind kept coming back to what he’d said. I wrestled back and forth with whether such things could be possible–or safe–for what seemed like an eternity, then said what the heck and gave in. I leaned up and peered around into the darkness to make sure nobody was watching, a practice that I continue to this day–even if I’m in a house all alone and it’s three in the morning and there isn’t another living soul for miles around. There’s something a bit dirty and secret and self-indulgent about the act of masturbation while you’re alone. Now if you add more people, jerking off becomes another activity altogether. But for the moment I’m just talking about the guilty pleasure of gratuitous solo self-gratification.
When I was sure I wasn’t being spied on, I dove back under the covers and tried to remember the exact order of the directions he’d given. I knew I’d have to spit on my hand at some point, then there was the rubbing of the penis, but I was sure he’d said some other things only I couldn’t remember what they were. Oh yeah, I needed a rag of some sort, though I was a little vague as to why that would be necessary. And I was supposed to think about a girl. That part I could definitely handle.
I had this fantasy that I’d been lulling myself to sleep with for the past year, and it was always pretty much the same, night after night. There was a girl–a long, blonde-haired princess–in a birdcage sort of contraption suspended high above a lake of bubbling lava. I was trapped inside with her, and this foul demon creature loomed over us outside the cage and forced us to perform various acts upon one another. He said if we didn’t do as we were told, he’d drop the bottom of the cage and into the lava we’d go.
So I did it for the girl–and to the girl–night after night, to save her life. It was a noble thing, and though neither of us really wanted to do the things the demon forced us to do, I found myself rather enjoying the experience. [A note to readers: this is what you get when you raise your kids in a strict Southern Baptist church] It was fairly tame stuff, mostly kissing with a little touching here and there. I would ball my pillow into a body and make out with it intensely, rubbing my little prepubescent pecker against the sheets as I did so.
That was the sum total of my experience with women at the time I learned to masturbate (save a few “player doctor” indiscretions some years back). I had some limited experience with unwanted erections in class and at the blackboard, but I wasn’t sure what caused them and in no way linked them to sex or girls. As I lay under the covers that night at camp, nervous summer seat building at the back of my neck, I made the last few mental calculations that connected the stars in the constellation of my nascent sexuality. I kicked off my briefs, spat on my hand, lay back and moistened my dick. Then I thought about my blonde princess, the cage and the demon. I imagined kissing her, pulling her closer to me, and reaching out a hand to cover her breast under the flowing white robe she wore. And then a curious and interesting thing happened–my penis, heretofore a part of my body I associated with peeing and locker room mortification, took on a life of its own. Like a gallant white knight in an Arthurian legend, it rose tall and strong in my hand, reaching out toward the princess it had come to rescue.
I was amazed. Even more astonishing than the feat was the sensation. It was as if every nerve ending in my body had suddenly raced for my crotch, and I could feel everything there. I could feel the summer wind, my princess’s breath, and the movement of the demon around the cage. As I slid my hand up and down the shaft of my penis the sensation intensified, and before I even knew what had happened fireworks burst behind my eyes and below my balls, and suddenly a stream of thick white liquid arced out of my penis and sprayed the sheet above me like a Jackson Pollack painting. It was then I remembered the rag.
This was by far the coolest discovery I had yet made during my twelve years on the planet, and it fast became my favorite activity. I acquired a number of girly magazines from various sources, which I kept squirreled away in a box beneath my bed. I had a stack of neatly folded washcloths, and a jar of my mother’s good Neutrogena lotion, which I pilfered from her beach bag when she wasn’t looking one day. I was training for the Olympics, determined to be a contender.
The spring training of my adolescence gave way to the summer of young adulthood, where real girls became accessible. I lost my virginity, finally, and began what has proved to be a long and illustrious career of sleeping with practically every woman I meet who is in the least bit willing. But even in the midst of a happy relationship–even in the midst of sex itself–I am still prone to return to my favorite adolescent hobby. I’ve had girlfriends walk in and catch me full at it–porn on the tube and my dick lathered up in KY and a towel suspended from the clothes drying rack to catch my load before it hits the TV screen–and scream, “Why do insist on doing that when you’ve got ME right here?!?”
I’m never sure how to answer that, because in truth I don’t know myself. I only know that I like it. I’ve had sex with a woman so hot you could melt wax on her ass, and she would drop her voice three octaves and say, “Oh my fucking God–come inside me!” and I couldn’t do it. When it came time I would pull out and take those last three strokes in my own hand, and it would be the best part of all the sex we had. Face it, ladies: men are born to masturbate. Have you ever seen a little baby boy in his crib, absent-mindedly pulling on his tiny pecker? He’s practicing; it’s in his genes.
Now that I’m a little bit older, I have relaxed a bit on the masturbation front. I mean, don’t get me wrong–I still whack off all the time. But it’s not every day anymore, and I can even let go and come inside a woman from time to time, if the moon is right and the stars are aligned. Still, of all the skills I picked up along the way that made my life the success it is today, I would have to credit the art of masturbation and that nameless kid who so long ago opened for me the window to the world.