I love to jerk off. I loved it the first time, and I love it thirty six years later. I hope I’ll always love it. No matter what my lovers have thought, yes it’s sexual, but it has absolutely nothing to do with my sex with them. My masturbating has nothing to do with whether I like sex with them, it doesn’t mean I do or don’t want sex with them. It’s just that, nothing to do with anyone else. I love to jerk off.
“I’m a bear lover,” Peter said. “Maybe you won’t like me anymore.”
Who cares about bears?
“Eric and I take our clothes off in the woods behind his house and look at each other.”
Oh. A bare lover.
“Do you still like me?”
We were eleven, and we were playing with my electric trains in my basement. I don’t know how this conversation started, but it was fine with me. I guess I too was a bare lover.
I liked it when the neighbor girls were willing to take off their clothes for the neighbor boys so we could look. Occasionally, we could get two or three of them at once. None of them were old enough for breasts or pubic hair. Actually, though I had seen my mother’s pubic hair, I hadn’t yet made the connection between kids and adults, and didn’t know that those smooth, tight slits on the girls would ever be anything other than what they looked like right now. So gawk I did at the fascinating sight, the only different thing on the girls’ bodies.
So Peter’s confession wasn’t really shocking to me. What was shocking was just how much further along he was in his bare lover development.
We were over at Peter’s house when I asked him what about his bare loving activities. His were pretty similar to mine. Stripping with boys and girls, looking, sometimes touching. When he told me that he and some of the girls had sprouted some hairs he got my attention. And there were some other vague references that I didn’t really catch. He’d let me look at his pubic hairs if I got naked too. Yes, sir!
There were incredible. Don’t ask me why exactly, probably it’s some instinctual prime directive to be mesmerized by the forward evolution of all the human parts of ourselves. But I just stared. And as his penis started to get hard, it looked different than the boners I had seen on my friends before. Maybe the hair made it look kind of mature.
He wanted me to stand in front of him. I heard him spit and I felt his penis between my ass cheeks. A new thing, cool. He started pushing and, owwww! Pain! He had shoved his penis head up my asshole and it hurt like hell. “Take it out!” That was the last time that would happen. It had nothing to do with my interest in bare loving, it had nothing to do with whether or not I liked Peter. It was that I had no interest in hurting that much. He was OK with it, but the afternoon wasn’t over, and he had more to show me.
We got dressed he brought me into the bathroom. Don’t ask me, I’m along for the ride. Peter sat down and pulled down his pants a little, letting loose his becoming hairy penis. He turned to the end of some magazine and concentrated on an illustration in a tiny black and white brassiere ad. The picture was small, but it was a perfected coifed woman with a very sharply pointed cone bra, holding in a couple of appropriately 6o’s large bazooms. As he looked he rubbed his penis head against his leg. He got harder, he rubbed it faster. The more he rubbed the more my head ricocheted between his dick and her bra. What was going on, why was he doing this?
And then it happened. A small white drop of something appeared. Just that a drop. He smiled, big. I still didn’t really know what had happened, but maybe I knew it was my destiny.
Trevor brought a group of us to the corner of the schoolyard and unfolded the “Playboy” pictures. They were the first dirty nudes I had ever seen. The bosoms –that’s what I’d learned to call them– looked enormous, at least, compared to my mother’s, the only ones I had ever seen. And I knew these were different than my mother’s in every way. We looked for a few seconds and he put them away.
The only place I’d even heard that there was such a thing as nude modeling was on the sole episode I’d seen of “Dragnet.” Jack Webb had broken an illegal ring of conspirators who somehow enticed innocent girls to take off their tops for the camera. For years, no matter how much I liked to look, I was convinced that the women I jerked off too were not really smiling, since they’d been forced to pose.
Anyway, I was at my friend Zack’s when he whispered to me that his teenage cousin was staying the weekend and that this cousin had “Playboy’s.” I persuaded him to cadge a few and mentioned they might be useful for more than just a gape. In his room, with the door locked, we opened them up and started looking. Bosoms galore, mainly large, and, of course, I thought, frowns. I gravely explained to Zack the conspiracies which had created all these nude pictures, but really, did either of us care? He also heard about my introduction to the mystery of masturbation and that I was ready to try. He looked at me silently, agreeing to watch, but that was about it.
My pants came down, my hairless penis came out hard, and I opened my first unforgettable Playboy magazine. It had a yellow cover with white woman. Not a Caucasian, but a nude woman with black hair, black evening gloves, black stockings, and white porcelain skin. It was a sculpture of their famous “Femlin” character that Leroy Neiman had drawn for the dirty joke page, and inside there was a pictorial of the Femlin come to life. The model was dressed exactly like the illustrations, and they had powdered her skin completely white. Not in itself that attractive, but she was naked, with enormous hooters, and, after all, that’s what I needed for my initiation into semenhood.
So I stared at those bosoms. And held my erection against my leg. And I turned the pages for the other unhappy models and their unhappy bosoms. I tried to get a rhythm going against my leg, but it was very awkward. I didn’t know exactly how to hold it, and getting a grasp so it would move fast enough was difficult. But I persevered, and looked, and breathed deeply. And, nothing. But I had seen that drop at Peter’s house. So I kept working.
Zack, in the meanwhile, was getting nervous. He knew that looking at Playboys in his locked room with his whole family around was probably not the smartest idea in the world. And he, liked me a few months before, had no idea of what I was doing, but, again like me, was so entranced he didn’t want the action to stop. He knew there was a finale and wanted to be in on it. I, on the other hand, didn’t know what planet I was on.
The rubbing continued. So did the nudity. I was turned the pages. The head of my penis felt funny, tender, on my leg. If I hadn’t been doing to myself I couldn’t have stood the feeling, and, anyway, when was this going to happen? Where was my drop?
It probably was just a few minutes. Five, ten, maybe. Eleven years old, impatient for my drop to come out, and I saw that my leg was wet. Had I peed? There wasn’t that piss feeling, but what else was it, there wasn’t any drop. And the wet was clear, not white. I felt it and it was sticky. No pee here. Zack touched it too. I guess mine was different than Peter’s, but we both knew it had happened.
The next time was kind of scary. We were in Zack’s basement, and he had talked his cousin into a longer loan of the magazines. This time we were both trying, Zack for the first time, and I was contentedly rubbing away looking at the very naked women, same as before. And expecting the same results, when pow! The hole the end of my dick started spouting. Not the wet sticky film from the last time, not the white drop at the end. I mean, it gushed. Gobs and gobs of creamy stuff, a little white, but kind of yellow too. Zack eyes were popping out of his head, I was panicking, and it kept pouring out, all over my hand, dripping down the head of my penis. I couldn’t stop it. My lungs were hyperventilating, I thought something had gone severely wrong with my body. Nothing really felt wrong, but it sure hadn’t looked like this the other two times. I cleaned up fast, hoping I hadn’t ruptured something inside.
I’m not sure how much I did jerked myself off over the next few years, or where I got the stimulation material. I remember Zack and I doing it some more, and I remember that my photography hobby led me to a companion who had some French postcards where I saw a nude with pubic hair for the first time, skanky though it was. I started having humiliating, but very satisfying wet dreams.
Walking home from my parents’ drugstore one day in July when I was sixteen, I stopped at the stationary store and bought my first Playboy. God knows why that day in that year. I’d probably wanted to buy it before, but I was scared, knowing that looking at nude pictures was a bad thing, looking at them in Playboy was a bad thing, and what I wanted to do was a bad thing. And God knows why I decided to buy from a local merchant that knew me and knew my parents, but adolescence probably overcame any logic.
The cover was pink glitter, the “Playmate of the Year” issue, and the Playmate was in a tiara, signaling her ascendancy to the pinnacle of nudity. Carol Baker. There was a particular side angled picture where her nipples stood out all puffy that always made me shoot. I’ve got to go buy an old copy on the collector’s market to see if her breasts have the same effect on my sperm now. They probably do.
I masturbated every day I could. In fact, I masturbated every day I could until I started having sex. And then I did it every day that I didn’t have sex. Until I got married the first time, and that messed up my masturbatory patterns forever.
Anyway, after that first Playboy purchase, I don’t think I ever masturbated in front of Zack, or any guy, again. I’d lock my door, pull out a magazine from an ever growing hidden stash, and wank away. After scum would shoot out — I had heard “scumbags” kept the stuff from making girls pregnant, and I hadn’t heard any of the other quaint terms for the gunk yet – after the scum would spurt, I’d clean myself up with my underpants or pajamas. Maybe I figured my mother had no idea why clothes were becoming stiff and stained beyond hope.
All I can remember about the pictures now are the breasts. Large, friendly breasts. Sometimes they were round and proud and just sat on the happy girl’s body (I was starting to see their smiles). Others hung very heavily, very massively. Some of them were two completely separate mounds, and some were so big they just mushed together with a line down the middle. There were dark, huge aureoles, and really tight, small ones, with erect nipples sticking up at the end. And it was like their whole selves existed just to treat me to long peeks at their naked flesh so I could get off. Their rear ends were in clear evidence too, of course, and sure they looked sexy and dirty and I got hard to them too, but nothing like the breasts. Maybe an ass wasn’t a real draw yet, because, of course, I had one, so it wasn’t like a revelation, though heaven knows they sure looked different than any boy’s. And, now that I think about it, since I hadn’t had sex, I didn’t probably conceive of the ultimate attraction of the buttocks. Why, as I got older, I liked seeing a woman on her knees, cheeks facing me, looking over her shoulder with a smile. Didn’t know what I wanted to put there, how I wanted to bump there. At that young point in my life, any nudity was arousing, but right then it was in the boobs.
Any activity that continues year after year, decade after decade, evolves. If you watched me at sixteen and you looked at me, probably, at sixty, it would look pretty much the same. Stretched out, usually on the bed, I lie down in a kind of reading position with my legs spread slightly. Sometimes my pants are pulled halfway down, sometimes I’m naked, ready for action. When I was young I was always already hard when I started, and in my thirties I had to grab on and pull myself erect. But it’s hard for me to come by myself without some kind of outside thrill.
First were the nudies in Playboy. Opening it on my left, I’d flip to the regularly formatted three sections where the “girls next door” (yeah right) posed naked on the couch, in the kitchen, with their moms. I lost my virginity at eighteen, which coincided Playboy starting to show pubic hair. The first centerfold (Liv somebody or other) discreetly exposed about a half an inch or so at the beginning of 1970, but it was enough for me to pop my wad immediately. Penthouse magazine had pushed them into it, but Penthouse kept pushing the boundaries forward for jerk off-ers like me. Their models not only exposed pubic hair, but started trimming it and spreading it enough that you could see their swollen lips and clitoris a bit. They got on their knees in a way that was more than just showing you their bums. And each new level of exposure and provocation was OK with my straining penis.
The constant search for a new wallop led me to pornographic movies when they first came out on video. Women who wanted it, wanted it bad, with one, two or three men at once. Women who wanted it on their knees, in their ass. Women who wanted come on their tits, their faces, in their hair. The videos led me backwards to porn magazines which had been showing the same thing for years, I just didn’t know it. And ever other fetish I could imagine, enjoy, or completely reject. Lately, I’ve regressed to the point where it’s only every once in a while I really like seeing actual sex and I’ve been into the lowest down trash on the newsstand. Junk like “Naughty Neighbors,” “Cheap Thrills,” and “Big Butts.” Where it looks like the pictures might have taken three minutes to shoot and the stage direction was “Bend over. Spread your cheeks. Let your boobs hang down.” Or “Squat down. Jiggle your tits. Let me smell you from here.” The things I think about when I’m with my wife, or when I’m alone in a hotel room.
But it was Penthouse letters “Forum” that really hit the masturbating jackpot for me when I was around twenty. “I’m a sophomore at a small mid-western college who has just lived through an experience that I had to share with somebody.” The “real” letter went on to describe a situation where a poor, unsuspecting guy found himself in a situation with a full breasted woman that had to, needed to, was compelled to, masturbate/blow/fuck him, sometimes with a girlfriend with smaller tits but a rounder ass, right before they were discovered by his unsuspecting, would-be-jealous thought-he-was-the-stud roommate.
These “letters” had absolutely no other purpose other than to get the reader, me, to climax. Written so they would help you get hard, give you time to beat it a while, feel your balls and shaft fill up, they’d give you a climactic moment (“Fuck me hard, now!”) right when you needed it most. And they worked particularly, extremely, remarkably well, month after month after month. Playboy open to the pictures, Penthouse to the stories, I would sit there looking, reading, pulling my pud until it came.
Four or five years later, after I had adapted out loud storytelling into sex with my lovers, a woman that I was sleeping with gave me a digest version of “Forum” which was nothing but “real” letters, some of which had been written by woman we knew from college. Soon competitors started up and I was buying them all. The volume of stories required the editors to split them up into sections devoted to themes that one might like best. At the beginning I remember liking stories about women talking during sex, and voyeurism, and ass fucking. No matter how popular they seemed to be I didn’t like spanking, or female domination, or transvestites. They started separating into downmarket publications that were badly written with typos, but completely, arousingly trashy (“Car Cooze”) and the classier ones (“Painting a Picture of Total Submission to a Royal Lady”). I didn’t really care as long as they played to my interests of the moment and I got off.
And whatever was going on in my sex life found it’s way into my masturbation life. When I found the courage to admit to a woman that I thought about her peeing on me, I started jerking off to letters about watersports. When a girlfriend started getting off on wearing lingerie under her blue jeans, stories about nippleless bras worked me up. I found that some women liked having their nipples squeezed to the point of pain which led to one of my lovers wanting her ass tanned; all of a sudden those spanking stories felt pretty hot. And I realized that if something happened with a lover, I could push it further when I masturbated, and the heightened reality of my jerking off could come back to bed with my women.
At first I was worried that whatever kinks I was thinking about when I came alone would frighten off a woman. Soon it became clear to me that I usually was with women who liked sex, even the ones with very little knowledge, and they wanted my intensity of interest. My masturbation rituals focused me on sex with them in a way that was unfamiliar even to the most experienced of the lot.
I certainly didn’t have to do a lot of the stuff that made me come in private. Women generally haven’t liked to pee on me, or bondage, or exhibitionism, but hey, if a story makes me feel she’s sitting on top of me spurting liquid on my cock and I shoot my stuff into my hand, who needs to know? I’ve rarely fucked a woman’s ass, don’t actually like it too much, but even today reading about a woman on all fours wiggling her spread cheeks and shouting “It feels so dirty! Shoot your come deep in my asshole!” is a guaranteed instant eruption. And when a woman didn’t want to participate, even in abstract whispering when we were fucking, that was usually fine. I still had my right hand and my times alone.
Peter had rubbed his penis against his leg for his drop, so at first I did that too. It was a little awkward, somehow taking the shaft with the tips of my fingers, and moving it back and forth like I was wiggling a gear shift. Eventually, I let the erection jut up naturally, and I’d lay my palm down flat and push the almost tight skin of my cock back and forth on my stomach, sometimes touching my balls or my asshole. Over many years I progressed to the technique I still use, which probably started by looking at the guys in sex videos. I grasp my penis with my whole hand wrapping around the length, with the head exposed, looking at me. Moving up and down until it’s hard, slightly off my stomach, keep it going until it explodes.
And the explosion. The part that you’ve been waiting for, the moment of the white drop. My balls clenching up, the head expanding large, the feeling moving up the shaft. The come. It’s been almost forty years and I can’t feel it often enough. Or watch it often enough, because seeing my penis come is part of the thrill. The moment when it squirts, the white liquid firing out, messing up everything. Watching it fly across my chest (or watching it glob across my lover’s face or breasts). And you know, it’s not just my juice I like to look at. The (many) moments in a porn movie where the guy has been pounding inside a woman, the moments when he pulls out of her pussy or her mouth, the moments that he pours out his juice all over her. Whether it’s mine or it’s his, I live for those moments.
I’m hooked. On masturbation, for sure. And on nude pictures. And sex stories that get me off. It’s not all there is, and if it was, life would suck. There’d be variations on the theme for years and hopefully will be for years to come. But at the beginning it was just Playboy and my right hand.
I love to jerk off.