Earliest Experiences Masturbating

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Remembering how I started jerking off at age eleven . . . fantasies of assertive women . . . anal play . . . masturbating outdoors . . .

 

My fantasy penchant has always been for beautiful, strong, petite women who take the initiative in sex. As a child of nine or ten I fantasized capture and restraint by a tribe of tan, longhaired, and scantily clad female warriors. I can't remember if my genitals were involved in these daydreams, only that these Amazonians tied me up and spanked me, with an implied threat of worse. What would the worse be? I don't know. Had I the information, probably exquisite sexual tortures-not really painful-culminating in the climax I then knew nothing about.

At eleven I masturbated in the bathroom after reading about it in a book. Nothing much happened in my first attempts. But one night in bed, rubbing my penis back and forth in the palm of my hand, I discovered a strange new feeling. Though I had read about what would happen, I didn't know what to expect. That first time I stopped just before the event, daunted by the surge I felt building. A subsequent night, I didn't hold back. My first orgasm felt frightening as well as pleasurable, as if something had broken. Despite my uncertainty, I was fascinated by the power released in this primal event. Until that first orgasm, I had feared something might be wrong with me. Since the age of seven, when I'd been operated on to correct an undescended testicle, I had worried about my virility. The emergence of semen soothed my ego. How strange it felt! How miraculous!

Early puberty was a period of constant experimentation. I masturbated regularly, learning how to intensify orgasm by delaying it in private games of erotic escalation. Posed before a mirror, for example, I would put on and then remove layers of clothing. I often ended up thrusting rhythmically into a pillow that fantasy transformed into the hips and inviting sex of a beautiful girl. One time I humped a large stuffed panda, coming to a messy, cream-colored ejaculation all over its black and white artificial coat. Sometimes I stared at the reflection of my naked body, particularly in regard to its newly sprouted pubic hair, curly and strangely elegant, and the appearance of my genitalia from different perspectives. The curve of erection seen from the side seemed especially manly, and the way my scrotum dangled, seen from behind when I went on all fours with my ass to the mirror. I sometimes bent over with a vanity mirror in hand to inspect my anus in the double reflection, fascinated with that most hidden part of my body. I did crazy things, like rubbing red ink into the skin of my glans, the head of my penis, to make it stand out. For a couple months, I scooped up the ejaculate from every orgasm and saved it in a plastic medicine bottle, to see how much I could accumulate. (Not much-it dried up pretty fast).

Masturbation became my torment and only relief. I masturbated in bed at night, in the shower, and outside in the fields and woods. On family vacations I'd tell the others to go on, I'd catch up with them. That way I could masturbate in the motel room, or in the family boat, parked on the access road to a lake. Nature hikes became missions in search of hidden bowers where I could pleasure myself privately in the glorious outdoors. By fifteen I was smoking marijuana so these excursions took on the dreamy air of spiritual journeys or rituals in a private religion of sex and nature. I carried supplies with me, including lotion, not only to lubricate my penis but also my anus, which I found responded pleasurably to penetration by one or more fingers. When I was particularly horny I would finger my asshole with deep, plunging thrusts, while stroking my erection back and forth so rapidly that it made slapping sounds in my palm. This always led to the most intense orgasms, for which I came prepared with a washcloth to clean up afterwards. After wiping up a copious ejaculation, I would lie on my back on the grass or the forest floor, and stare up the wide sky, wondering what life would offer me in the years to come.

Like most boys, though in my own special way, I was obsessed with my own body. When seventh grade gym class required a jockstrap I made wearing it alone in my room part of my preening self-love. (Its specific purpose, the protection of my genitals, aroused me, as did the way it left my ass exposed.) Measuring my cock with a ruler, I found it to be seven and a half inches long when fully erect. Sometimes I tested how long I could avoid touching myself (two weeks was the record, and how I suffered!) or for how long I could masturbate without coming. I spent hours writing lists of sexual words, and making secret drawings to conceal inside my journal-drawings of myself naked, mostly, and of my erect penis. I carved a little phallus out of wood, varnished it, and hid it in the woods as a talisman to recover on my frequent excursions. Inserting it into my anus, I found that it was too short to serve as an effective dildo, so I carved a longer one that gave me something to hold onto while poking it inside. As crazy as all of this seemed to me at time, I knew that my experience was normal because I had read so. I count myself lucky to have come of age after the sexual revolution, when accurate information had become available to those intelligent and curious enough to obtain it. Of course, I probably harbored some religious guilt about my animal nature, but it certainly didn't dominate me. It all felt too good and right.

I learned about sex wherever I could find something in print to fill in part of the mystery. The encyclopedia article on 'Sex,' well-worn and dog-eared from frequent consultations, merely said that when a man and woman lie close together, the penis is placed in the vagina to release sperm, causing pregnancy. And that young people must control their passions. Articles in my mother's magazines were informative, but not much more specific. Books in the public library offered a few choice items. Pornography occasionally surfaced among the boys in the neighborhood. Adventuring in the woods, we'd find weatherworn, ripped copies of Playboy, or if we were luckier, Penthouse, in which the models spread their legs wide open. Some even smuttier magazines would give me a hard-on but make me feel sick and furtive. I wished I had a collection of pornography to look at whenever I wanted. It had a powerful effect, turning all of my thoughts to sex, swelling my organs and causing my ass to ache with desire. After seeing a pornographic video for the first time at a friend's house I went home to my room and had an explosive, shout-inducing come, one of the strongest ever.

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