I've been lurking for months...felt like it was time to stop freeloading.
I discovered masturbation when I was 14. I had become interested in girls a few years before, but I was really introverted and didn't think about that kind of thing. My parents, my brother and I were camping in the mountains in a motorhome. My brother was outside in his tent, and the bunks had curtains for privacy. I was reading a book that was completely non-sexual, but happened to have a picture of a scantily clad woman. I didn't really notice as I got hard. I had gotten erections occasionally since grade school, but hadn't ever played with them. But this time, as I turned the page of my book, my hand brushed the tip of my erection through my PJs, and the effect was shocking. Instantly, I lost interest in the book, and decided to touch myself again to see if that wonderful sensation repeated itself. It did, and that was that.
Trying to be casual, I turned off my lamp, and shut my book, and tried to get myself into a comfortable position without making too much noise. I explored for a few minutes, and found that I got the best results by wrapping my hand around the shaft and sliding it up and down. I don't remember how long it took. It seemed like forever, and I was in ecstasy. Each stroke seemed to increase that wonderful feeling just a tiny bit more, and my body started moving of its own volition, especially my legs.
I remember thinking that what I was doing was probably a sin and I shouldn't be doing it, but I couldn't stop myself. Eventually, the pleasure got so intense I had to clench my teeth to keep from making any sound and waking up my parents. I was stroking as fast as I could, purely by instinct, and most of the world seemed to vanish. I felt like I was approaching some kind of culmination, and that I couldn't possibly get there fast enough. I kept expecting the next stroke to push me over some edge, but the pleasure just kept increasing.
Finally, it hit. My eyes flew open, and then clamped shut. My hips bucked up in the air, and my feet pushed down against the mattress to try and send the rest of my body with the hips. The pleasure was indescribable. It started between my legs, and spread to the top of my head and the tips of my toes. It was the most amazing thing I'd ever experienced.
And then the pain hit. Just as the orgasm had, an excruciating agony started between my legs, and my experience changed from enjoyable to horrifying in the space between heartbeats. The pleasure was still there, but the pain that came with it was overwhelming. Somehow, I managed to keep from screaming as the contractions in my pelvic muscles continued for the longest minute of my life, and I started breathing again when they started to subside and I realized the pain wouldn't last forever.
I was sure God was punishing me for masturbating, and I swore a sincere oath to never ever do it again. That oath lasted a good 24 hours, but the aftermath of my nightmare first orgasm has lasted since. I've masturbated frequently since that first night, but it has taken a heavy emotional toll at times. My parents never talked with me about sex as a teenager, because they assumed I would ask them about it sooner or later, but I got the sense from them that it was not a welcome topic. Ironically, I got the best relief from guilt when I would go to confession, and the priests always told me that it was perfectly normal for a boy my age, and that I shouldn't feel bad about it, that God had created sexuality and that it was a good, beautiful part of human existence. Somehow, though, I got mixed signals as the men who were telling me this were also living celibate lives for religious reasons. If sexuality was good, then why did God want his closest disciples to abstain for the rest of their lives?
Well, to make a long story short, the guilt feelings have played a large part in my struggles with depression over the past ten years, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel. A couple of months ago, while I was dealing with a severely debilitating depressive episode, it came to pass that my mom and I had a long talk about some things that were bothering me.
I told her the story I've just told you, and how angry and hurt I was that the one thing I'd most needed parental advice about was the one thing I didn't dare ask about. It was a significant revelation for her, and she was beside herself with sorrow that I had gone through that without her ever knowing.
We finally had the talk that we should have had when I was fourteen, and it made a huge difference. I found out that she didn't disapprove of masturbation at all, that she thought the Church's official position on it was complete nonsense, and that my sex drive had been inherited from her.
Since then, I've been approaching masturbation with a different perspective. One of my depression medications dampens sexual responses, but doesn't kill them. The result is that I can't come in less than an hour, and if I pace myself, it takes two or three hours. Needless to say, I have discovered the usefulness of personal lubricants (hey, a guy can only produce so much saliva!).
My climaxes are still nothing like they were when I was a teenager (thankfully, the intense pain went away after the first two or three times), but as my guilt continues to evaporate and I allow myself to feel the pleasure, they improve.