Not Quite Enough

by Monster Pete Sitting out on the deck in the morning with the sun hitting my stomach was enough for me to be quite satisfied. I had nowhere to be and no one else was home. Birds chirping and sprinklers dropping down after their morning spray kept me entertained. That is, until something stirred a bit lower down. It was something warm and inviting, something that I could build on and that would keep me satisfied if I pursued. I had to get out of the sun eventually, and my time came when my family got home. I walked through the house shirtless, and talked with my sister, but it felt awkward, my standing there feeling sexy and her at the end of the hall. So I went outside, to my room behind the garage and put on music, going out of my way to do nothing--it was as easy as slipping off the lounge pants I wore. I was excited by the view that crept into the bathroom mirror: my sleek body curving inward as I looked down its length, with hairs standing on end, lightly. I stroked without lubrication, but that was not enough. Why not grab my magazine? I retrieved a retro men’s mag from my shelf, took it from its bag and opened it. I stroked with one hand and held the mag with the other, but that was no fun. I wanted to place the mag on the sink but saw drops of water there, surely enough to stain the cover of the 1970-era magazine. But who cares, I thought to myself. I dropped the mag and excitedly flipped the pages, going from one fine-figured madame to the next, eagerly awaiting a change in style or form to enrich the experience. I could not settle. I read about the women and imagined them living their lives back in the 1970s. At one point I could not help think of the ladies as of my mother’s age at that time--a scary thought but true nonetheless. I don’t think my mother would ever have done what these women did, though. They were long-haired mostly, fuller figured, not unlike your average Playboy woman. One caught my attention, though, a Latin-American beauty. She was skinnier and prettier, with twice the pages devoted to her. Her name I forgot, but she looked so pleased to lie down naked on a couch, glancing backward as the photographer captured her curves. Soon I came repeatedly, filling my catch-glass with thrust after thrust of sex, laughing to myself at how I ever fretted about masturbation. The act was awesome. At one point, I thought about whether I was taking time away from my family by pursuing a solo act. But the music kicked in and reminded me: you are never alone.