The Tale of A Chronic Masturbator

 

At the tender age of six, I found my anatomy endlessly fascinating and I remember holding my mother's make-up mirror down below while I peed, to see exactly where it was all coming from. Such a revelation! Of course, I knew about the back office, because my older sister, who claimed to know everything, made jokes about 'where chocolate's made' all the time. When I asked her about the front, she just looked embarrassed, and said darkly, 'You'll see,' probably because she'd been at school when the Big Red Moment happened, and was mortified to have to do the walk of shame all the way home wearing a giant maxi pad.

I was still in the single digits when I embarked on an intimate relationship with the front seam of some denim shorts that got snug after too many times in the dryer. Strange and not unpleasant feelings announced themselves, and by the end of the summer my mother was asking if I was ever going to wear anything else. It was too late, I had discovered the magic button that opened the honey pot, and there was just no turning back. Most nights, lying in bed on my stomach, my head buried sideways in the pillow with my mouth wide open and my ass in the air, both hands were busy teasing the kitty until I was sore from playing solitaire.

I had no idea why it felt so good, and I thought that maybe I was the only person in the world who did it, until I went to sleep over at a friend's house. Late at night, and thinking that I was dead to the world, she was letting her fingers do the walking right there. I listened in utter fascination as her breathing got harder and faster while she basted the tuna. She tried to hold her breath for the big finish and failed miserably, before looking over at me red faced with her fingers still filling the pink taco and seeing my eyes like saucers.

Panting, she said, "What? Don't you do that?"

I said, "Sure, except for the last bit".

"Oh", she said, "that's the payoff, it's called an organ something, my big sister told me about it".

"Show me", I said.

"Oh, you just keep scratching where it itches until it happens", was the reply, and I realized that I just hadn't been tickling the kitty long enough.

We laid there and slapped our cracks as hard as we could, and she exploded again, but I wasn't far behind. Then her mother knocked on the door to see why the ceiling joists downstairs were squeaking, and we had to cool it. We spent the next morning giggling until it was time for me to go home.

When I got back, my sister was in the living room reading a book. "Can I ask you something", I said, "have you ever touched yourself down there?"

And she called me disgusting as the book whizzed past my head. 'OK', I thought, 'there's something strange going on, it feels so good and she won't talk about it'.

I went upstairs to check whether squeezing the peach was still working, and to my surprise, it was. Soon, any hard surface would do, and once when I was supposed to be practicing the piano, there I was, up against the leg, rubbing the magic lamp. "Kind of quiet in there!" yelled my mother, through the door. I quickly sat down and started to murder Mozart with one hand while keeping the rhythm in my pants with the other.

The dining table leg, the bannister rail, the edge of any door, all were fair game when the house was empty as props for doodling the noodle. I started wearing dresses for easier access.

"Well", said my father, "she's becoming a little lady".

My sister, who was seven years older, had figured out what was going on because she had been groped by a supposedly nice boy on a double date at a drive in movie, and had been going around with a confused look.

"I know what you're doing", she said when we were alone, "and if you don't stop touching yourself you'll go blind and die of an awful disease".

Horrified, I made a special trip to the reference section at the library to see if she was right. The family computer was out of the question, because one time when I looked up some choice four-letter words I had heard at school, my father quietly took me aside and demonstrated the history feature of the browser. I was relieved to discover that the only thing my little hobby was going to do was make me sore if I spent too much time beating around the bush.

As I dragged myself through puberty, I was deepening my pleasure with the discovery of the two-fingered slot rhumba, and developed a relationship with certain appropriately contoured pieces of fruit that filled the bill as I dug for gold. Then out of the blue, I was enlisted for a double date with a BF, who was clearly developmentally way ahead of me. "We're telling them it's a movie", she said, tossing her head toward the kitchen where her mother was cleaning up after dinner, "but his parents are out of town, and the place is empty".

"OK", I said.

When the Big Night arrived, we were dropped at the theater with strict instructions to call for a ride as soon as the movie was over. My friend had another type of ride in mind, and as soon as we got to the guy's house, aka the scene of the crime, my friend and her date disappeared upstairs and I was left to make awkward conversation with his decent enough, but obviously nervous friend who'd been dragged in to complete the deception.

"You can kiss me if you like", I said, and he certainly gave it his best effort, but I decided to terminate that little activity because he tasted like onions. He got up his courage and touched my boob. The other end of the titty-clitty hotline picked up right away on the first ring.

"Mmmm", I said, "that's nice", but he was clumsily making a sweaty spot on the front of my top, and I was about to tell him to cool it when he groaned and said, "Oh, no!" and looked down.

"Oh", I said, "you wet yourself, eeew!"

"No", he said, "it's, you know", and I said, "No, I don't".

He explained it to me and I finally understood the guy version of banging the box. He went off to dry things up, and I just sat there with my mouth open in complete confusion, not even petting the poodle, which was my normal reaction to stress. I didn't have brothers, but I'd seen my father naked once in the bathroom. I can’t explain why I never made the Tab A and Slot B connection, even after the fruit experiment, so just call me Evian spelled backwards. My friend came downstairs trailing her sheepish looking date, and shot me this look like, I'll tell you later. We made it back to the theater in time and hung out waiting for our ride, deciding whether we'd liked a movie we'd never seen in case of interrogation.

The next day at school, she was dying to tell me how they groped around for a while, but then he was too eager, and guess what? I finished her sentence for her. "What is it with guys", she said, "it's all slimy condoms and over too soon". I told her about my little addiction, how I just drifted from climax to climax as I dialed the rotary phone as many times as I liked, toll free.

"You think that's better?" she said, "I've only done it a couple of times".

"Try it", I said, "paddling the pink canoe on your own ain't so bad . . ."

The teen years dragged by, but I avoided romantic complications and put all my energy into double clicking the mouse, both the hardware and software variety. By now I was seventeen and looking forward to college. Inevitably for the last few years I had started to fantasize while I was driving Ms. Daisy, and my mind kept wandering to a girl I knew who was what my mother called 'Different'. Her clothes, her conversation, everything about her seemed fascinating. During my last summer in high school, I ran into her at a party where, as they say, alcohol was involved and we got talking about the usual stuff.

"Men!" she said, "they make me crazy".

'Hmm', I thought, 'I've heard this before', but up to this point I still hadn't seen a penis in action, or at all, come to think of it, at all, so I asked her to elaborate.

"Oh", she said, "it's all promises, then as soon as you put out, it's guys calling you to see if you'll, well, you know . . ."

She looked pretty upset. I said, "here", and pulled out a Kleenex so she could blow her nose. Then, to my complete surprise, she leaned over and kissed my cheek.

"You're cool", she said, "and you don't seem to be bothered by much".

"I guess I'm not", I said, and she put her arm around me and kissed me again.

"That's nice", I said, "should we head out?"

Well, we did. Now I thought I was an expert at buttering the muffin, but the novelty of having someone else drive opened up a whole new world. It thrilled me to no end. We spent the rest of the summer sliding into home at every opportunity. I was an definitely expert at fluffing my own kitty, but a different angle is the cream on the pie. She introduced me to the joy of muff diving, and we spent hours with our heads squeezed between each other’s thighs to see who could hold out the longest. I was introduced to the butterfly, the strapon and the double ended dildo, but what appealed more than anything was being close to someone who knew exactly how to spank the puppy on the nose.

We reluctantly parted in the fall, she went off to art school in London, and I to an Ivy League on the East Coast, where life opened up and changed magically. A long way from home, I made a deal with myself that I would study and party in proportion, and I managed it pretty well. I had spent a lot of time and effort getting there, and after a false start with a wild child, I was rewarded with a roommate in my freshman year who seemed to have dropped out of heaven. We explored Pi at length in the classroom and the version with only two digits in the bedroom.

We weren't seen much outside of classes as both sets of parents demanded academic results, and when I invited her to come home with me during the first break, my mother figured it all out without any discussion and told me that they expected to see a lot more of us. My sister, now unhappily married, took me aside and told me again how disgusting she thought I was.

"OK", I said, "if you'd checked the muffler more often, your life might have turned out differently", but as I expected, she didn't have a clue what I was talking about.

Back in academia, we constantly explored the joys of mutual cleaning between the camel's toes late into the cold winter evenings. I still had my alone time, though, and I always sent myself muffin morse code while reading a book or making notes. It seemed like no time before the four years were up and we kissed goodbye; I went back to the Left Coast and a career that promised to keep me in the style to which I wanted to become accustomed.

She had, of all things, got married, but I was very happy for her, and actually liked the guy when I met him, and agreed to be their maid of honor. Of course, there was a second, unofficial wedding night where we parted the corned beef curtains not long after the first one. I don't have a jealous bone in my body, and I was so happy for them, and we stay in touch. I just kept on beavering away working and shining the diamond, and my life settled down. But one morning, sitting outside at Starbucks drinking coffee, I ran into my old high school friend again. "I'm back", she said.

"Well", I asked, "how was it?"

It's quite a few years later, and she's still telling me. When we're not twinkling the little star, that is . . .

 

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14.12.12