Solosexuality

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Craigslist

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Am I An Addict?

My interest in sex and sexuality is so acute that it was just a matter of time before I asked myself that dreaded question:  Am I a sex addict?  And since I like to throw back some beer while being sexual, am I an alcoholic on top of it?

Here’s what my sex life is like:  I like to masturbate every single day, and usually for at least 3 hours at a pop (pardon the pun).  This has been my pattern for years.  As for sex with others, for a long time it centered around internet or bar hook ups, just on weekends.  I had no desire for a relationship, lived alone and liked it (still do).  Interestingly, now that I live in a city where sex is easily accessible, I’m less compelled to hook up.  There are more enticing ways to be with men, such as the monthly orgies that I have been attending.  The more the merrier! 

So if masturbation is my most regular form of sex play, could I be addicted to it and its accoutrements (porn and booze)?  One could be, yes.  One definition of sex addiction I read was that sex becomes a problem if you are using it to avoid issues in your life that need to be dealt with, or if you are trying to mask pain you’re feeling through sex.  It reminds me of the movie Shame, in which the main character uses sex in this way.  But I conversely can’t be sexual if I have an outstanding issue in my life that needs resolution.

Here’s how it works:  I get home from a job where I give my best, and come home and deal with laundry, dishes, grocery shopping and making calls to loved ones.  On a weeknight, I try to have this all accomplished by 7 PM.  Then I unapologetically turn off the phone, turn on some music and allow myself to get turned on.  It’s Jason time.

Tell me something:  Should this be pathologized?  Is it because it’s about the oh-so-scary topic of sex that we pathologize it?  Is it not pathological to watch a movie every night?  To read a book in bed for hours at a time?  Why is your hobby ok and mine a sickness?  Are we pathologizing our behavior based on cultural norms and cultural fears only?

I researched further and found that some types of sexual addiction include:  compulsive fixation on an unattainable partner, compulsive love relationships, even compulsive sexuality within a relationship.  Well, this is everyone I know except for Sister Helen at the local parish.  Behavior that signals sex addiction is usually of the sort that goes against your values.  In one article I read, it said that many clients seeking help for an addiction to masturbation "report that their internal beliefs about masturbation are that the act itself is dirty, shameful, or sinful".  But as you can tell from my writing, I value my sexuality.  I had to fight hard to get here.  To get to my current worldview of sexuality, I had to unravel all the things I was taught (explicitly and implicitly) around sexuality.  Do I feel distressed about my sexual behavior?  No.  I feel distressed, though, by the opinions others might have about it.

Is it not possible perhaps that at least some of those who seek treatment for so-called sexual addiction are simply those who unnecessarily feel guilty about sex, masturbation and porn, and would benefit more from learning to accept that they are highly sexual and see it as a gift?

I am not at all disregarding the fact that sexual behavior can in many instances interfere with a healthy life.  As in the movie Shame, if sex is the recourse taken to avoid dealing with personal issues, then “Houston, we have a problem”.  At the same time, what if your edging sessions are done after you’ve attended to your emotional and literal responsibilities?  What if the three hours you would spend to go out to the movies is replaced by going online for some sex chat?  There are a lot of bad movies out there, folks.

The sexual addict often must lie or sneak in order to act out sexually.  I lie and sneak a bit too because as open as I am, I’m not open enough to say what I really want to say to friends and family: “Listen, I’m going to be self-pleasuring between the hours of 7 and 10.  The phone will be off.  But I will get back to you first thing in the morning.”

So I had to ask myself, am I in denial?  A few months ago, I tried a little experiment:  I decided I would try for two weeks to not drink during masturbation during the weekdays.  I would only drink on a Friday or a Saturday night bate session.  The first night, without booze to fuel my bate, I just couldn’t be bothered.  I bated for two minutes and gave up.  Instead, I transferred my desire and went to McDonald’s.  Not good.

The next night I tried masturbating again, without booze, and it was pretty terrific.  But porn fueled the event.  I wondered if I now needed to try bating without porn because maybe I was a porn addict.  Sigh.  How far would I go with this thinking?  Would I no longer be able to bate in front of the mirror because maybe I was a narcissist? How much would I have to take away, how short would my bate session have to be to not consider myself addicted.  There is a saying that a slut is anyone who has more sex than you do.  How would I ever know when too much was too much?

When Friday and Saturday hit, I let myself do my usual thing – I poured myself some whisky and bated away.  It felt odd to be under the hypnotic trance of booze combined with horniness again after a few days of sober jacking.  I felt that with booze, it was almost as if another force was driving my sexual car rather than I.

Then it unraveled.  Sunday night I was not intending to drink while bating, but I did.  On Monday, feeling guilty (there’s that word again) for drinking while jacking on Sunday, I didn’t jack or drink at all, but was oh so productive.  I read in bed, but had that feeling of “isn’t there something I should be doing?”

Since I wasn’t drinking as much, my liquor supply was stretching.  I began to worry that the cashiers at the liquor store would start wondering if I was ok or had been in a terrible accident.  I wasn’t buying as much liquor and began to worry about the economy.  I questioned myself:  Had I ever been arrested for public intoxication?  No.  Had I ever pissed the bed because I drank too much the night before?  Yes, but I’m a watersports lover, so I’m not sure that this is such a bad thing, especially when you have a fantastic mattress cover that you bought online from Fort Troff.  Had I drunkenly phoned anyone late at night and started the conversation with “...And you know what your fuckin’ problem is?”  No.

Suffice to say I threw the whole experiment out the window, continuing though to wonder if I had a problem.  I had read an article on sex and masturbation addiction and it was there that I’d gotten the idea to at least scale back my edging.  The article had suggested that one try to abstain from sex and masturbation for a month and to note the feelings one had had.  I couldn’t carry out this experiment for a week.  But fast forward to my present situation...

As of this writing, I have been living in Toronto for two weeks, having moved from Montreal.  And I am not living alone.  My sister and I have temporarily moved in together, to split costs, and I am sleeping in the living room.  I am living the movie Shame wherein the protagonist’s sister comes to stay and interrupts his sex habits.  I have no privacy whatsoever.  Now, her work often takes her travelling, and I’m longing for that work of hers to begin, but in the meantime, there is no jacking.  Why don’t I quickly rub one out in the shower you ask?  It’s just not my style.  If I can’t edge for a minimum of three hours, I won’t bother.  I’m just not satisfied with a quickie.  Sometimes me and my sister will share a bottle of wine, but that’s a far as the drinking goes.  My feeling is “Why drink?” if it’s not going to be accompanied by my hand (or someone else’s hand) on my dick.  The move was costly, so I can’t just hit the bars or bathhouses to pick up a trick.  I have to make do.

So how am I doing with this abstaining from lack of sexual activity?  I’m a bit grouchy but try not to let it show;  otherwise, I’m holding out until my sister starts travelling for work.  I’m getting more writing done and working out more, which admittedly makes me happy.  Today I’m going to sort through receipts since it’s tax time.  How exciting!  I’m more caught up with emails than ever before.  My friends have no idea why.

And so it goes. In the future, I will continue to keep one eye open for signs that I’m taking it too far with my sexual behavior.  On the other hand, perhaps a sense of humor about it all would be a nice change from the constant self-analyzing.  I did the online research for this essay on sex addiction hours before going out the door to the above-mentioned orgy! 

So for now, this is my message to You:  It’s 6:30 PM.  So if You want to chat on the phone, best call me now.  You’ve got until 7.  Then I’m going to have to excuse myself to spend a little time with myself.  I’ve spent all day attending to others, attending to the necessities of life.  But now Jason needs a little attention.  I’m not going to get all high and mighty on myself about this.  I’m the kind of guy who likes to throw back a beer and get naked – sue me.  One man on Xtube writes in his profile “I am a cock worshipping sex addict and fucking happy to be one.”  I laughed so hard in recognition and thought to myself that if I and he are sex addicts, oh well...forgive us.

Cock Sucking

Who doesn’t love cock sucking!  Evidently, some people don’t.  Even some gay men.  But I love it.   There are those that make it an Olympic sport.  I played with one guy who claimed to have sucked a guy’s cock for ten hours straight, with breaks only for meals and the bathroom.  In another essay of mine about an orgy in Berlin, I recounted seeing two hot men, each on a podium, with a line-up of men in front of them all waiting their short turn to suck the cocks of the exalted studs.  And what’s better than one in your mouth but two or more!  It’s a challenge, so you have to roll up your proverbial sleeves and hunker down.

But it’s not always so simple.  I’ve sucked a few dicks that smelled downright bad.  I don’t mean the hot, musky odor of a hard-workin’ man.  I’m talking stench.  However!  There are some men out there looking for that perfect unwashed dick.  (I remember blowing a guy in New York City once who didn’t have any discernible scent at all, which is very rare, isn’t it?).

I think cocks are like snowflakes – they all look alike and yet are vastly individual.  Big, small, cut, uncut, they’re all wonders.  Now, I do like to suck a cock that’s hairy, but if you’re shaved or trimmed, I’m not going to kick you out of bed at all.

Deep throating is going to be a challenge if you have a gag-reflex.  Sometimes I’m fine, and can get the cock all the way down and hold it there.  I usually want to shout at these moments “Look at me go!”, but all that comes out is “oo a e o”.  However, once, and only once, I did something we who love getting face-fucked fear happening.  I threw up on the dick.  It wasn’t a lot, just a little bit of puke – just enough to look up at my partner and say “My bad.”  But even this has been fetishized by some.  I had a Master who told me that he liked hearing me gag - it meant I was working hard.  I learned from him not to fear the gag so much.

“If I could suck my own dick, I’d never leave the house!”  How many times have we heard this joke?   I, with my inflexible body, have managed this just a handful of times.  I would flip my legs over my head and just get the tip in, licking just beyond the head.  But on Xtube, there are men that are so gifted at this that they deserve a special place in porn, whether professional or amateur.  Your ability to do this should not be left off of your online dating profile fellas!

Do I like getting sucked?  Oh yes, but would you concur with me when I say that not all men are that great at it?  (We have to keep this a secret because straight women depend on our advice in this matter and we have a reputation to protect.  On further reflection, if we keep teaching women how to do it right, how are we going to continue bagging the straight men that turn to us in desperation?)   Now, I dated one man who had this tremendous trick with his tongue.  While sucking me, he would flick his tongue on the underside of my cock head.  His mouth would be going in one direction, his tongue in another.  But I’ve also been with men who scraped me with their teeth, which causes one to flinch.  And it’s more than just about the physical act of moving a mouth up and down a cock.  It’s the attitude behind it.  There’s nothing better to me than an aggressive cock sucker, who tells me how it’s going to be: “I’m gonna suck you off so hard you’re fucking head is going to spin, get me?” Or, “Face-fuck me until I gag on it.”  These men must be appreciated and kept on speed dial. 

A Master I played with (the same one who liked to hear me gag) liked to hear me try to speak while sucking him.  To him, this represented total dedication on my part.  Our dick-sucking sessions took an hour at least.  He would begin by letting me just look at his dick, right up close near my face.  He would stroke, I would visually and verbally worship.  Finally, agonizingly, he would let me kiss the head of his cock.  There were times when this was all I got, and for an hour, I’d be aching with such desire that I would experience a type of body orgasm just from the anticipation of what I would be allowed to do next.  When I was deserving, and he was feeling generous, I would be allowed to take it in my mouth, maybe just for a moment.  Then I would go back to staring at it an inch from my mouth.  At this point, I was fit to be tied.  The times he let me suck him for a long while, I took advantage of this privilege and was a greedy pig.  He would face-fuck me and I would concentrate on his pleasure which was my pleasure.  He was a feeder, and I would happily get a load at the end down my throat.

The Master took the most common act of cock sucking and turned it into an art.  So, tell me, how do you like it?

 

 

 

Xtube.com

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Booze

“One last drink, please.”  Last words on deathbed, Jasper Newton “Jack” Daniel (1849-1911, American distiller and founder of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey Distillery).

The orgy was BYOB.  And so, at home, I located three empty Gatorade bottles and filled them with Jack Daniels and coke, my absolute favorite drink.  I put them in my back sack, along with the other things one should always bring to an orgy: condoms, lube, poppers, some water, a tab of Viagra, and tic tacs to be oh so fresh.

The orgy was invite only.  I’d been to one of them before, the month previous.  It had been held at a bathhouse in the Village, where they had cordoned off a section for the orgy invites.  But tonight, for the first time, the organizers had found a space in a warehouse for the party.

I showed up at 11:30 PM and was greeted by Dominic, one of the organizers, who gave me a kiss and to whom I paid the $20 entrance fee.  Dominic, a bearded leather dude in his thirties, had flogged me at the previous orgy – something I’d never before experienced.  He promised to give me some new experiences tonight and pointed me in the direction of the coat racks.  To my surprise, just left of Dominic, were two men from a local safe-sex organization, standing at a table filled with safe-sex brochures and lots of condoms and lube.  They were there to answer any questions we might have about how to play safe and I thought, This is damn well organized.

At the coat racks, I hung up my winter coat and started to undress.  This orgy had a strict dress code: leather, rubber, jocks or you could be completely naked (“No deodorants or cologne please!”).  Tonight I would be wearing a leather jock, a leather ballcap, army boots and my black rubber wristband that sported two yellow stripes indicating my penchant for watersports.

I grabbed the first of the three bottles I’d brought of Jack and coke and headed into the main area.  It was tricked out with BDSM equipment I don’t even know the names for.  The room was dimly lit with a red sleazy glow, and a blue strobe light flashed psychedelic patterns along the far wall.  A cage was set to the right.  The room was already populated with about eight men, and we each found a spot to pose and preen, to eye each other and sip from the drinks we’d all brought.

I stayed that night for three hours.  The room only filled to about a maximum of twenty men, and I regret to inform you that I didn’t really feel attracted to most of them.  In attendance was a slave owned by the organizers.  He wore a sign that said if we wanted to play with him, we needed permission from the organizers.  Dominic’s partner, Cory, gave me this permission.  I approached the slave and...we talked.  I have a distinct need to know that my sex partner is attracted to me in order to have fun, and I felt that if I played with the slave, he would be doing it out of duty rather than pleasure.  In hindsight, perhaps that’s the key:  perhaps his duty was his pleasure.  But instead, I interviewed him about what it meant to be a slave, what his life was like.  Our conversation intrigued me, though I wonder if he questioned who let this leather-wearing Barbara Walters into the party.

By the second Jack and coke, I was sufficiently inebriated enough to doff my leather jock and enjoy the sensation of simply walking around naked, save for the leather ball cap and boots.  I watched men get fisted and fucked.  I dipped my toe in the water by letting my hands caress men as they caressed me.  But it was Dominic who came through for me in the end.  At my third Jack and coke, Dominic found me and led me to a separate room where he tied my stiff cock and balls up with a soft, forty-foot long rope.  Once it was completely tied, he pulled fast on the rope and it quickly unravelled, which set my cock bouncing and vibrating.  The sensation was one of pleasure and pain.  The slave joined the room and Dominic slipped on a condom and began to fuck him, while I sat on the floor licking the slave’s balls (his cock was locked up in a chastity device).  After a moment, I stood and the slave took my cock in his mouth.  Dominic pulled out of the slave, took off the condom, and made me suck him off.  With his cock in my mouth, he let go a stream of piss.  Like a champ, I devoured every single drop.

I left soon after.  I had to walk home, as the subway had stopped running by that point, but I didn’t live so far – just the equivalent of three subway stops.  When I reached home though, did I go to bed?  No sir, I did not.  I poured another Jack and coke.

At the orgy, I’d taken half a Viagra, just for insurance against nerves getting the better of me.  I’d also brought my trusty pill bottle filled with a week’s worth of cum, in case I had a notion to play with it at the orgy.  But that didn’t happen.  So now at home, I decided to continue the party alone, downed the second half of the Viagra and started to edge, pouring the cum over my face and pits and cock.

How many drinks did I consume before I finally hit the bed?  I don’t know, but I do know that in the wee hours of the morning, I was lying in a wet spot.  Evidently, I’d pissed the bed.  Tragic?  Not so much.  I have a cover for the mattress for piss play anyway.  I had been having erotic dreams, and only half awake, my hard dick made its presence known.  I lazily rolled onto my stomach, pressing my cock into the wet sheets.

But this is the turning point.  When you wake up soaked in your own piss after a bacchanalian night of revelry, you have to decide whether to feel shameful about it, or to feel that you’ve simply had quite a wild night.  I chose the latter and fell back to sleep.

When I awoke at three in the afternoon, I was hung over, but not of the headache variety.  I was rather still drunk.  And more to the point, I was intensely horny.  I got up and put on the kettle for some coffee to bring me back to the sober Jason that had to return phone calls and iron his work clothes for the week.  But while waiting for the water to boil, wearing only my underwear, I pressed my cock against the edge of the kitchen counter and I knew that my ironing would have to wait.

I was in a delicious booze haze and my cock wanted my full attention.  Now I was the slave, and rubbing my cock felt like an emergency.  I checked the fridge – all out of cola.  But I had lots of Jack.  Jumping in the shower, I rushed to ready myself to go out into the world for a brief, alcohol-dazed moment.  I ran – not walked, ran – to the grocery store kitty corner to my apartment block and bought cola and ran back to my apartment where I hastily poured a drink, shed my clothes, lit a cigarette, turned on some heavy metal, and positioned myself in front of the mirror.  I had everything I needed to edge, and I readied myself for that first, cataclysmic grab of my crotch.  In a hypnotic state, I rubbed my hand around my crotch over and over and over again, watching this in the mirror, in a state of religious ecstasy.  It was a communion with the earth, with my cock, my brain, my cock, the universe, my cock, my male brothers, my cock, my soul, my cock, my infinity.  Hyperbole, you ask?  If only.   I thought of the events at the orgy and it was as if the memory of the night was more powerful to me than the actual experience of it.

I eventually lost my erection, changed the sheets on my bed and fell into a twelve hour sleep.  Awaking for work the next morning, I felt still a little out of it, but not too bad.  Once again, while waiting for water to boil, I pressed my crotch against the kitchen counter and thought to myself “What a weekend.”

But a lost weekend?  Or did I find something?  What I experienced on that weekend was not a regular event that occurs every week.  Even still, I had to start asking questions (as is my wont).  Am I an alcoholic?  I only drink when my cock is involved.  If I go out to dinner with friends, I have no desire for a drink, since it’s a social occasion and not a cock occasion. 

But alcohol is part of every jack off, every sex experience.  So is alcohol just a tool I use to support my sex addiction?  Sex addiction is too large a subject to discuss in this essay.  I will come back to that another time.  The bottom line is that booze fuels my sexuality.  Why is it that when watching porn sober, it all seems fairly ridiculous.  When sober, I see the performers and wonder if they are happy and safe, whether they are only in it for the money or whether they get any pleasure from performing.  When drinking, it’s all hot and horny.

Years ago, I had sex with a man who was a recovering alcoholic.  He welcomed me to drink until I was hammered, as he put it.  I asked him if he missed drinking during sex and he said that sober sex was so much better.  I’m still not sure if I understand how that could be.  Is it that you can be fully present in a way you aren’t when drinking?  Are you more apt when sober to feel a truer connection to your partner?  Does alcohol give one the impression of loosening you up when really it shuts something down?

Most of the topics for this blog occur to me when I’m having a drink and masturbating.  The little booklet I write my ideas down in is stained with lube, my pens all sticky.  But I always write these essays sober.  Sober now as I write, I wonder if I’m peering into the rabbit hole by letting alcohol be such a steadfast part of my sexual behavior.  Or have I already fallen in?  Addiction, to sex, to alcohol, are topics to discuss later.  For now I leave you with this...

Jack Daniel never married, never had children.  And so I wonder – was he an earlier incarnation of a man like me?

That's Life!

1)      You’re sitting back in the tub and a hot guy is standing above you, trying to piss.  He’s a bit piss shy, but you’re an expert at this.  You talk dirty to him, goading him to release his golden shower on you because you want it oh so bad.  “Mark your territory, man.....I need it....right on my fuckin’ face.....fuck man, I can’t wait to see that piss shoot outta that hot dick....”  And on it goes.  But there comes a point when you just run out of things to say.  You’re spent.  Even you can only manage “I’m your cum eating whore” so many times with feeling.   So you fall silent.  And lo and behold, he pisses!  Eureka!  That’s when a troubling thought hits you – he was probably just too polite of a fellow to tell you what he was thinking – to shut the hell up.

 

2)      Speaking of piss:  You get a text message from a guy asking if you’re free tonight for a hook-up.  You have no idea who this person is, and ask for his name.  He texts it and still, you are stumped.  You text back, saying sorry, the name isn’t ringing a bell.  He texts back with “You pissed on me and then fucked me.”  You’re still stumped because, hell, that could be anybody...

 

3)      Speaking of piss some more:  Carter and you have played and gone to bed (you’re letting him stay the night because he had too much to drink and he lives far).  In the middle of the night, he stirs and gets up and wobbles.  “Carter, are you ok?” you ask, but he doesn’t respond.  He lurches forward and winds up on the couch, which faces the bed.  He is looking in my general direction, but not really at me, and I realize he is sleepwalking.  He stands again, and I know very well not to startle a sleep walker, so I say gently, “It’s ok Carter, come back to bed, come this way...”  He gets off the couch clumsily and stumbles near the bed and then stops.  And pisses, all over the carpet.  I just watch with resignation – there is nothing I can do.  When he goes in the morning, I will be on my knees scrubbing.

 

4)      Speaking of my carpet some more...Ok, so you have a cold.  Is that going to keep you from an edging session?  Hell no!  Because tonight is special.  You’ve saved up a week’s worth of loads in a pill bottle and you’re going to play with it.  A strange fetish?  Not on Xtube!  You’re hard, you’ve had a drink, and this is the moment.  You open the pill bottle and take a whiff of the cum.  The smell is both that of bleach and manhood, and it smells divine.  The trouble is, the smell prompts a sneeze, during which you lose control of the pill bottle and the contents go flying onto the carpet.  My poor, beleaguered carpet – how much more can it take?  There is nothing hotter than watching a grown man with a hard on sniffling and scrubbing cum out of a carpet.

 

5)      You’re at the bathhouse, feeling like a million bucks.  You walk the halls and you know everyone there wants you.  Even the hot guy you just passed who didn’t make eye contact with you at all – he’s just shy, poor thing.  You ponder how he was probably intimidated by your sexual energy.  Thinking this, you suddenly feel your footing lose itself, and you realize minutes too late that you didn’t notice a step that was in front of you, and you trip.  Alpha male becomes bottom bitch in two seconds flat!

 

6)      You know you live in a gay village when you move into a new apartment block find out that your neighbour is a past trick.  A trick that called you for more and whom you never responded to.  A few nights later while out at the bar, you meet a hot guy who asks to take you home.  You discover that he lives in your block, and not only that, in the suite above you.  So you’re the guy who flushes at 3 AM on the dot each night!  You hesitate about going to his apartment for fun, because, after all, you shouldn’t shit where you eat, right?  But then you consider that the walk of shame home will be very short so what the hell....

 

Masturbation

They say that for a drug addict, it's never as good as the first time.  Try being addicted to masturbation - it's always like the first time.

Everyone has a hobby.  I have a buddy, who, after a hard day of work, loves to come home to a bowl of popcorn and hours of taped TV shows.  Another friend takes her dog three times a week to the agility barn to watch Buster jump through hoops.  All very socially acceptable.  When I am asked what my hobbies are, it’s easy to spout out the usual – “I love to read!  I go to museums!  I play scrabble!”  But you, dear, lucky Reader, get to hear the truth.

I can out-masturbate anyone anytime anywhere.  I’ve got it down to an art, and Dear Reader, at present I’m finding that sex with another can’t compare.  My jack-off sessions are so fulfilling, that another person in the room would just be in my way.  And I need minimum three hours or else I won’t bother.  During sex with myself, I have no inhibitions, no qualms about what someone will think of me, I can be a total freak, I can be completely unselfconscious.  I can dance in the mirror for hours with my hands down my pants.  I can look in the mirror, one hand holding a Jack and Coke, the other a cigarette, and call myself a fuckin’ cum-lickin’ whore.  You know that pill bottle full of saved cum in the fridge?  Pour it on yourself.  Drink a glass of piss.  Sniff your pits. Spit on your chest.  Love the fact you’ve got a full bush when gay magazines say to trim it.  Be the cock of the block and do things you’re not sure you could really pull off with someone else watching.  Consume major amounts of porn.  All the while amazed at the gift that sexuality is.  There is a narcissistic element to this kind of self-love, but it makes up for all the times I doubted myself or felt inferior (or...does it stem from that?).  And it’s not a substitute for the “real thing”.  This is real. It always feels like the first time. It’s a date with myself, wherein I shower first, turn on the music, dim the lighting, set up any sex toys I might want to play with.  To me, it’s a valid as any other date I’ve ever been on.  Except I never get stood up this way.

Why can’t I just do this in private and shut up about it?  Why do I have to write about it for god’s sake? Why write this blog at all?  The answer is simple: Anger.  I’m angry that as a religious teenager, I used to masturbate for 10 minutes and then pray for forgiveness for half an hour afterwards.  The fear I had about sexuality in my youth was abominable.  Masturbation is not self-abuse, the needless guilt is.

I’m angry that some people would think a three-hour jack off is time wasted.  Is self-love a waste of time?  I think it beats Scrabble any day.

I’m angry that we all masturbate and can’t talk about it except through jokes.  But why must I share the dirty details?  Because we need to know that we’re not alone in our kinks.  Secrets lead to shame.  This blog is an attempt to shatter the hypocrisy around something that is a gift to be celebrated.  I’m also just plain curious – I like to know what gets other people off.  If it’s safe and sane and between consenting adults, how did it come to be that we can’t talk about it?  Why, after eating the apple in the garden of eden did Adam and Eve clothe themselves for shame?  I was not explicitly taught that masturbation was wrong, but as a teenager, I inferred it.  How did that happen, I wonder, just as I wonder where our fear of spiders, most of which are harmless, comes from?  And look at what repression does:  My adolescent guilt has spawned an adult that writes a sex blog.

But I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t admit that, after I cum, a touch of the old-brain guilt slips in.  And then I wonder if three hours jerking off isn’t excessive.  Am I addicted to jacking?  I’m a responsible person, working and caring for friends and family.  Can’t I have this without guilt?

Writing this blog entry is the last task of a long day for me.  It’s almost time to reward myself with my nightly jack-off ritual.  But a worrisome thought nags at me:  Why do I seem to believe that I can’t be as uninhibited sexually with another person as I am with myself?  What would it take to be that free with a man?  The joy with masturbating alone is that my happiness, fulfillment and self-esteem doesn’t depend on another.

After I post this, I will, in four hours, be a puddle of sweat, piss and cum.  What are YOU doing tonight?  Playing Scrabble?

This Is Horniness

This is horniness.

At the gym, a tall, dark and handsome drink of water is doing bench presses, and every time he pushes up, his dark, hairy pits are on display – over and over and over again.  He’s in shorts, and his legs are hairy too.  You wonder about his bush, and quickly grab hold of yourself before someone catches you gawking.

This is horniness.

You’re at the leather bar, drunk, and pissing into a urinal.  Even though there are lots of urinals, another guy pulls up at the urinal right next to yours and whips it out.  You are two men displaying your manhood and checking out the equipment.  You look up at him and smile, because you are both horny pigs, you “get it”, and you respect it.

This is horniness.

You started a night of edging by stripping and dancing in front of your mirror – just mildly drunk.  By the fifth hour of watching porn, you’re wasted and hunched over the computer, a sad sack of a man beating it like it owes you money.  You edge it really close and then stop.   You think you are amazing and all powerful, even though you are a hot mess.

This is horniness.

You walk by a bathhouse on your way to meet a buddy at a coffeeshop.  The smell of towels being laundered drives you crazy and you know that talking about anything other than sex is going to bore the hell out of you.  Luckily your friend is also a slut. 

This is horniness.

You’ve met a Master, who starts off by only letting you get your face close to his dick and looking at it.  When he thinks you deserve it, you get to kiss it.  The lights are low, and the punk rock music he loves plays.  You start to quiver.  It’s a half hour before he lets you take his dick in your mouth.  When he does, you have a strange sort of body orgasm and beg for more.  After another half hour, he feeds you his cum because you are deserving and he is generous.

This is horniness.

You are chatting online with a guy you once hooked up with years ago.  You are talking about yet another guy that you’ve both slept with separately.  He tells you that he watched that guy get gangbanged bare in the back of a pick-up truck.  Half your brain asks why he took the risk of unsafe sex.  The other part of your brain is jealous.

This is horniness.

You meet a guy online who wants to come over at 4 in the morning.  You know he could be a killer, could try to rob you blind.  But you will risk it to be naked with a man.  So you hide your wallet and wait for him, half hoping he doesn’t show up.

This is horniness.

Nervous as hell, on a trip to Amsterdam, you enter a popular bar with a backroom.  After a couple drinks, you take off your tank top, hook it into your belt, and head to the backroom and proceed to blow a crowd of four men facing you.  Nearly simultaneously, they blow on your chest, each turned on by the sight of the others cumming.  You all say thanks, smile, and you put the tank top back on over the fresh cum and sally on down back to the bar and order up a whisky.  For these few minutes, you are the cock of the block.

This is horniness.

You are dancing in a sea of shirtless sweaty men, lights flashing and music pulsing.  You are on another planet, shirtless yourself, and you instinctively grab hold of your crotch and fall in love with every man on the dance floor.  Yet you wonder if you’ll be going home alone.  You remind yourself to just enjoy the moment, to enjoy the horniness.  You would like to make love to everyone in the club, but doubt that would satiate you.  What would?