The Tale of a Chronic Masturbator
Editor's Note: There isn't any bondage in this story, or any nudity either, but there is a lot of clever wordplay, and I recommend it. Zack
At barely six years old I was finding my lower anatomy endlessly fascinating and I remember sneaking into my parents’ bedroom to purloin my mother's make-up mirror, which when held at exactly the right angle revealed the source of the Yellow River in some detail while I was enthroned. Such a revelation for a girl of such a tender age! Of course, I knew all about the back office, because my sister, who was older by seven years and claimed to know everything, made obscure references to 'where chocolate's made' all the time. But when I asked her about the front, she just went beet red and clammed up. ‘You’ll see,’ she said darkly, probably because she had been mortified when the Big Red Moment had inconveniently arrived during class and she had to be picked up for the ride home wearing a giant maxi pad, which was all the school nurse was willing to provide.
I was still in the single digits when I embarked on an intimate relationship with the front seam of some denim shorts that had become delightfully snug after tumbling too many times in the dryer. Strange and not unpleasant feelings arose as I pedaled my banana seat bicycle all over the neighborhood with renewed frenzy, to the point that my mother started to inquire 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, my tongue hanging out and my ass in the air, both hands teased the kitty until I was sore from playing solitaire.
I had no idea why it all felt so good, and I began to suspect that I was the only person in the world who had these feelings, until I went to a sleepover 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 next to me. I listened in utter fascination as she basted the tuna harder and faster, and with considerably more fervor that I ever had, finally exploding as the big finish hit. She looked over and grinned, flushed with her fingers still filling the pink taco. My eyes were like saucers.
‘What? Don't you ever do it?’ she panted.
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘Well, sorta, I guess, except for that last bit!’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘That's the payoff, it's called an organ something, my big sister told me about it.’
‘Show me how,’ I said, innocently.
‘Oh, just keep scratching harder where it itches and it’ll happen,’ came the reply, and I realized that I just hadn't been tickling the kitty long enough. We laid there grinning at each other as we slapped our cracks, and she exploded again, but this time I wasn't far behind. Then her mother knocked on the door to see why the creaking joists were making the paint fall off the ceiling downstairs, and we had to cool it. We spent the next morning giggling until it was time for me to return to the bosom of my family, suddenly wiser.
My sister was in the den, reading. ‘May I ask you something?’ I said, ‘Have you ever touched yourself, you know, down there?’
‘Disgusting!’ was her reply as her book whizzed past my head.
‘OK,’ I thought, ‘There's something strange here, it feels so good and she won't talk about it.’ I went upstairs to check whether squeezing the peach was still working, and sure enough, it was. Soon, I enlisted any hard surface, and once when I was supposed to be practicing the piano, there I was, jammed up against the curved part of 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 going in my pants with the other. The stair railing, the edge of any door, the tree I climbed in the back yard, all were just innocent props for doodling the noodle. I started to wear dresses for easier access. ‘Well,’ said my father, ‘She's becoming a little lady!’ My sister thought that she had figured out what was going on as she had been recently been groped by a supposedly nice boy on a double date at a drive-in movie, and had been going around with a furtive, confused expression.
‘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 I had been taken aside quietly by my father after I looked up some choice four-letter words I had overheard in the bathroom at school, and he had 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. I soon discovered that a liberal application of lotion was the appropriate panacea.
I played the two-fingered slot rhumba in a scented haze as I dragged myself through puberty, deepening my pleasure as I developed a relationship with certain appropriately contoured pieces of fruit that filled the bill as I dug for gold. It got to the point where I would never be able to look another eggplant in the face again. Then, out of the blue, I was enlisted for a double date with a BFF, 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, before she whispered that his parents were out of town, and their place was going to be 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, she and her date disappeared upstairs and I was left to make awkward conversation with his decent enough, but clearly nervous, friend who'd also been dragged in to complete the deception.
‘You can kiss me if you like,’ I said, and I had to give him credit for trying, but I decided to terminate that little activity because he tasted of onions. As we sat on the couch he got up his courage and gingerly touched my boob. The receiving end of the titty-clitty hotline picked up right away on the first ring.
‘Mmm,’ I said, ‘That's nice . . .’ but as he was clumsily making a sweaty spot on the front of my white top, and I was about to tell him to cool it he groaned and said, ‘Oh, no!’ and looked down.
‘Eew!’ I said, ‘You wet yourself!’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it's, you know,’
And I said, ‘No, I don't, do enlighten me.’ He did, I finally understood the guy version of banging the box, but couldn’t quite grasp the reason for the lack of encores. 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 solution for 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 finally downstairs trailing her sheepish looking date, and shot me this look that said, ‘Tell you later!’ We made it back to the theater in time to call and hang out waiting for our ride, trying to decide whether to like a movie we'd never seen in case of parental interrogation.
The next day at school, I heard the whole story about how they had 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’d never seen a condom, but I told her about my little addiction, how I just drifted from one little orgasm to another as I dialed the rotary phone as many times as I liked, toll free.
‘You really think that's better?’ she said, ‘I've only done it a couple of times.’
‘Try it, I said, ‘You might like it, paddling your own pink canoe isn't so bad . . .' She was smiling a lot the next day.
My 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 seventeen I was 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 termed ‘Different.’ Her clothes, her conversation, the way she smelled, everything about her seemed endlessly fascinating. During my last semester 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 that point I still hadn't seen an angry penis, so I asked her to elaborate.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘It's all promises, promises, then as soon as you put out, it's guys calling you to see if you'll, well, you know . . .’
I got it. She looked pretty upset. ‘Here,’ I said, 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, ‘You don't seem to be bothered by much.’
‘I guess,’ I said, and she put her arm around me and kissed me again. ‘That's nice,’ I said, ‘Is there somewhere a little less public we could go?’ There was. I thought I was an expert at buttering the muffin, but the novelty of having someone else shift it out of Park opened up a whole new world and thrilled me to no end. We spent the rest of the summer sliding into home at every opportunity. I was the expert at fluffing my own kitty, but this new and different angle was the cream on the pie. She introduced me to the joys 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 strap-on, 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. I thought I was in love.
We reluctantly parted in the fall when she left for art school in London, and I for 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 two-digit version in private. 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 the slightest discussion and told me that they expected to see a lot more of her.
My sister, now unhappily married, made a point of taking me aside to tell me yet 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 sent myself muffin Morse code to make studying more pleasurable while I was reading a book or making notes. It seemed like no time before the four years were up and we had to kiss goodbye; I went back to the Left Coast and a career that promised to keep me in the style to which I wished to become accustomed. She, of all things, was bowing to family pressure and planning to get 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 private wedding night while he was out with the boys, with me in her wedding dress and her lace thong and her enjoying the night that she’d fantasized about while her new husband was drunkenly groping her. I was happy to oblige. I don't have a jealous bone in my body, and things eventually tapered off and we lost touch. I just kept on beavering away in LA, working and shining the diamond, and my life settled down.
Until one morning, that is, when she called me out of the blue. Soon we were sitting outside at Starbucks drinking coffee, and it was if the intervening years had never happened. ‘I’m back,’ she said, nuzzling my neck.
‘Well,’ I asked, ‘how was it?’ It's quite a few years later, and she's never told me. Probably because we’re too busy enjoying life and our favorite astronomical hobby, twinkling each other’s little stars.
Copyright© 2014 by Phoebegetsit. All rights reserved.