From: joefri714@aol.com (JoeFri714)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.masturbation
Subject: A Boy and His Dong, Pt I
Date: 1 Jan 1996 13:21:05 -0500

This is just some ruminations on my history as one of the worlds foremost
masturbationists.  As always, comments and other stories are welcome. If
you find these stories hot enough to masturbate to, by all means let me
know--it means I'm succeeding to some degree.

                            "A Boy and His Dong"
     Part I

	It's been said that ninety percent of all people masturbate, and
the other ten percent are lying.  Yet how little-acknowledged is this
obvious and undeniable fact.  Masturbation is one of the universal of
human experiences -- right up there with eating, bathing and sleeping -- but it
rarely comes up in polite conversation.  Look at the overweening hypocrisy
with which Dr. Jocelyn Elders and Paul Reubens were treated.  Imagine
causing a national controversy by simply stating that it might be useful
to teach children that it's normal to masturbate!  As if our country has
no more pressing problems! 
	It sometimes strikes me as odd when I hear about other people
[both male and female] learning about masturbation at a certain age such
as eight, twelve, nineteen, or whatever.  I have no memory of a time when
I did not masturbate-for all I know, I may have been playing with myself
in the womb -- so life without masturbation is difficult to imagine.
	My earliest memories include surreptitiously pulling my pajama
bottoms down to my knees and humping my mattress at night when I was
supposed to be asleep.  I could not have been more than two years old at
the time.  The act was innocence itself, for I recall no sexual thoughts
at that tender age.  It just felt good to rub my immature young erection
back and forth against the bed linen.
	I must have had some inkling, however, that I should maintain
secrecy about my bedtime pleasures.  I always kept an ear cocked to sound
of an approaching step, so that I could drag my pants back up.  Somehow,
nonverbal messages must have been passed to the effect that one's genitals
were "naughty bits" and that if playing with them wasn't exactly wrong, it
was at least not done in full view of family and friends. I humped away in
total ignorance that I was engaging in sex--albeit solitary sex--or even
that what I did had a name.  I had far fewer negative messages concerning
masturbation to unlearn, for I had forged my own way long before I even
knew what I was doing and could have been frightened out of it.
	About the time I started school the experience changed.  As I
humped away in the usual manner, I would feel an increasing tension in my
groin, which eventually peaked and gave over to an all-over tingling
sensation.  I was, of course, climaxing, though my understanding of such
things was still sketchy.  Any chance that I might "outgrow" or lose
interest in my mattress-humping was swept aside by a tidal wave of
pleasure, and I had embarked on a lifetime career as a masturbator. At the
time, the new dimension of orgasm led to a twice-a-day habit as I started
sneaking into my room to bring myself off when I returned from school each
afternoon, too impatient to wait for bedtime to repeat my ecstasy.
	In my kindergarten class it was obligatory to lie down and pretend
to have a nap on the floor of the classroom each day after lunch--we all
kept beach blankets in little cubbyholes to lay on the linoleum.  As I lay
there each day feigning sleep (I have never mastered the art of sleeping
during the day--I just can't seem to relax when the sun is out), I
sometimes imagined myself masturbating at home in my bed that night,
looking forward to the privacy in which to indulge.  These mental images,
which usually made me hard, could be regarded, in a sense, as my first
sexual fantasies.
	It was somewhere in there that I learned the word "masturbation"
and what it meant.  I don't recall where I first heard it but I remember
looking it up in a dictionary when I was in first or second grade (I was a
very precocious reader).  The dictionaries of the day only defined it with
a terse "Self-abuse," rather than the more descriptive definitions of
today, and I guess I was not too impressed.  It certainly didn't prevent
me from doing it.  Seeing the word in print was a powerful stimulus,
however, and still is.  And I had a context for my autoerotic sessions: 
It was a sexual act.
	I never went through the usual phase of young, middle-class
American males in which girls are considered the enemy.  I saw no appeal
in the various torments my male friends visited upon the girls in our
class, and sometimes I even developed little crushes on some of my female
classmates.  I remember one such infatuation with a girl (whose name,
alas, eludes me now) which lasted through half a year.  I sometimes
imagined her professing undying love for me as I brought myself off in a
classic movie-induced romantic masturbation fantasy.
	Perhaps this early interest explains the thunderous epiphany I
experienced when I opened my first issue of Playboy magazine, left lying
around the house when I had the place to myself for a little while. 
Naked…women!  It was amazing...incredible...I suddenly had a focus for my
fantasies.  I still had no clue about sex and intercourse or anything like
that, but something in me responded to those nude models and I soon
acquired a small collection of centerfolds and magazines, mostly pinched
by various ruses and subterfuge [in fact, the only act of shoplifting I
ever committed was the theft of an issue of Penthouse from a magazine
rack, which I promptly jacked off to six times that night]. 	By current
standards, the airbrushed Playmate layouts of my youthful years were
hopelessly tame.  Frontal nudity was still a controversial rarity, and the
models' poses were ludicrously demure. All the same, they did turn me on
and added to the fun of masturbating.
	Since I was still fuzzy on the details of sex, my masturbation
fantasies developed around certain themes as I looked at those magazine
nudes. Voyeurism became a common motif, and a regular fantasy involved
peeking secretly at some woman who was nude.  Outdoor settings were
especially arousing; something about being totally nude in the open air
stimulated me.  At first I just imagined peeking a bit, say from behind a
tree in the woods, but soon my fantasy scenes included my masturbating as
I watched some young woman cavort in the buff.  The advent of pubic hair
in the centerfolds was a monumental development for me, and I was
enormously turned on by any shot displaying a woman's pubic bush.  Bikini
marks also set me off, because they emphasized that I was seeing something
special, the forbidden revealed.  To this day, that pale triangle around a
nude woman's pubes is a riveting sight for me. Of course, in those days
just showing the hair was pushing it, so the actual genitals were still
carefully hidden.  My fascination with the female crotch had begun, but it
would be a while before I had developed any knowledge of cunts.
	I also had become somewhat preoccupied with sex in general.  I
remember talking about it quite a lot with my friends, trying to figure
out what was what.  I would pounce at any chance to leaf through a sex
book left laying about (this happened more often than one might think;  my
friends and  I  had pretty progressive parents).  I always looked first to
see what the book said about masturbating; unfortunately, if it mentioned
self-loving at all, it tended to damn it with faint praise.  Some books
said that it was normal for adolescents but not for adults:  No problem
there!  I had years to go!  But even then, I seemed to know that I would
still be doing it when I grew up.  It was just too much fun.
	One unusual thing, looking back upon it, was how little guilt I
felt at jerking off, even when I was quite young and should have absorbed
society's horror of Onanism.  At age ten I was stroking off whenever the
urge struck me--which was often several times a day--without any feelings
of guilt, only the furtiveness that stemmed from being shy about getting
caught naked.  Somehow I missed out on the nonsense about how it was wrong
to touch yourself which so many of my contemporaries caught, and I
continued blithely if secretly [not everyone had as sophisticated a view
of selfpleasuring] as a masturbator.
	And not just any masturbator--by the time I turned eleven, I was
well on my way to becoming a fully-fledged, highly-proficient,
unregenerate Onanist.  My techniques had progressed considerably, from the
one-note mattress-hump to variations in hand strokes and rubbing off
against furniture,  Freed from my bedsheets, I varied my self-pleasuring
routine by masturbating sitting at my desk, standing, lying on the floor
with my feet on the bed, straddling a pillow, and so on.  I caught sight
one day of myself  in the mirror over my dresser, beating my eleven year
old  erection to an open magazine on my desk.  I became engrossed in
watching myself jack off,  they way my strokes got faster and faster until
my hand was a blur of motion on my shaft and I came.
	With all this advancement in the technique of self-love, other
sorts of variety also livened my masturbation.  New settings added to the
experience, and so I started 
jacking off in different rooms of the house.  Usually, I would wait until
everyone was asleep, then strip naked and go into another room to
masturbate.  I especially remember the Persian rug in the living room and
the bristly feel of it against my bare skin as I beat off.

	It was about this time that many of the mysteries associated with
sex were cleared up for me when I discovered my mother's copy of  "The Joy
of Sex" in the living room during one of my nocturnal excursions.  I
devoured the contents,  soaking up the text and the pictures as I got an
explicit lesson in how fucking worked.  I had had an idea before, but like
the genitals of the Playboy models, it was a little vague.  In the few
early-morning hours of rapt interest in the book, my sexual sophistication
had increased a hundredfold;  I had also, of course, brought myself off
several times to the pictures.
	Not that my knowledge led to any particular sexual activity at
that age.  It did, however, make my masturbation fantasies more detailed,
especially in regard to the anatomy of the cunt, which was shown in detail
in some of the drawings which filled the book.
	One illustration, in particular, left a deep impression on my
memory.  Near the end of the book, there was a full-page drawing of the
woman who modeled for the book lying on her back, skirt pulled up around
her waist, dragging her middle finger through her slit.  It was a
revelation.  I had not considered that women and girls masturbated, let
alone what they would look like caught in the act.  Frankly, I had never
considered that anyone else ever brought themselves off.  I knew that I
had not invented masturbation, but I had not ever imagined that anyone
else really did it--at least, no one I knew.
	The thought, the idea, the mere concept of female masturbation
became an obsession of sorts.  How did they do it? How often? What did
they think about as they fingered themselves? I had only that single
illustration in The Joy of Sex to base my fantasies upon, and I started
looking at girls in my class at school, imagining them in their beds at
night, and wondering to myself, Does she do it?
	Of course, I didn't ask.  I often wanted to discuss my
masturbation habits with someone, but among even my more trusted friends,
the subject was a source of ridicule and certainly denial.   Admitting to
masturbating to them would have meant a loss of face, a reduction in
status.  Looking back now it seems rather sad that we had to hide behind
such posturing rather than sharing the happiness of being normal young
people with ordinary and healthy desires.
	In spite of my impulse to keep my masturbation a secret, I didn't
accept the ridicule and guilt associated with it.  I was well-read enough
and experienced enough to form my own opinion.  Clearly, I was having too
much fun jacking off to stop, and it felt too good to seem a bad thing to
me.  I simply concluded that I was in the midst of ignorance, and
continued to conduct my own private sexual revolution, jacking off
regularly to my paltry collection of Playmates and yearning to peek into
the closed chamber of women's masturbation.
	The world of newsstand erotica, however, was soon to answer my
desire to a degree, primarily through Bob Guccione, the gravel-voiced,
gold-chained Guinea version of Hugh Hefner, and his Penthouse magazine. 
Since the inception of Penthouse in the late sixties, Guccione had been
steadily pushing the envelope of what was publishable in the area of
female nudity; specifically, he started to show pubic hair. Hell, the
pictorials in Penthouse dwelled upon the female bush.  By the early
seventies, virtually every picture layout featured at least one shot of
the model raising a skirt or slip to her waist, revealing her downy pubis
in its glory.  Often the models seemed to look with adoration at the jewel
between their thighs.
	Thematically speaking, it was only a short leap from those loving
looks and a few carressed breasts to actual hands-on exploration, and by
the mid-1970's Playboy's biggest competitor was showing women in blatantly
autoerotic poses, fingers strumming slits and even occasionally delving
between moist labia, faces contorted in ecstasy.  It might have all been a
put-on, those orgasmic expressions, but those pictures were the source of
my most exciting fantasies, of seeing a woman bring herself off.
	About the time that I had experienced my epiphany on girlish
autoeroticism, I had also experienced the onset of puberty, and my habit
had bloomed into a hobby.  The most interesting change was the beginning
of ejaculation at the climax of my masturbation sessions.  I have read
that the first wad of spunk emerging from his cock is a trauma for some
boys, but my obsessive reading about sex made me sufficiently wise to my
own body that I recognized the white fluid as a sign of advancing
development.  At first it was merely a small oozing of white cream from my
twitching member, but what with all the exercise my genitals were getting,
by my twelfth birthday I was squirting a couple of streams of come onto my
belly, the last few drops running over my stroking fingers and plastering
my new growth of pubic hair.
	I was quite fascinated with my semen for a while, playing around
with it after I had climaxed, tasting it and so on.  I eventually acquired
the habit of spreading it into my skin after I came, though sometimes
after I particularly intense orgasm I might just lie there, sated and
stuporous, letting the wet streams dry like pale brushstrokes on my skin.
	Although it is a subjective matter, I felt as if my orgasms were
more intense when I started to spew at climax.  I also had learned about
the additional pleasures to be experienced through prolonging the process,
bringing myself to the brink of orgasm before finally pumping myself off
to a wet finish.  Delaying my climax also made me come harder and squirt
farther, and I sometimes ejaculated on a towel laid out on the floor, just
to see how far I could spew. 
	At about fifteen I developed a method to my masturbation pattern
which was to break patterns; to this day, I try not to jack off the same
way or in the same place twice in succession. Imagine only being able to
come in one position or from one style and speed of stimulation!  I still
sometimes would watch myself in a mirror, curious to see how I might look
to an observer, and I sometimes fantasized about the tables being turned
and a woman spying on my solitary pleasures.
	I used to play around with super-8 movie cameras back then [VCRs
and camcorders were still a few years off then], and one night when I was
sixteen or so, I set the camera up on a tripod and filmed myself jacking
off to a magazine pictorial.  Of course, I never got the film processed [I
took it down for developing once, but my bravado faltered at the last
moment], but it was quite exciting to pump my well-lubed cock in front of
the camera's unblinking eye, and then spray my jism all over myself.  I
sometimes think about getting a hold of a camcorder and taping one of my
sessions.  I was a fan of a couple of porn stars -- Keisha and Christy
Canyon -- and I thought it might make an original "fan letter" to send them a
tape of me masturbating to one of their scenes. 
	I once estimated that by the time I was eighteen years old I had
already masturbated over twelve thousand times, putting in hours and hours
each year enjoying the pleasures of autoeroticism.  Certainly that sort of
commitment of time and energy make me a "masturbationist" [in the sense of
numismatist or philatelist].   I still do myself even when I have a
girlfriend because it's another form of pleasure in which I can indulge
myself.  I hope to hear from all the other masturbationist out there, both
male and female, who want to share their stories with me....