From: joefri714@aol.com (JoeFri714)
Subject: Masturbation Memories
Date: 17 Jun 1996 16:33:20 -0400

This is a true account of my development as a masturbator.  A shorter
version turned up here a few months ago.  I hope it will inspire others to
tell similar stories, or to email them to me.  Please, no email offering
sex....I'm interested in feedback, not proposiotions and phone sex ads.

Part 1

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! 
Good Vibrations, the vibrator store in San Francisco, declared May
National Masturbation Month, and while the declaration didn t get much
play on the evening news, it did show progress toward the liberation of
the most elementary of sex acts: a month devoted to masturbation,
proclaimed by a business devoted to female masturbation.
	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 was a frequent and audacious masturbator as a child, and I did get
caught once when I was quite young.  I vaguely remember humping my bed at
about age four or so, with my pajama bottoms pulled down  to my knees.  I
must have been making some noise or something, because both my parents
came and pulled back the sheets to uncover my exposed hips and buttocks. 
I remember even then making some lame excuse about them slipping down
while I slept.  I can t recall exactly what they said, but it must not
have been very stern, for I recall no trauma associated with the incident,
just a mild sense of embarrassment
	I must have had some inkling, however, that I should maintain
secrecy about my bedtime pleasures.  I thereafter 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 (and a bit less
judgemental) 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 some years yet 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 (I image most
preadolescents do this), 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 self-pleasuring] 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 my
first 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.  Despite certain moralistic pronouncements to that effect,
reading an illustrated book on sex did not send me galloping off after the
nearest female child to commit sex offenses against her.  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 most 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
internalize 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. 
One summer, I was packed off with the rest of my family to a tres-Sixties
commune where a friend of my mother lived. It was here that I got my first
look at a live nude woman; they were everywhere!  Everyuone ran around
nude during those blisteringly hot summer days, though I waited for most
of a day before I finally disrobed, less out of modesty than of fear that
my young penis would betray me by stiffening at the 
slightest provocation, committing an anatomical faux pas.  Of course, my
natural shyness prevented me from sporting a hard-on in polite company. 
For the first couple of days, anyway.
	There was one young woman at the commune, I can t even remember
her name now, but what a body!  I was entranced by her round buttocks, her
firm, conical breasts, her huge brown eyes and the glossy black bush
between her thighs.  How often I stole a look at those enourmous nipples,
that rich nether fur...I was constantly darting off into the woods for
another pull at myself.	
	One day at the common area where the cookhouse and storage shed
sat, she chatted with my mother, sitting on a tree stump with her legs
carelessly open.  As they talked, I maneuvered myself around to a seat
where I could see between her parted thighs.
	Seen through the haze of her pubic hair, her lips gaped slightly,
flowery and soft, slightly swollen, pulled delicately open by the spread
of her thighs.  It was my first clear look at a real live cunt and I sat
mesmerized by the sight, unable to look away.  I basked in the sight,
fascinated, trying to memorize every detail.  She laughed at something my
mother said, her legs waving together, and I snapped out of my trance.  I
looked up to meet her eyes and realized that she had caught me staring at
her crotch.  Her face betrayed no anger or hostility, but rather just a
matter-of-fact acknowledgment.  
	As I felt myself blushing a rich, hot crimson at being caught so
blatantly staring at her twat, I also recognized that I had a painfully
hard erection thrusting straight up from my lap.  With a savage mixture of
mortification and arousal, I stood up and turned away from my mother and
her friend and walked as casually as I could manage into the woods
surrounding the clearing.
	As soon as I was out of sight, I had my hand around my cock and
started pounding away at it right there on the trail, almost as if to
punish it for embarrassing me by letting me risk further embarrassment by
someone spotting me jacking off. As chagrined as I was, I still could not
get the sight of that beautiful young vulva out of my mind, and I came to
the image of those pink lips, spurting my semen onto the trail in front of
me.
	Of course, that first look at a live woman s cunt made quite an
impression, and it became an object of obsession for me.  Almost any
moment I was by myself my thoughts turned to that flowery vision with the
dark curls around it, and my cock would stiffen again and demand
attention.  It was a very short leap, thematically speaking, to merge what
I had seen with my fantasies and to envision that young woman s fingers
invading her moist vagina. 
	I imagined walking through the woods and finding my fantasy woman
fingering herself beneath one of the trees.  I was still a little unclear
on how a woman went about banging herself, but my imagination filled in
enough details to keep me excited and beating off at my usual rate.
	Those fantasies continued once we had returned home and I could
indulge in my usual habits with my ever-growing collection of girlie
magazines.
	I read those magazines from cover to cover, and what an education;
I knew how to mix a martini by the time I was thirteen.  I also was
starting to get some ideas about sex from stories, articles and letters in
Playboy and Penthouse [even then, Penthouse s "Forum" section was filled
with the ravings of overactive imaginations, stories festooned with
ten-inch penises and breasts likened to watermelons].  But as befits a
dirty secret, masturbation remained rarely discussed or even described.  I
quickly devoured anything written about the subject, little though there
was, and wished that there was a book 
pertaining to masturbation.
	As I would soon find out, a woman in New York with a fine-arts
background and a penchant for Onanism had already answered my yearnings.

My mother s friend Peggy lived in a house near town with her two young
sons, both of whom were still too small to do many chores around the
place. It followed that I would be offered up from time to time by my
mother to complete various tasks around her friend s home.  
	One such Sunday I worked on the upstairs landing of Peggy s house,
painting the door frames with white acrylic latex.  It was rather boring
work, and my eyes frequently lit upon the spines of the books arrayed on
the shelves opposite the railing.  Besides the inevitable [and
eye-catching] blue-and-white Catch-22, there were assorted novels, old
college textbooks, and other such.
	One book-really looking more like a pamphlet, with a stapled spine
and no title showing, caught my eye after a time, and eventually I
wandered over to pull it out and read the title, more out of a need for
closure than curiosity.
	It was lettered in freehand script, a little hard to make out, but
there was no mistake: "Liberating Masturbation: a Meditation on Self
Love."  I could hardly believe my eyes.  Could there be such a book?
	My hands almost trembled as I opened the book, wondering at the
contents.  I had completely forgotten about my task, the paint fumes that
filled my nostrils powerless to  remind I was supposed to be working.
	It was somewhat difficult reading, as it was set in handwritten
script, clearly published by the author [the wonderful and inimitable
Betty Dodson, the self-appointed "Mother of Masturbation"], and
illustrated with her drawings. I hurried through the text, trying to glean
what I could of its content as I felt myself getting hard.  The book
described a workshop which Betty held in which a group of women sat around
nude and exchanged stories about their sex lives and then masturbated
together!  
The mere idea set my head spinning.  I had never heard of circle jerks,
but I had experienced vague longings for such contact. I m not sure it was
out of homoerotic desire [though such things certainly encroach on a young
man s thoughts at that age] as much as out of a desire to come out of the
closet, to throw light on the dirty little secret that nearly everyone
shares but no one speaks of.  
	The mental image of  a circle of women all masturbating together,
arousing themselves with the sight and sounds of other women beating off,
was just too much.  Hardly aware of what I was doing, I reached down to my
pants and sent them sliding down to my knees.
	With the book still in hand, I stroked myself.  I could hear Peggy
in the kitchen downstairs; just a few steps would bring her into the
living room and expose me succumbing to my need for release.  All that
existed for me was my cock and the picture in my head of those women
banging themselves.
	There was to be no teasing and savoring of the sensations of this
session of Onanism;  I pumped quickly, working my was to my climax.  It
was only as I felt my balls tighten as they prepared to unload that I
realized I needed to figure out where this load of spunk was to go; one
hand held the book, the other was committed to the stroking action on my
member.  As my knees buckled and my strokes turned short and rapid, all I
could think was, Not on the rug.  I turned and aimed my cock at the
shelves beside me and squirted my come into a white puddle on the
varnished pine, oozing slowly toward the edge of the shelf.
	I should have cleaned it all up right away, of course, rather than
standing there  with a book in one hand and my slippery cock in the other,
but there was no way to get past the post-orgasm stupor which filled my
brain with cotton as I slowly stroked myself into softness.  I stood
there, knees weak and listening to the squelching of my spunk through my
fingers, the urgency of my need for release smothered under the cloak of
satiation.
	 Of course, I was still standing in a hallway with my cock in my
hand and a load of jism on the shelf in front of me, and as the white
cream started to drip off the shelf  I shook myself out of my afterglow
and put the book down on the shelf.  I nipped off into the bathroom to get
something with which to wipe off my semen from my hands and from the
furniture and heard Peggy coming up the steps, doubtless to check on my 
progress. By the time her head peeked up over the stairs I had managed to
frantically stuff my sticky member into my pants but I had to leave my fly
undone in order to deflect attention away from my groin.
	There I stood, blood draining from my face, semen drying on my
hand, fly unbuttoned, willing Peggy not to look down and spot her copy of
Liberating Masturbation and a pool of warm spunk on her bookshelf.  Of
course she spotted it right away, her eyes drawn to the sight of that
liquid next to the small paperback.  Though her expression showed that she
saw the mute evidence of my Onanistic interlude and was able to draw the
correct conclusion, she said nothing, just went into her room and came out
a moment later with her dirty laundry.  Of course I had darted back into
the bathroom for a handful of tissues and had wiped up the residue of my
pleasure while she collected the clothes in her hamper.  Thereafter she
seemed sometimes to look at me in a funny way after all I had jerked off
on her bookshelves but not a word was ever said.
	I went through the rest of the day in a sort of daze induced by
the adrenaline jolt of my near-discovery.  Peggy s matter-of-fact reaction
to catching me masturbating  or at least  post-onanisme,  if you will was
another step on the road to my own liberation of masturbation.
	After all, there was no harangue or condemnation of my indulgence
in this harmless, simple act though by rights she might well have
questioned my judgment of time and place none of the horror and repulsion
which I had always expected to accompany the moment of discovery.
	Of course, it doesn t take any great insight to understand why she
elected to give my masturbatory moment the go-by; Peggy was a
masturbationist herself, as the presence of the book attested.  It would
have been sheerest hypocrisy to berate me for an activity she herself
performed.  
	It is a measure of nonplused the moment left me that it was only
when I was safely in bed that night that I first thought through the fact
that the book implied that Peggy who was still quite attractive also
masturbated.  That night I substituted her for the women in Betty Dodson s
illustrations and imagined what she looked like nude and vibrating herself
to orgasm.  The mental image of someone I knew beating off sent me into an
orgy of autoeroticism, and I came again and again that night, soaking my
sheets with cum.
	Thus my fascination with the subject of masturbation was firmly
entrenched in my consciousness.  I would read anything on the subject, and
stories about masturbation in places like Penthouse Forum always set me
stroking.


Part 2

With all that wanking going on, the wonder is that I didn't get caught
sooner.  But when my mother finally did catch me at it, she caught me
three times in two days.(!?!)
	It started on a Saturday afternoon, when my morning chores were
done and I
had not much of anything to do.  As was usual in such circumstances, my
mind and hands eventually turned to the time-filling possibilities of
autoeroticism.  At first I just rubbed myself through my pants and engaged
in a little sexy daydreaming, but after a while I got hard and horny and
so I took off my pants and underwear and started stroking away.
	Once I was fully hard, I oiled up my stiff cock and started
pumping, slowly, just teasing the head with the palm of my other hand.  My
tempo gradually increased in proportion to my heat.  My hips started to
thrust against the strokes of my hands as I imagined that I was watching a
woman playing with herself [fantasies, stories, videos, pictures, anything
about female masturbation just sends me right to the moon, yikes....].
After teasing myself almost to orgasm a couple of times, to heighten my
arousal, I decided it was time to come, and I really got into it then,
flailing away with both hands, my ass bouncing off the bed as I thrust my
cock upward.  My breath was in short, ragged gasps when I head someone
coming down the hall toward my room: I recognized my mother's step at the
same moment I realized that I had neglected to lock my bedroom door before
embarking on my little trip to wankland.
	I leaped up from the bed just as the door started to open and
jumped into the doorway of my closet, as if I was looking for something in
there.  A pretty thin charade, undermined by the buckling of my knees as
my balls clenched and a load of spunk blasted from my throbbing cock.
	My mother asked some silly question as I tried to feign interest
in the row of shirts in front of me.  My hips thrust of their own accord
in time with my spurts of semen, and it took quite an effort to modulate
my voice into something like its normal tone.  After what seemed an
eternity or two, she left and I collapsed to the floor, grasping my
pulsing rod and milking out the last of my load.
	Of course, there was no fooling her with my standing in the
doorway; a glance from her vantage point showed that she would have seen
everything, even the semen splattering my clean shirts. I avoided her for 
he rest of the day, not so much out of shame--I wasn't taught by my
parents to hate sex--but out of an earnest desire not to have to discuss
the whole matter with her.
	That night, she went out [mercifully, without any heart-to-heart
about my masturbation habits] and I decided to indulge in another
variation on my Onanistic theme: jacking off in different rooms of the
house. 
	Eleven-thirty found me lying nude on the living room rug, pumping
away until I reached my usual creamy finish.  Falling into that
post-orgasmic stupor, I carelessly drifted off to sleep.
	I awoke to the sight of my mother entering the living room from
the hallway; she had managed to get into the house and past my
semed-spattered body without waking me.  I started, sitting upright and
feeling my face try to go pale and flush a deep crimson at the same time.
	I expected some sort of discussion at this point, but all she said
was, "Mind you don't mess up the carpet."  Then she said good night and
went into her bedroom.
	The next day one might think I would try to be a little more
circumspect in my autoerotic activities, but the resilience of youth
helped to forget the previous day's embarrassments and the afternoon found
me nude again, bracing myself up on my arms as I straddled a pillow,
grinding my cock into its soft bulk.  A couple of issues of Penthouse lay
on the bed, opened to a couple of pictorials featuring women fingering
themselves [my favorite fantasy, you will recall].  I was really into it,
about to crest the wave and start spewing, when the door opened again
[would I EVER remember to lock that damn thing?!] and in walked the mother
figure.
	I couldn't believe my bad luck.  Three times in two days!  Surely
she must think me some sort of oversexed bizzarro by now.  I might have
been able to stop my climax, had I made the effort, but my exasperation
made me bold and so I pretended not to notice that she had come in and
pumped my pillow to orgasm.  I let out a few extra grunts as I rolled my
hips in small circles against the pillow.
	After a while, I lowered myself to the bed and lay there breathing
softly, my softening cock bathed in its own cream, and I hazarded a look
into the room.  My mother had gone, quietly slipping out  but leaving the
door ajar, perhaps so as not to alert me with the sound of its closing.
I waited, with some apprehension, for that conversation on masturbation,
how it was perfectly normal, but perhaps I was indulging a bit much...?
	But it never came.  And, I noticed, my mother started knocking
before entering my room.

	I had always been a horny child and I grew into an even hornier
teenager.  I couldn t go more than a few hours without beating off.  I can
even remember going up to my bedroom and jacking off while I had friends
at the house, sitting downstairs.  They knew I was spewing my spunk all
over the room up there, and occasionally made a teasing reference to my
rather frequent disappearances.
	Basic training put a major damper on my autoerotic indulgences.  I
had no girlfriend at the time to send me off with a farewell fuck, so I
contented myself with staying up half the night with my collection of
"stroke books" (to use Lenny Bruce s term), pounding myself to a number of
wet finishes. Then I packed my girlie magazines away and went off to don
the uniform of our country s service.
	For the first several weeks I had no desire to masturbate, which
was just as well, for finding the privacy in which to indulge would have
been difficult at best.  My usual morning erection, a proverbial fixture
in my daily routine since I had been six years old, was absent for the
first time.
	Of course, the lack of desire was psychological, born of stress
and fatigue, rather than physical.  My hormones were still at work, and
though I didn t realize it for quite some time, the pressure in my groin
was building.
	I never did jack off in boot camp though in the last week or two I
was awakening before reveille each morning with a steel hard erection. 
Before I could do anything about it, though, the bugle would sound and I
and my forty-odd squad mates would leap from our bunks and clamor into our
uniforms and out onto the parade ground.  By graduation day I was really
feeling the pressure and as I headed home on my ten-day graduation leave I
looked forward to spending some quality time with my magazines and a
bottle of baby oil.
	Those plans were derailed when I arrived home, however.  The house
was full of relatives and well-wishers from the neighborhood, and my
bedroom had been given over to one of my younger brothers, since I would
not be needing it any more.  Not entirely true, though: I needed it one
more time! Even the guest room was taken, occupied by my mother s friend
Joanne, visiting from Back East.  I would in fact be sleeping on the couch
for the next couple of days.
	I had never experienced blue balls how could I when I masturbated
three or more times a day?--but now my testicles throbbed as I waited for
the party to end and for everyone to go to bed in their respective rooms. 
Finally I was alone in the living room, everyone else hopefully asleep. 
Ordinarily, I would have waited a while to make sure everyone was settled
in dreamland, but my rock-hard cock and burning balls would have none of
it.  I had to have relief soon or my groin would surely explode.  I threw
off my clothes and flung myself onto the couch, now made up with sheets
and blankets as my bed.  With a bottle of oil from the bathroom, I
lubricated my aching member and started right in stroking.
	Of course anyone who loves to masturbate as much as I do likes to
make it a leisurely, indulgent act, a sensuous buildup to orgasm.  But
this time I was just too horny and my hands went straight to my  hard
cock, stroking away with abandon.  I could feel the huge load building
pressure in my crotch as I stroked.  Almost at once my hips, joined in,
thrusting to meet each squishy stroke.  I was finally going to cum!
	As I felt the spunk flow into the base of my cock, ready to shoot,
I opened my eyes and looked down to see this load I had waited for for so
long.  My hips thrust up as my back arched, lifting my ass completely off
the couch and I started blasting my spray.
	In past sessions, particularly the times where I had teased myself
to near climax a few times, I had squirted my semen as far as my upper
chest, but this was truly a load for the books.  The first spasm sent a
stream across my chest and onto my throat, but the second, bigger shot
sailed over my head, a fat stream of hot goo, and splattered all over the
wall behind me.  The next had enough impetus to splash my face and neck,
and after that I just kept pumping out jism, stream after stream, flying
across, my chest, my belly, my thighs, hitting the arm and  the back of
the sofa, the floor, running down my balls to form a pool beneath my ass. 
I fought to keep quiet but a series of primal grunts escaped past my
clenched teeth.
	Finally I lay there, totally spent, my head spinning with the most
intense orgasm of my young life, panting and idly milking the last few
drops of spunk from my cock, when I turned my head to see Joanne, my
mother s friend, standing in the door to the hallway.  She wore only a
T-shirt which did not make it all the way down her hips, and her thick
black pubic bush was clearly visible.  I d no idea how long she d been
there I d been busy watching my cock explode but it seemed from the way
she just stood there looking at me that she had seen all or part of my
epic climax.
	I felt a little silly lying there covered in crisscrossing ropes
of my own cum, but I was literally too drained to say or do anything.  "I
was just going to the kitchen," she said.
	"Oh," was my brilliant reply.
	She hustled into the kitchen and I could hear the sounds of her
getting a glass of water.  Now, if this were a story from Penthouse Forum
or one of its ilk, Joanne and I would have wound up in a wild threeway
with my mother or some damn thing.  What really happened was that she went
back to the guest room without looking back my way at all and shut the
door.  I watched her asscheeks swivel as she walked away from me.  I had
never thought of Joanne as particularly attractive before in those days I
was hung up on young cupcakes with hard tits and no brains but I had still
had had a look at her exposed bush and ass, and a randy young man is bound
to be stimulated by that, no matter who it is.
	After a while I fancied the effect that my little scene might have
had on her and I wondered if she might be masturbating herself.  The more
I thought about it, the harder I got, until I was stiff and ready for
action again (ah, youth!).  I crept over to her door and listened
intently, the cum from my last load still glazing my upper body.
At first, there was nothing save the squishing sounds of my hand sliding
along my own shaft.  Then, I thought I heard something a gasp, perhaps,
and then I heard the faint sound of bedsprings rhythmically creaking, ever
so gently.	A soft moan made it through the door and I knew for sure. 
Joanne was masturbating!  Because of me!
	If I were in this situation now, I might very well follow my first
impulse and open that door.  But this was 1979, I was still fairly young
and timid and so though I was dying to see what Joanne was doing to
herself in there, I stayed on my side of the door and jacked off again.  I
pumped quietly, still straining to catch each faint sound passing through
the door.  After a time, the creaking speeded up and the head board
started to hit the wall.  I timed my strokes to those thumps and I heard a
stifled cry from Joanne as she came.  I pumped another load into my cupped
hand, smearing it back into the pulsing shaft; a few drops plopped to the
carpet at my feet.  I left them there like a tomcat marking his territory.
I masturbated one more time that night, and did a little cleaning up,
before I went to sleep.  The next morning I was quite self-conscious
around Joanne, but being older and no doubt wiser, she behaved for all the
world as if she had never seen me pounding my pud and spewing a world
record load of jism all over myself.  I haven t seen her in years, but
from time to time I masturbate to the memory of that time when I heard her
frigging off to the sight of me drenched in my own cum, and I wonder if
Joanne ever fingers herself to the memory of that young man caught so
blatantly out of uniform.

	
In the early 1980's, the videocassette revolution was in its infancy, and
home video machines were still a fairly exotic (and expensive) item, years
away form their current universal presence. Being a member of a ship's
company in San Francisco afforded me the opportunity to experience the
adult movie when it was still a movie, shot on actual film and shown in
theatres. 
	Since they were still the main venue for their ilk, adult theatres
were still fairly widespread, and there was even a multiscreen adult house
in Oakland, which offered a 
choice of flicks(and required one to actually announce aloud to the ticket
clerk which picture you wished to see; at least the titles were fairly
tame then).
	I had always gone to these movies with a at least two or three
mates; we would sit watching a few hours of fucking and sucking, then take
off for Mrs. Santos' liquor store--she would sell beer to anyone with an
Armed Forces ID card--and drink beer in the park near the docks where we
tied up our boat.  The guys who I went to the skin flicks with were,
interestingly, not the same guys I chased skirts with.  When I was anxious
to meet some girls, there was another group of (much hipper) shipmates who
were always able to suss out where the ladies were, and I went out with
them as often as my meager enlisted man's finances would permit. (And
thereby hang several tales; perhaps I'll get to those as well sometime)
	I remember during those visits to the porno shows that I would got
horny (the entire reason for being of a sex film is to get people excited
enough to masturbate) and would feel the urge to jack off.  Of course,
sitting next to few of the young guys I had to live with would dampen my
enthusiasm.  Once one of them had spotted another fellow a few rows in
front who was clearly flogging his own meat, and he had been the butt of
an entire evening of jokes.  Looking back now, I'm sure that those jokes
were a case of protesting too much, diverting attention away from our own
autoerotic urges.
	It finally occurred to me that waiting until I got back to the
boat to beat off was a second-rate solution, and I resolved to go to the
porno house alone and actually masturbate in the theatre, as God and the
film's producers intended. I took a few days to work up the nerve to do
it, but finally one Wednesday evening I went ashore alone and took the bus
to the nearby theatre  My cock was already quietly pulsing to the
knowledge that I would be jacking it off that night in the theatre.   
	The movie showing was Neon Nights, which featured two popular
performers of the time, Kandi Barbour and Lysa Thatcher.  It was just
beginning as I entered and almost the moment I had sat down the screen lit
up with a scene in which the parents of Lysa Thatcher's character were
screwing in their bedroom as their daughter listened through the wall. 
Excited by the sounds of their sex, the young woman fucks herself with a
hairbrush handle.
	I started to get hard at once.  Female masturbation was (and still
is) a huge turn-on for me and so I felt as though I had hit paydirt.  As
the story moved on to other matters sexual, I became a little
disappointed, though, for I was wise enough to the ways of porno by then
to know that a feature usually only included one masturbation scene, if
any at all.  I would have liked to jack off to the image of that young
blonde banging herself with her hairbrush, but it had happened at the top
of the picture, before I had time to settle in and work up the courage to
drop my pants in a public place.
	Part of the excitement of the whole scene was the idea of
masturbating someplace public; I had frequently jacked myself off in the
woods around my home when growing up, and in a few other unusual places as
well, but never anything like this.  As my eyes adjusted to the darkness,
I looked around to see what sort of house the theatre featured that night.
 Perhaps a dozen men joined me there, each of us fairly widely separated
for the sake of privacy.  No raincoats (it was a warm evening for the Bay
Area), but, from what I could discern, a cross-section of age and ethnic
strata.
	I couldn't help looking to see if I could detect any telltale
motions of head or shoulder which would betray the masturbation of one of
my fellow viewers.  Nothing too obvious, but I did notice one fellow near
the aisle in front of me slumped rather low in his seat, and I assumed
that he had his cock in his hand.
	The fucking and sucking on the huge screen was starting to get my
blood up, and I could fell myself getting harder.  At first I just
casually rubbed myself through my pants, encouraging my erection, while
working up the nerve to release my throbbing member into the air of the
theatre.  Finally I decided that the time had arrived, and I unbuckled and
reached into my pants for my cock.  Pulling it out, I began a slow, almost
casual stroking, looking around a little furtively to see if anyone else
noticed.
	Of course, all eyes were on the sex acts performed upon the
screen.  As my cock throbbed harder, I became more daring, and after a
time I hoisted my ass off the seat so that I could slip my pants and
briefs down to my knees.  I had never felt the fabric of a theatre seat
against my bare behind, and the very novelty of the sensation was very
stimulating.  As the picture continued, I renewed my stroking with
increased vigor.
	Fortune smiled upon me then, for the next scene featured the young
star of the picture watching a couple fuck in a motel room while she sits
in a chair and masturbates with her fingers.  the scene got me going even
more, and when Lysa Thatcher pumped two fingers into her box I was in
heaven.  I flogged away, my hips rolling in time to my strokes.  I had not
planned ahead enough to bring along any lubricant, so I stroked basically
dry, with just a bit of saliva to reduce the friction somewhat.
	I had awakened with an erection that morning and in the limited
privacy of my bunk aboard ship I had pumped myself several times to the
brink of orgasm without actually climaxing, so I had a full load in my
balls as I drove myself to the peak of pleasure and leaped over the top. 
I spasmed from head to toe as I blasted out a wad of goo that splattered
across the front of my shirt.  The force of my own orgasm took me totally
by surprise, and as I pumped out wad after wad of spunk all over my
clothes I was powerless to stop it; nothing existed in that moment but my
erupting cock and the hand that could no more stop stroking it than my
heart could have stopped racing.  I was dimly aware that the seat in which
I masturbated with such abandon was creaking as I writhed in ecstasy,
drawing attention to myself.  I didn't care.  I had just shot a load for
the record books, and I cared not in the least who knew it.  My pants had
slipped down to my ankles as I beat off, and so I felt amazingly exposed,
totally shameless, as I milked the last drops of jism from my cock as it
returned to is soft condition.
	After I had calmed down a bit I looked around again to see who, if
anyone, had noted my climax in the theatre.  Nearly everyone was looking
at me as I cast my gaze around, averting their eyes as mine lit upon them,
but clearly I had made something of a spectacle of myself.
	The usher started down the aisle about then, making his token
rounds, ostensibly to prevent exactly the sort of activity I had just
indulged in.  I should have rushed to cover myself as he approached, but
the draining effect of my wrenching orgasm left me feeling somewhat bold,
and so I slouched in my seat, all but nude from the waist down, with fresh
semen splattered across my clothes.  The flashlight s beam lit upon me as
he passed, pausing briefly as it he couldn t believe what he was seeing,
then moved on.
	I rubbed the rest of my spunk into my skin to help it in drying,
and eventually I pulled up my pants and rejoined the ranks of the
respectable citizen.  The picture ended and I got up to leave, avoiding
eye contact with the other patrons, suddenly a little embarrassed at what
I had done so brazenly.
	The usher met me in the lobby and told me, quietly but firmly,
that I was not welcome to patronize that establishment in the future. I
hadn't played the game when he went by with his light, and so I must seek
my thrills elsewhere.  I accepted this pronouncement calmly, as I had no
intention of repeating this activity: "Once, a philosopher; twice, a
pervert."  I would not masturbate during a porn film again until I watched
Insatiable on video some years later, though I did still visit that
theatre from time to time, in the company of my friends.

	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 wish that this forum featured more discussion and less
silliness and commercialism.  I ve always wanted to be able to discuss or
at least just gab about masturbation with other people who are into it. 
Especially women: to this day I have not been able to get any of my
girlfriends to masturbate in front of me (only a couple even admitted that
they did it), though I have offered to reciprocate.  The posts pertaining
to starting up "Jack  n  Jill" clubs always turn me on, because I like the
idea of taking the solitary (and sometimes lonely) aspect away from
masturbation.  In the meantime, I ll just keep flogging away, waiting to
hear what others have to share on the subject.