Kind masturbation on chat
I was in the bathtub, helpless to a steady stream of warm water cascading down my lady parts, while the most intoxicating buildup brought me to my first orgasm.
Robert Louis Stevenson will forever be an erotic novelist in my mind.
My hormones were a freight train, and I tried to keep up. This girl probably wanted to be an actress, but couldn’t make it. The more pitiful the story, the more I was turned on. What did it mean that my escape method was someone else’s supposed misfortune?
I wonder now if I would have lost the thrill of masturbation eventually, once the novelty wore off, but I found new thrills. I masturbated every day, multiple times a day, until I was exhausted and sore. I became interested in S&M, casting call couches, bang buses. It didn’t matter if the stories I invented in my head were true.
I started staying up late, when Mom and Dad were snoring away in oblivion, to watch softcore porn on Cinemax. I didn’t know whether to hate her or love her, but I knew I needed her. My brother was three years older, and I’d wait for him to leave the house and then raid his stash, hidden in his bedside drawer under men’s fitness magazines and school notebooks. Later, when classmates at my all-girls Catholic high school were talking about MTV, YM magazine and PMS, I was educating myself on all sorts of other acronyms: DP, POV, ATM and more. Some of the videos had horrible acting bits that made me giggle. I hadn’t a clue what compelled these actresses to pursue this line of work.
With the advent of chat rooms on AOL, I supplemented porn with cybersex and sometimes managed to find clips and videos online, which took hours to download. Others were uncomfortably real, such as forlorn Thai hookers and mistake-making drunk party girls. I prayed the “teen” porn stars were 18 like the disclaimers promised. Whether I was in a relationship or not, my bond with porn never waned. What mattered is that I was getting off on their — real or imaginary — pain and subjugation.