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Masturbation Memoirs

by Doug Holland    

On this particular afternoon, though, stroking my schlong was better than it had ever been before. Instead of just giving me a delightful tingly feeling as I massaged it, there was something else happening. I didn’t know what was coming, but I could feel it building toward a crescendo. Sweet sensations were traveling farther down my hairless boyhood than they’d ever gone before, and something strange and spectacular was about to happen. I was in awe, anticipating it without even knowing what I was anticipating. And then....

After a few moments in outer space, my first coherent thought was “Have I broken my penis?” If so, it was wonderfully broken. Amazingly broken, fantastically shattered, ruined beyond words. White syrupy glop was on the ceiling, on the sheets, all over my hand, and it seemed to be coming from my peehole. To determine whether it was damaged, I repeated the experiment, and then to be sure, I repeated it again. Since then, I’ve never gone more than a few days without whacking off. I’ve done it everywhere I’ve gone, leaving a quarter-century of stale semen stains on all my linens, all my clothes. Even my white T-shirts look almost tie-dyed psychedelic.

I’ve masturbated in movie theaters, while admiring the twenty-foot tall face of Kathy Bates or Kevin Costner. If you’re the only person in your row at the movies, and the rows immediately in front and behind you are empty, there’s not even any need to discreetly place your jacket over your groin.

I’ve masturbated on city buses, looking out the window at whomever was walking by—young women, middle-aged men, old women, fluffy dogs. The view from the bus, suspended several feet above both traffic and pedestrians, can provide primo privacy if the bus is relatively empty.

During late adolescence, when I desperately didn’t want to go to church but my parents forced me to attend, my favorite act of rebellion was servicing myself in the sanctuary before the services. I masturbated under the stained glass windows, in the balcony, at the altar, and several times at the pastor’s pulpit. If my mother ever cajoles me into going back to that church, I’d like to look closely at the base of the giant cross in front of the congregation and see if the trail of my dried jism is still there. I’ve masturbated in dozens of men’s rooms, behind closed stall doors. A young man’s fancy turns to sex close to constantly, and the privacy of the privy is within easy access almost anywhere. Close and latch the door, unlatch the pants and have a seat. If you hear footsteps, hold everything, but otherwise have a slap-happy time. Bonus: Clean-up materials are provided gratis.

I masturbated in the ladies’ room once, after hours at work. That was fun.

I’ve dripped my cum across Dan Rather’s face while watching the Evening News. I’ve splashed Julia Child, Roseanne, Batman’s butler, Velma on Scooby-Doo, Worf on Star Trek, and, of course, William F. Buckley on PBS.

I’ve masturbated in flight, at sea, in elevators, on the subway, on a Ferris wheel, and on the phone with my boss. I’ve masturbated while cooking dinner. I’ve masturbated while driving a two-ton rig down the freeway at night. I’ve masturbated in my cubicle at work, during business hours. I’ve fucked a Big Mac, cantaloupes, knotholes, unwashed socks, empty bottles of detergent, buttered English muffins, warm mashed potatoes, and a Princess Leia action figure. I’ve masturbated with spit, snow, mucous, mustard, KY jelly, apricot jelly, sparkling cider, coffee, tea, tapioca, soap, butter, beer, motor oil, ice cream, tartar sauce, oatmeal, bacon grease, raw steak, sour cream, shoe polish, Mountain Dew, Alka-Seltzer, the inside of a roll of toilet paper (cardboard removed), once with Ben-Gay (and believe me, once was enough), my own urine, and thousands of times with just the palm of my hand and five wraparound fingers.

Of course, it goes without saying that all my times and places, wheres, whens, whos, and hows of masturbation are utterly average. Any man and lots of women willing to speak frankly about their habits can match or exceed my solo adventures. It is a pleasant hobby, easily affordable, an expertise shared by many.

Screw the dog — a man’s best friend is his own hand. Your hand never gets a headache. Your hand never expects a nice dinner. Your hand never wants you to make a good impression on his friends and family. Your hand never gets a bladder infection, never says no, and never needs to wear protection. Your hand is always really into whatever kink or play you’re into. Nothing needs to be explained. Your hand never wants to talk about your relationship. And your hand doesn’t mind at all if you use your other hand once in a while.


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“Masturbation Memoirs” appeared in issue #18 of Black Sheets available from Black Books, PO Box 31155-H, SF CA 94131 ($6 for a sample - checks payable BLACK BOOKS). Website: www.blackbooks.com