Sadly, I have never met another woman who enjoys what I am about to speak of as much as I do. These topics usually don't come up in polite conversation, however (which is all I seem to have with most women) so I'm not sure if women actually DO enjoy it and I'm just not aware of it or if they usually DON'T enjoy it and I am (as I've suspected) a freak. Admittedly I just did a quick google search on the topic, and what comes up are wiki questions from a bunch of men asking the same question. I am going to clear the air for my female counterparts and raise my lacquered hand in the air and state, "I enjoy watching men jack off."
I mean, I really, really enjoy it. Back when I had more time on my hands (heh) than I do now, and was sadly unsure of how to use the time constructively, I used to search for videos of men masturbating. Sadly, most of it was quite trashy, and there was usually another man off camera "coaching" the fellows (as if men needed coaching on how to pleasure themselves) and that was a complete turn off. I love this bit of a man's personal reperatoire, and could watch every day if I had the choice. Lots of men. One after another.
The first time I watched a man jack himself off (live and in person), it was as if I was hit by an electric shock right smack dab in the middle of my clit. Setting up the situation was tough (it was, of course, my idea) as I wasn't too heavily involved with the guy yet, so I didn't want to sound...strange, or greedy, or needy. He was highly adventurous, generous, and we spoke of random sex acts freely - like a pair of talk show hosts. Once I got the courage I purred one night into his ear, "Tonight there is nothing else I want to see more than you fucking yourself."
It was a dark evening, with hardly any moonlight, so I had trouble reading his face after I asked. I'm sure I was flushed, my heart beating like a jackrabbit's and making my left tit jiggle with its rhythm. Thankfully, my nerves were spared when he didn't say anything at all and swiftly pulled his cock out of his jeans (he was already sporting a full-blown hard on) and started moving his fist quickly up, down, around...
I was mesmerized. I grew up around women. I had never witnessed something so raw and gorgeous as what was happening in front of me. I had given my share of blowjobs by this point but never had I seen a man do exactly what he wanted to do to himself (ah, as if I weren't there at all). It was quite a lesson in technique, in what feels how where to a man. His cock simply throbbed and soon a tiny bead of pre-come appeared, so I deftly leaned over and licked it off. I looked up at his face again, and that's when I fell madly in love with the act. Now don't get me wrong, I was a seasoned pro in my own self-pleasure, but seeing a man take advantage of himself was something else all together. The pure earnestness of it. He bit his lip, his brow was furrowed. And godalmighty the sound of it. The subtle (and soon NOT so subtle) slap, slap, slap. I fucking loved cock so much and ohhhhhh. I could tell he was close to bringing himself to where we all crave to be (all the time), so I asked if I could swallow when he came. His eyes, all tiny pupils in cornflower blue snapped open and for a minute I was afraid I had broken the spell.
I yelped a bit when his hand practically flew off of his cock and around the back of my neck, pushing my lips down, down, down. I felt his release move quickly up and out, and I drank every last drop of him. I don't remember the rest. Honestly. I think I might have fainted. After that initial "watching" event I was a junkie, and pouted when I met men who felt uncomfortable with me being a panting voyeur.
Showing posts with label masturbation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label masturbation. Show all posts
Friday, October 30, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Train
(Originally entered in journal form - how retro!)
Having trouble writing without a computer to clack away at. This is nostalgic! Reminds me of ancient times of hot, sunny, slow days at the outdoor historical museum that employed me during my high school summers. No one to give a tour to for hours at a time during the weekdays, my battered copy of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues and red spiral notebook shoved into my backpack. I was a reflective, horny teenager with reflective, horny teenage visions. The lack of visitors and privacy of a certain parlor train car bathroom led to nimble masturbation. I had a unique relationship with the restored artifact. Fifteen years later, I can still remember my tour:
(Dates and names might have been changed to protect the train's identity)
The 1912 Smith Barney parlor passenger car was one of the last wooden steam train cars of its kind. Every last bit of the train was made with luxury in mind, and it was the elite "first class" train car of its day. The interior is mahogany with walnut and ivory inlay, the porter call buttons are mother of pearl, the upholstery brushed mohair. Tiffany (yes, that Tiffany) designed the hanging lamps and the top and side light windows. The bathrooms have copper sinks and I abuse myself at least once a week behind its shut ebony door.
And I did. At least once a week. Usually on very slow, very hot days. I could peek down the line of historical buildings and trolleys, print shops and gas stations, and see that no one was coming from that direction. Then I'd peek down the other side of the museum, no one was coming from the direction of the Erie Canal bridge and toll office and the building that housed the planes. No one there, either. I'd put the chain across the front with a sign that read, "Tour Guide will return in 5 minutes". It usually only took less than one minute of frenzy in that stationary train to reach the place that constricts, then relaxes. Where eyes go wide with the still novel discovery of self. For a brief instant I'm face-to-face with God.
I quickly exit the rear of the fancy car to reach the restroom to wash all traces of virginal excitement off. The restroom is, idyllically, across a covered bridge (the type of folks travel miles from home to see) and am back within my 5 minute allotment to the train: shiny and bright. Both of us, the train and I are puffed up and relaxed: a similar feeling to the one I used to get after smoking really good weed but with total mental clarity.
By that time a tour group or couple might have arrived. They probably think the young tour guide is glowing with the thrill of her work, the day, the sun, the train ride through time and history. Her tour is informative, passionate, and she answers their questions articulately.
I recall furiously writing in my red spiral notebook that I thought I was falling in love with the train car, both its feminine and masculine side. I didn't write down that I feared that one day the scent of my excitement would give my transgressions away and I would be fired, turned into my parents, and shamed at fifteen. But the gold mirrors lining the mahogany walls reflected back that my attraction was requited. The train loved my flushed cheeks, my direct gaze, my honest praise to complete strangers of the car's best attributes.
A few years after my summers as a tour guide, I came back to visit the train. It had been moved inside of a new building: spruced up and shined up, protected by darkened windows and air conditioning, away from the sun's assaulting gaze.
Running my hands over the mohair, feeling a slightly embarrassed thrill as I remembered being cloaked in privacy behind the bathroom door. I would remember my hands moving past my green museum-issue polo and into the requisite khaki shorts.
There's no wrap-up/catch phrase to end this. A love for the moment grew for me during those years of history and knowledge. An optimism for sun, for being young, for the ageless beauty of history.
Having trouble writing without a computer to clack away at. This is nostalgic! Reminds me of ancient times of hot, sunny, slow days at the outdoor historical museum that employed me during my high school summers. No one to give a tour to for hours at a time during the weekdays, my battered copy of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues and red spiral notebook shoved into my backpack. I was a reflective, horny teenager with reflective, horny teenage visions. The lack of visitors and privacy of a certain parlor train car bathroom led to nimble masturbation. I had a unique relationship with the restored artifact. Fifteen years later, I can still remember my tour:
(Dates and names might have been changed to protect the train's identity)
The 1912 Smith Barney parlor passenger car was one of the last wooden steam train cars of its kind. Every last bit of the train was made with luxury in mind, and it was the elite "first class" train car of its day. The interior is mahogany with walnut and ivory inlay, the porter call buttons are mother of pearl, the upholstery brushed mohair. Tiffany (yes, that Tiffany) designed the hanging lamps and the top and side light windows. The bathrooms have copper sinks and I abuse myself at least once a week behind its shut ebony door.
And I did. At least once a week. Usually on very slow, very hot days. I could peek down the line of historical buildings and trolleys, print shops and gas stations, and see that no one was coming from that direction. Then I'd peek down the other side of the museum, no one was coming from the direction of the Erie Canal bridge and toll office and the building that housed the planes. No one there, either. I'd put the chain across the front with a sign that read, "Tour Guide will return in 5 minutes". It usually only took less than one minute of frenzy in that stationary train to reach the place that constricts, then relaxes. Where eyes go wide with the still novel discovery of self. For a brief instant I'm face-to-face with God.
I quickly exit the rear of the fancy car to reach the restroom to wash all traces of virginal excitement off. The restroom is, idyllically, across a covered bridge (the type of folks travel miles from home to see) and am back within my 5 minute allotment to the train: shiny and bright. Both of us, the train and I are puffed up and relaxed: a similar feeling to the one I used to get after smoking really good weed but with total mental clarity.
By that time a tour group or couple might have arrived. They probably think the young tour guide is glowing with the thrill of her work, the day, the sun, the train ride through time and history. Her tour is informative, passionate, and she answers their questions articulately.
I recall furiously writing in my red spiral notebook that I thought I was falling in love with the train car, both its feminine and masculine side. I didn't write down that I feared that one day the scent of my excitement would give my transgressions away and I would be fired, turned into my parents, and shamed at fifteen. But the gold mirrors lining the mahogany walls reflected back that my attraction was requited. The train loved my flushed cheeks, my direct gaze, my honest praise to complete strangers of the car's best attributes.
A few years after my summers as a tour guide, I came back to visit the train. It had been moved inside of a new building: spruced up and shined up, protected by darkened windows and air conditioning, away from the sun's assaulting gaze.
Running my hands over the mohair, feeling a slightly embarrassed thrill as I remembered being cloaked in privacy behind the bathroom door. I would remember my hands moving past my green museum-issue polo and into the requisite khaki shorts.
There's no wrap-up/catch phrase to end this. A love for the moment grew for me during those years of history and knowledge. An optimism for sun, for being young, for the ageless beauty of history.
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