Tonight I masturbated as I imagine women masturbate more often than men. Playful, softly, receptive. I touched my own skin, my genitals, my shaft and balls, and cherished the sensations as they came into me. Surged in me as a river, a soft electric river, soothing me and teasing me with every stroke and slide, far deeper in my body than the point of contact between my skins. I played touching myself softly, oh so softly, and noticed, noticed, as the sensations came through.
What was different about this masturbation? I felt no shame about it. No shame, no loneliness, it was not a hiding man's recourse to soothe the pains of boredom and resentment of the past, the crumbs of a starving beggar. It was a game between my fingers and my skin. Body to body. An act of devotion to myself. A river of sensation whose course I directed with my hands and my focus, at each moment of attentive play.
There was no need of a woman. There was no fantasy of a woman, pressuring my imagination into expressing dominance and masculinity, into getting it done with virility, into doing it right. Of lasting enough, of my shaft being big enough, hard enough, of hidden stories and fantasies. Just a game, an exploration of landscapes yet to discover.
And as shame was not there, my body felt free to sound. Long deep breaths accompanied my movements and my sensations, and gave a rhythm within each all happened. My exhales felt open, unblocked. No volume limit. No lid. And the waves, in sequence, flowed smoothly as well. Long relieving sighs through my body as it opened, in pulses, like a flower, as I felt my body in never-before-imagined positions of surrendered delight. On my knees, legs spread out on the ground, my shaft fully erect in the direction it chose to, my spine curved back and my face to the sky. Softness was welcome for once, no longer excluded from my masculinity, and it gave everything a texture of pleasure and surrender. It is new to me.
Much shame and loneliness and aim and desires and repression had been linked to my masturbation. Now they all feel much looser, if still there at all. Thank you, body. Thank you, attention.
What was different about this masturbation? I felt no shame about it. No shame, no loneliness, it was not a hiding man's recourse to soothe the pains of boredom and resentment of the past, the crumbs of a starving beggar. It was a game between my fingers and my skin. Body to body. An act of devotion to myself. A river of sensation whose course I directed with my hands and my focus, at each moment of attentive play.
There was no need of a woman. There was no fantasy of a woman, pressuring my imagination into expressing dominance and masculinity, into getting it done with virility, into doing it right. Of lasting enough, of my shaft being big enough, hard enough, of hidden stories and fantasies. Just a game, an exploration of landscapes yet to discover.
And as shame was not there, my body felt free to sound. Long deep breaths accompanied my movements and my sensations, and gave a rhythm within each all happened. My exhales felt open, unblocked. No volume limit. No lid. And the waves, in sequence, flowed smoothly as well. Long relieving sighs through my body as it opened, in pulses, like a flower, as I felt my body in never-before-imagined positions of surrendered delight. On my knees, legs spread out on the ground, my shaft fully erect in the direction it chose to, my spine curved back and my face to the sky. Softness was welcome for once, no longer excluded from my masculinity, and it gave everything a texture of pleasure and surrender. It is new to me.
Much shame and loneliness and aim and desires and repression had been linked to my masturbation. Now they all feel much looser, if still there at all. Thank you, body. Thank you, attention.
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