This is a true story, and it contains explicit language, etc. If you are
offended by accounts of masturbatory behavior, what are you doing in this
newsgroup, anyway?
I have always been interested in masturbation, since my earliest
experiences with it at the tender age of three, but it is a hard thing to
discuss with anyone. It hardly need be said that this newsgroup seemed at
first to be a gift from the neavens.
Lately, however, it seems that what had been an interesting group,
dveoted to a subject which surely interests a number of people, has become
overrun with phone-sex ads and juvenile clowning which would make any
seventh grader snort in derision. There is no honest discussion to speak
of, and the few brave women who used to post here have long since
vanished, no doubt hounded off the group by innumerable "Wanna Fuck?"
messages in their e-mail in response to their posts.
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 when I was about fourteen or fifteen, 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 many shelves opposite the railing.
Besides the inevetable [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 curiousity.
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 irrepressible "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 participated in
circle jerks, but I had experienced vague longings for such contact. I'm
not sure it was out of homoerotic desire [though such things can certainly
encroach on a straight 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. A pang of envy
at the free and open feeling of Betty's masturbation rituals mixed with
the heightening arousal I felt, attested to by a throbbing erection.
The author had illustrated the book with a few pen-and-ink
drawings, some of which were close-up views of women's cunts. In the
early 1970's, most women still grew up thinking that their cunts were ugly
or dirty, and a lot of Dodson's workshop dealt with women becoming more
comfortable with their bodies. But it was 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. A little further in the book were a few sketches of
nude women riding their vibrators, and it was all I could take. I stood
on the upstairs landing, with my mother's friend scrubbing away at the
kitchen floor, and pumped my eager young rod.
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, stupid." 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. A few drops
oozed out with the lingering pulses of my climax to be caught in my
stroking fingers.
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. 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 progess. 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
get my hands 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 apres-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 judgement (to say nothing of my manners) as to my choice 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 in which she
herself indulged.
It is a measure of how nonplussed 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 consiousness, female autoeroticism most of all. I would
read anything on the subject, and stories about masturbation in places
like Penthouse Forum always set me stroking. Betty Dodson and her amazing
groups became a minor preoccupation of mine, and I eventually bought both
of her subsequent books. Last I heard, she was still at it, teaching
women to be comfortable with their bodies and to enjoy their sexuality. I
even wrote a couple of "fan letters" and she was kind enough to answer
them. That's the extent of my experience with her, though I harbor a hope
of meeting her someday.
(BTW, her most recent book, "Sex for One," is still in print, or
you can write Betty at Box 1933, Murray Hill, New York NY 10156)
If there's anyone out there with any experiences about Betty and
her workshops, I would love to hear about them. Any email will be treated
in confidence, and I assure I am not an author of these "Hey Baby"
messages.