BDSM, Coming out, Fantasies, Love, Wonderboy

Masturbating Is Like Dreaming

Last night I was really horny. I was ichy me, puppying around Wonderboy, touching him while passing, kissing him deeply and jumping on him when he was lying on the couch with a book in his hands, pondering some pretty clever and tragic stories by Annie Proulx.

I’d been waiting the whole day that things would settle down and we’d have some time to cuddle naked. Well, when we got to bed, naked and everything, his skin so warm and tempting against mine, Wonderboy just looked at me with those reddened sleepy eyes of his and said, I’m so tired. He meant way too tired for that.

Let me rewind a bit. We had just both disclosed that after the great sex we had had on saturday, we had masturbated the same night, secretly and by ourselves. It’s been a tough pickle in our relationship. Masturbating I mean. As I’ve said before, I used to be unable to connect during sex, and only came if I was fantasizing about something completely different. I also felt abandoned and unloved, even cheated on, when I knew (or imagined) that Wonderboy was masturbating. It wasn’t solely jealousy, (which I do admit to by the way, and I’m not proud of it) it was also the fact that Wonderboy would rather play with himself than even try to fix the things that were wrong between us.

I’ve always felt that masturbating with someone should be fine, it should be natural since you already have sex together, but for me it’s been a dreaded ground none the less. I’ve hated the fact that the other one is more in control, not thrown overboard by the emotions and lust. I’ve hated how it makes me feel vulnerable and like I owe them something, more than I can give back. But at the same time I’m strangely drawn to him masturbating.

If I hear something, (and I’m so perceptive in this area you wouldn’t believe) I’d wager comes from excitement and trying to hide it – if Wonderboy has stayed behind on the couch with his laptop when I went to bed – I get turned on in a second. As a matter of fact, saturday night I woke up to the almost unhearable sounds of him doing the deed. And I woke up my heart racing. I don’t know why. I asked him what he was doing and he answered angrily nothing so I knew something was up. But I was completely happy thinking about him getting off, because I was so happy and content. I drifted back to sleep.

So, when we discussed the next day, we also discussed about trying to find the words to say hon, I love you, but I’m in the middle of pleasuring myself. I’ll come and cuddle you when I’m ready, okay? It really shouldn’t be so hard, should it, if we are both content and happy and open about it? I said that it was kind of not fair for him to get angry at me for asking – or interrupting – because, hey, I live here too! There’s always a way to make it feel good for me too. I guess we’re both probably brought up to be so ashamed and guilty about masturbating that we’re still reacting to those feelings, the reactions we fear to face, and not the other one’s real reaction.

But masturbating is like dreaming. We need it to keep sane. We need it to get to know ourselves, our bodies, to take care of ourselves. We need it to whip up new fantasies and to fantasize about each other – away from each other. It’s important. Wonderboy told me some time ago that he hadn’t felt that passionate in a long while. After we had cried and talked and cried some more, I realized that he had locked his lust away by refusing to masturbate. At all. He felt, he really did, that he was somehow cheating on me by pleasuring himself. So I had to make a stand.

I made him masturbate in front of me. I made him hold my head against his thigh while he whacked his cock, wet and hard, quick and hard. And came. All over me and himself. I grinded myself almost to an orgam with him, I was so turned on by the display. Him enjoying by himself. Only pleasuring himself. Not letting me participate in any way. Not even letting me touch myself.

And last night he made me do the same. He started kissing me and said Do it so that I won’t find out, secretly, here in my arms. His hand was lying across my chest and other hand was behind my neck. I pulled the duvet over us in a shameful and half silly gesture. I want to be hidden then, I said and smiled. And we kissed. Long, deep, invasive kisses. I started tentatively flipping my clit. I rubbed it for a while before I got to the groove. The thing was, I couldn’t get off on him not knowing I was masturbating, only the other way around. So I fantasized he was wanking under the covers, too. I fantasized his big cock was slipping wet and pulsing with lust, and he wouldn’t let me touch it. He was about to come, he was using me for kissing to get even more wound up, but he wouldn’t let me touch it. He’d come he’d come he’d come in a few more strokes, but I wasn’t allowed to touch him. I was just used to kiss, to hold close and in place.

I came so hard.

I got a sleepy smile and a hug. Another kiss. I said thank you. He laughed gently and asked me Did you thank me? I said yes. I smiled with tears in my eyes. I was so happy. It felt so good. He was so close to me, and still it was me. It was my hand on my clit, my finger inside me. But he was on my skin, my lips, my head, my heart. I was overwhelmed by him. I was his so completely I lost myself.

Then sleep took us. And it was nothing less than making love. Nothing less than it at all.

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2 thoughts on “Masturbating Is Like Dreaming

  1. erogravity says:

    What a treasure this story was. I really identified with lots of the feelings from you both. You’re a wonderful writer.

  2. Thank you so much, egogravity.

    I’m glad to hear you liked it and relieved to hear that you identified with the emotions. I feel kind of ashamed of the jealousy and the time it’s taken to get here. But we don’t live in a vacuum, and I guess I have come relatively far considering our upbringing and the silence (silencing) that wraps around masturbating in our culture.

    Yeah, there are toys nowadays, but in an ideal relationship you shouldn’t need to masturbate. At least that’s what we are lead to believe. Although, we are also lead to believe that only PIV is real sex. Boy, people are missing on so much if they believe the general truths! (Like I have, too, so I’m not condescending here.)

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