Chronic Masturbation Stories
A boy discovers Betty Dodson and is discovered in flagrante by his mother’s friend. From the net, circa 1995
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.