Onania Masturbator Forum: Setting up my friends (and myself)

This story is a little long, but hopefully worth wading through. Needless to say, names have been changed, and certain things embellished, but the events are pretty much as they happened.

I’ve been an avid masturbator since forever, and I was fairly young when I discovered the added fun of masturbating to nudie magazines like Playboy and Penthouse. I think I was about eleven or twelve when I first started to amass my collection. At first, I obtained them in what I imagine is the usual manner—dusty piles of magazines in neighbors’ garages, and the like. I soon discovered a used-book shop which also featured back issues of magazines, including, happily, my favorites with the initial “P.” Little by little, my allowance and odd-job money went to filling the gaps in my collection of magazines, and by the time I was fifteen years old I had completed my collection of every Playboy and Penthouse from the prior ten years. My parents knew about my magazines and what I used them for (both of them had barged in on me as I jacked off to an open photo spread at one point or another). There was no masturbation taboo in our household, and my folks seemed to regard a young son who masturbated to nude photos of girls as a sign of normal development.

Of course, this ‘archive’ made me popular with my friends, and my family’s house was a favorite hangout anyway, due to geographical convenience. Having three or four of my friends paging through my magazines didn’t bother me, though it was frustrating to get horny from looking at the naked pictures and not be able to masturbate to relive the tension. I suspected that my friends were similarly inclined, and I felt certain they were jacking themselves off the moment they got home.

I don’t remember exactly where I got the idea, but it occurred to me that if any of the guys had access to my magazines in my room in privacy, they would likely take matters into their own hands right there. I thought it would be amusing to spy on them as they jacked off, and so set about creating the circumstances.

First, I needed to work out a vantage point. My bedroom windows faced the back yard, so peeping in through them would not attract undue attention from the neighbors. After a period of trial and error, I arranged the blinds to form a spy hole through the corner of one window which afforded a pretty good view of my bedroom without being detected from inside.

After that it was a matter of creating the situation. It was about another three weeks and into summer vacation before the opportunity came. My friend Rich had come over and we just sitting around in the living room watching TV. Both my parents were away at work, and my sister was gone for the day. My excuse for leaving was that I needed to take a stack of flyers from my mother’s real estate business to an open house she was holding a mile or so away. At first, he wanted to go along, but I dissuaded him and rode away on my bicycle.

I rode away until out of sight and returned to the house, stealthily making my way around to my spy spot unobserved. I felt a little silly peeping into my own room, but my curiosity pushed me onward. Rich was there, all right, and sat on the foot of my bed, leaning against the wall. I had a clear view as he paged through a copy of Penthouse, obviously unaware that he was being seen. A few minutes went by as he looked at several photo layouts in different issues. Then I could see his expression change as he suddenly realized his situation. He seemed to consider a moment, perhaps weighing the risk, then opened his zipper and pushed his pants and underwear down to his knees. He was already hard, and started straight away stroking his erection.

I hadn’t really thought about the possible differences in technique, that my friends might have different methods. So I was a little shocked at the urgency of Rich’s rapid strokes—he started at the speed I’m at only as I’m about to squirt.. His hand was a blur as he literally pounded his pud, his eyes on the magazine open beside him. This went on for a minute or two, and then he stopped. He got up off the bed and stepped out of his pants as they fell around his feet, then walked out of the room, nude below the waist and his erect penis poking out ahead of him.

I was a little bit confused at this, but he returned a moment later with the bottle of hand lotion from the bathroom down the hall. Of course! I should have considered lube. There was a supply in my room—a bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care in my desk drawer—but Rich had gone to the bathroom where he knew he could find some. Now he greased himself up and resumed his position. Back to his frenzied pumping. After a few more minutes he suddenly grunted; his hand froze clutching his rod as he doubled over, his body jackknifed by his orgasmic spasms. His climax rocked him a bit longer, then he flopped onto his back He lay there as his erection subsided, then he rose and put everything back, sponging up his spilled semen from my bedspread with a wad of toilet paper. Ick—I hadn’t considered that part.

I returned to the house on my bike, pretending I had been away for the entire time. By the time I entered the house, Rich was sitting on the couch, right where I had left him, as if nothing had happened. As we sat watching TV, I couldn’t help stealing little glances at him and thinking about what I’d seen. I also felt a little guilty about what I’d done, spying on my best friend’s private moment. Even the pangs of remorse didn’t prevent me from masturbating twice that night, imagining that it was me being spied upon through the peephole.

It was only two days later that my next opportunity occurred. My friend Rob was over, and we again had the house to ourselves. We were already in my bedroom and flipping through the nudie magazines when I made up an excuse to leave him alone for a while. Unlike Rich, Rob had no thought of tagging along with me.

I again pretended to leave and circled back to see what I might see. When I’d left, Rob was seated in my desk chair, looking through a copy of Penthouse. By the time I checked in, he has stripped off his pants and resumed his seat. Rob’s technique was a stark contrast from Rich’s—his strokes were languid and sensual, as he built up slowly to a wrenching climax. By the time he came, he was stretched out in the chair, one hand cupping his balls and the other gracefully stroking his shaft, spewing his semen onto his abdomen. He slouched in that chair for what seemed a long time, idly playing with the puddle of spooge on his belly. This last part surprised me a bit: I was like most boys, reaching for the tissues or the cum-rag the moment my climax had finished. But Rob traced his fingertips through the puddle of his semen before he smeared it into his skin.

Once again, my friend had restored himself to his prior state by the time I returned, and again I felt as if I was looking at him with new eyes; every time I looked at him that day I thought of the glaze of cum under his clothes, and for days after I couldn’t look at him without seeing him in my mind’s eye, indulging in my own favorite pastime.

Rob’s fascination with his own sperm led me to change my own attitude toward my emissions. I became for a time quite fascinated with my semen—but that’s a story for another time. At any rate, the practical result was that I became more comfortable with the results of my masturbatory habit, and before long I had abandoned the cum-rag for the rub-it-in method. In bed at night I even eschewed that and often just drifted off to sleep with my spunk puddle where it lay.

The third friend who fell victim to my scheme was Daniel, who found himself alone with my girlie magazines though the usual subterfuge. By the time I got to my observation spot, he was well into it, standing at my desk with a magazine open in front of him and his fist clenched around his rigid penis. He squirted on my desk top, cleaning it off with the usual wad of tissue.

I felt some guilt over my spying afterward, though I did manage to rationalize it fairly well (after all, it was my room and my magazines). Mostly, though, I felt a certain sense of relief. No matter ho many times you read that virtually all men masturbate, and that it’s normal part of life, you are usually still the only case you have any experience with. But I had seen the reality. I had watched my friends masturbate, seen them in their most private moments. I knew, in the way that only actual experience can tell, that I was not the only pud-puller, either in the world or even among my friends.

As the summer went on, I found myself wanting to talk about masturbation with my buddies who’d unwitting performed for me. Have you noticed that it’s possible to discuss virtually anything sexual nowadays except masturbation? I have always masturbated without shame, but I still kept it hidden, like everyone else. I found that I wanted someone to acknowledge it with me, to admit that they masturbated. Obviously, my three friends were prime candidates for such a discussion, but somehow I couldn’t broach the subject during our many bull sessions.

That led to the plan to get caught in the state which I had observed them. After all, I KNEW they all masturbated; if they saw me, they could hardly call the kettle black by condemning me. Still it is a sign of the power of the taboo that I entered this escapade with trepidation—though not enough, in the end, to stop me.

I decided that I would reveal myself to Rob, partly because he exhibited the greatest intelligence and sensitivity, but mostly because his masturbation technique most closely resembled mine. There remained the challenge of contriving a situation which would not appear to be—well, contrived. It had to appear accidental that Rob was catching me masturbating, rather than my showing off— the latter had homoerotic overtones which I wished to avoid.

First I decided that I would have to make my move at my own home. Whipping off my pants and pulling my pud at his house—which I had done in secret a few times in the past—seemed unlikely to evoke a positive response. (Yeah, I know, I’d seen him spank his monkey in my room before, but he didn’t know that.) And while I’d had a quick wank or two in the restrooms at school, that seemed a non-starter as well. It would have to happen at my house, most likely in my own room.

The next thing was to make it look like an accident. That meant a scenario in which I was in my room masturbating and ostensibly unaware of any potential interruptions. This was tricky to coordinate—I wanted the house to be empty of my parents and sibling, lest any scene spread to the whole household. I was still a bit nervous, for though I thought Rob would react with aplomb, I had no way to be certain.

I chickened out the first time I had a chance to unmask myself as a masturbator, and it was a few weeks before another chance came along. One Saturday morning with my folks shopping for a new washing machine and my sister at a friend’s house, I had the place to myself. I also expected the guys to be along shortly after noon, and Rob almost always showed up first. If that were the case this time, I would be ready, and go through with my plan.

Back then, by noon on a Saturday I had typically masturbated at least once, but this Saturday I denied myself release. But I did not deny myself the pleasure of stroking my erect cock; by the time noon had come and gone, I had spent the better part of four hours in leisurely masturbation, bringing myself to the brink of orgasm four times and then letting myself back away from the edge. I must have used a half a bottle of Nivea hand lotion in keeping my throbbing cock hard and ready for action. I was quite beside myself with the need to ejaculate, pacing nude around my room and keeping lookout through the window, when I saw Rob riding up on his bike.

I had set the scene already, with my stereo playing and several Penthouses open on the bed. I flopped onto the bed and lay back against the corner as I heard the front door open downstairs—where I come from, open front doors are the norm. I suddenly felt lightheaded as I stroked away, pretending to have no inkling of what was about to happen. I heard Rob call my name, but the record playing in my room would be the plausible reason I didn’t hear him. I stroked my slippery hard-on and suddenly felt the familiar tightening in my balls and realized that whatever happened there would be no backing out now.

I couldn’t have timed it better if I’d been directing it for video. I didn’t actually see Rob enter the room, because at that moment I was under the complete control of my aching cock, mindlessly pumping my rod as gobs of pent-up spunk flew out onto my heaving belly.

Rob was, to say the least, surprised. I had meant to act surprised when he showed up, but instead all I could do was flail away at my spewing cock and finish myself off. I had conceived any number of possible responses, but complete paralysis had not been among them. Rob just stood there as I finished my orgasm—one of the most powerful I had ever experienced. I can’t blame him for his silence—after all, when you walk into your best friend’s room and find him shooting his jizz in masturbatory bliss, le mot juste may not present itself.

When I spoke, it was nothing more intelligent then, “Shit, man.” Rob snapped out of it then, saying, “Sorry, man, I didn’t know you were busy.” Then he really surprised me by pulling out my desk chair and sitting down. “I figured this was why you had all those magazines.”

There could have been any amount of tension in such a situation, but Rob’s native calmness prevented that. I should have felt ridiculous, there on my bed with a lapful of cum, but Rob just treated it as totally blasé. We wound up having a long exchange of our masturbation histories and methods: it turned out that Rob’s own masturbation habits really did parallel my own in frequency and technique. By the time I got up to take a shower, I had been put very much at my ease.

I came back from my shower, wearing only a towel around my waist, to discover Rob still in my chair, but with his pants around his ankles and merrily jacking off to Miss November. I was quite ready to go again, so I returned to the bed and the magazines and tossed off as well. By the time the rest of the gang showed up, we were downstairs watching TV as if nothing had happened.

Rob and I never masturbated together again after that time, but we did become a bit more open between ourselves about our self-pleasure habits. He also became a frequent borrower from my “library,” taking some of my magazines home with him for the express purpose of masturbation. Sometimes we would compare notes later on which photos sent us over the edge, etc.

As often happens, life went on and Rob and his family moved to another city in during our sophomore year. I have never been able to have that sort of frank exchange about masturbation with anyone else since, though I would certainly like to. I guess that’s what this site is about: being able to share in our collective enthusiasm for masturbating.