by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by BetaNerd
Trying to flirt and “get laid” has always been a source of anxiety for me, and masturbating has always been how I’ve coped with that. My relationship with sex is basically a never-ending quest for escape from performance anxiety. Even in my earliest memories, I always noticed the tension growing in my chest whenever a girl looked at me, or even when a conversation steered toward sexuality. While every other boy in my middle school health class snickered or eye-rolled through the anatomy diagrams, I was the one who stared forward without expression, pulse hammering, sweating bullets, mortified by the thought that someone could tell how hard I was under the desk.
I developed an early, almost spiritual reliance on masturbation. It was the only time I felt truly safe—no eyes, no expectations, just the closed loop of my own body, mind, and hand. By eighth grade I was so practiced that I could edge myself for hours, sometimes cumming five, six, even nine times in a single night while everyone else in the house slept. I learned my own anatomy better than any textbook: I could tell you, down to the pump, how many strokes it would take to bring myself to the brink, how to pause at just the right moment to get maximum swelling, the optimal grip, the best lube-to-skin ratio for every kind of stimulation.
My first brush with the concept of a fleshlight came in some forum post on Reddit, buried in a thread about “loser male” coping strategies. I was maybe 15. I ordered one online using my cousin’s ID, sweat pounding like a tribal drum the whole week it was in transit. When it finally arrived, a squishy, pink-lipped, “real-feel” sleeve, I tore into it like an animal. I expected transcendent sexual revelation. Instead, I got limpness, frustration, and an overwhelming sense of shame. The entry was too tight, too artificial. The lube felt cold and clinical. My dick, which had always responded with rigid, happy attention to my own hand, shrank and turtled, refusing to perform. I tried again and again over the course of weeks—different lubes, different angles, different pornographies, everything from vanilla to the most degenerate—but nothing worked. Even the “pervy teacher” roleplay scenario that usually triggered a fountain broke down in the face of this cold, unyielding plastic.
It was then that I realized I was not just sexually awkward, I was genuinely solosexual. My hand had ruined me for anything else. I obsessed for months about my “failure” to use the fleshlight, but every time I gave up and went back to bare-palming it, the relief was so intense I sometimes wept. I started seeking out porn specifically about chronic masturbation, handjobs, and, eventually, “pussyfree” men. I found an entire subculture devoted to it—handpussy, solosexual, beta cumbrains, fapstronauts who’d given up on women to chase the perfect nut. The sense of belonging was overwhelming.
By the time I hit college, I had a dozen different routines perfected. I would wake up and edge for an hour before class, sometimes watching the nastiest, most humiliating porn I could find. I would jerk in the library, in the locked stall, sometimes silently, sometimes letting out a little whimper if I knew no one else was around. I even started a private Tumblr to document my masturbation journey—daily photos of my cock, my cum, my hands, even the shape of my palm pressed to my glans. I started referring to my palm as my “girlfriend,” my “handpussy,” my “personal bimbo.”
I never once actually tried to fuck an actual girl. The idea of it filled me with dread. Whenever a girl flirted with me, I would freeze, then ghost, then race back to my dorm to jerk off the stress. I skipped every campus party, every club, every group study session where I might have to talk about sex or relationships. I joined only one club: the campus “Men’s Health and Wellness” group, ironically, so I could lurk at the back of meetings and learn more about the biology of addiction and sexual fixation.
Through all this, the only consistent pleasure came from my hand. I tried everything to “improve”—new fleshlights, Tenga eggs, VR porn, even one of those auto-stroker machines you plug into your phone and sync to a video. None of it matched the primal, skin-to-skin perfection of my own grip. The harder I tried to “fix” myself, the more I realized I didn’t want to be fixed. Every time I heard a friend brag about a one-night stand or complain about “picky” girls, I got a smug, warm feeling in my stomach. I was losing nothing. I had bypassed the drama, the anxiety, the emotional blackmail of human intimacy.
I still get off, multiple times a day, to the idea of being a permanently unfuckable beta. I have totally internalized my solosexual orientation. My browser history is nothing but “pussyfree loser,” “handpussy obsession,” “jerkoff lifestyle,” “beta male humiliation.” I edge myself to stories about men who have broken their dicks on their own hands, men who can’t even get hard for porn anymore unless it involves total emasculation. The more I jerk off, the better I feel about my place in the world. I have even started posting in the same Reddit threads where I first learned about the lifestyle, telling other anxious, masturbatory losers that it’s okay, that they don’t need to be fixed, that some of us were born for this.
I don’t even want sex anymore. The idea of an actual vagina is hilarious to me. My dick is hand-tamed, palm-bonded, pussyfree, and always hungry for more of me. There is no “cure” for my cumbrain, and I wouldn’t want one if there was.
Chronic masturbation made me and keeps me pussyfree beta male and I love it.