Masturbating together out in the woods

by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by masturbators like you

When I was in college, during the years when my hormones and my loneliness seemed to rise in equal measure, I developed a recurring fantasy that became my steady companion in those riotous, sexually frustrated days. I’d imagine myself out in the woods behind campus, the kind of place where the smell of decaying leaves and fresh-cut grass lingered in the air, and the quiet was only ever broken by the chatter of squirrels or the occasional laughter of distant students. I liked to go there after classes, both to escape the monotony of syllabi and to indulge in the ritual of solitary masturbation—the only thing that brought clarity and relief to the chaos of my overstuffed brain.

The fantasy always began with me sitting on a fallen log, pants around my thighs, jerking off to the swirling memories of girls I’d seen that day: the girl in philosophy with the low-cut yellow sweater who always crossed her legs just as I snuck a look; the tall athlete from my Literature seminar, muscles straining against her running tights as she bent over to tie her shoes outside the library; or the pale, bespectacled girl from Chem lab whose tight jeans and shy, downward gaze made me ache with a kind of devotional lust I’d never put into words. In my mind, their faces and bodies blurred and overlapped, each girl a living, breathing collage of sexual possibility.

But the real energy of the fantasy came from my imagined encounter with another person—always a girl from my college, always someone smart and a little bit awkward, who’d recognize me from class or the dining hall. She’d catch me in the act, but instead of anger or shock, there’d be a moment of awkward, almost comic understanding. Standing above me, maybe with her arms crossed and one eyebrow cocked, she’d roll her eyes with a little half-smile, and say something like, “Look, do you mind if I join you? I… could really use a release, too.” Her voice would be matter-of-fact, a little dry, but beneath it there’d be a shiver of barely contained excitement.

From there, my fantasy would spiral: both of us sitting on the log, a respectful six inches of mossy bark between us, hands moving in frantic, unsynchronized rhythms as we pretended not to notice but couldn’t help but stare. Neither of us said much, but the silence was electric, heavy with the weight of what we were doing. Once in a while, we’d let slip some confession—a dirty fantasy, an embarrassing fetish, a story about the last time we couldn’t wait and had to get off during class or in the library bathroom. I always imagined that she’d be the one to speak first, to say something shockingly bold like, “I think about fucking my TA when I do this,” or, “sometimes I record myself and listen to the audio on repeat.” When she confessed, I’d feel a rush of kinship so intense it was almost painful, and I’d answer in kind, describing the fantasies I’d buried under layers of shame and discretion.

We never kissed in the fantasy, never so much as brushed hands. That was the rule: it was about mutual relief, not romance. We’d finish within seconds of each other—sometimes I’d come first and she’d tease me for it, or sometimes she’d arch her back and grip the log, shuddering, and I’d follow suit moments later. Afterwards, we’d catch our breath, redress, and walk back to campus together in comfortable, slightly embarrassed silence. No one ever found out. There were no strings, no consequences, just the shared acknowledgment that sometimes, two introverts needed a safe space to scratch an itch before going back to the grind of homework and social anxiety.

In my mind, I replayed this scenario so many times it became almost as real as anything that actually happened to me in college. I’d lie in my dorm bed at night, headphones in, replaying every detail: the snap of a twig under her foot as she found me, the way the afternoon sun glinted through her flyaway hair, the gleam of her saliva as she licked her fingers clean in one unselfconscious motion. I’d imagine her name was something classic, like Rachel or Hannah or Claire, and that she was studying something complicated and unsexy, like biochemistry or actuarial science. I’d give her a backstory, a nervous laugh, a biting wit that surfaced only when she felt safe, which was why she liked our arrangement so much.

The more I indulged the fantasy, the more detailed it became. I’d imagine that after a few weeks of our ritual, she’d start bringing props: a towel to sit on, textured lube she’d bought online, even a dog-eared copy of Anaïs Nin’s Little Birds that she’d read excerpts from while we got ourselves off. Sometimes, she’d propose a challenge—masturbate side-by-side without touching yourself for as long as possible, or describe a fantasy in excruciating detail until the other person couldn’t hold out any longer. There were days when we’d arrive at the log, look at each other, and just burst out laughing at the absurdity of it all. In those moments, I felt like I’d found the one person in the world who understood not just my body, but the way my brain worked—the endless churning of desire, the strange power of secrecy, the freedom of being seen in all my weirdness and not being judged for it.

We never exchanged numbers or met up outside the woods. Sometimes, I’d see her on campus the next day, buried in a book or hurrying to class with her headphones on, and we’d share a brief, conspiratorial glance before going our separate ways. It was exciting to imagine this secret layer to our lives, this parallel intimacy that existed outside the rules of college romance and hookup culture. There were no dates, no mixed signals, no emotional minefields—just pure, undiluted lust and the unspoken agreement that we could be honest with each other in a way that felt impossible in any other context.