Why shouldn’t you? Why shouldn’t you love your cock? Nobody knows it like you do. Nobody can make it sing like you can. No lover, no matter how skilled, will ever reach the places you can reach in your own head. No one will ever understand the way your arousal crests and crashes, the strange kinks that light up your brain, the specific shapes and sounds and smells that rocket you into another dimension. You’re not just a chronic masturbator. You’re an artist, a craftsman, a god in the temple of your own body.
No longer in need to fight your guilt and shame
by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by masturbators like you
You can only stroke it in the dark, right? For years, that was the rule. The room blacked out, the sheet tented over your midsection, your left hand tucked over your mouth to stifle the gasps you could never quite hold in, no matter how hard you tried. The silence of the house all around you, your parents’ voices muted through two closed doors, but always with the gnawing, bristling terror of being heard. Busted. Judged. Ruined forever, your secrets exposed on the thin fabric of your underwear.
I know you, chronic masturbator, because I am you. I’ve lived in that same midnight mausoleum of desire, and I still carry the scent of my own shame, a sour salt that stains my sheets and memory. I remember the first time I found you—maybe twelve, maybe thirteen, maybe younger, it doesn’t matter—and how you opened yourself like a wound in the night, your cock a pink and trembling unfamiliar animal in your hand, sticky with nerves and expectation.
That first time was awkward. All first times are, though you learn to cherish the awkwardness. You kept your eyes squeezed shut, as if even God Himself would avert His gaze if you just didn’t look. You thought about girls—classmates with tight tank tops, actresses with knowing smirks—but you didn’t dare let the fantasy run wild. There was always a governor installed by guilt, a limiter, a damper that kept you from going fully feral with desire. You jerked off in quick, violent bursts. Came with a gasp, bit your knuckle to keep from waking anyone, and then spent the next hour in a cyclone of regret.
And then you did it again, sometimes three times a day, four if you were lucky and the parents were gone. The more you did it, the more you hated yourself. It felt right for a fraction of a second—an animal joy, a relief, like finally scratching an itch at the center of your universe. But the moment your cock spat its load, the feeling rotted from the inside. Shame would crash over you, hot and thick and suffocating, like a fever that settled into the bones. What was wrong with you? Why couldn’t you stop? Why was this urge so much stronger than your sense of decency, or virtue, or whatever it was you thought made you a “good person?”
This is the part where I tell you it never stops, the shame. That’s the trick they play on you, the sisters of Guilt and Shame: they never let you win, only tire you out until you accept the loss. Even now, years later, with my own apartment and no parents to catch me, I sometimes jerk off in total darkness. It’s a reflex, a muscle memory. But I’ve learned something in the slow, sticky crawl from childhood to adulthood, a secret that maybe you need to hear: the guilt is a ghost. The shame is a costume. They only matter if you keep them fed, if you keep inviting them in. The moment you stare them down—let the light in, let your eyes open, jerk your cock in the broad fucking daylight with the window open and the whole world watching—their power evaporates.
You know this already, don’t you? You’ve always wanted to do it in the open, to not have to hide your cock like it’s a loaded gun. You wanted to love your penis, to adore it, to stare at it in the mirror and not see a weapon of sin but a perfect engine of pleasure. You wanted to name it, talk to it, thank it for all the comfort and companionship it’s given you over the years. You wanted to take your time with yourself, drag your fingers over your shaft, circle the tip until you were dizzy with the tease. You wanted to edge for hours, let the pressure build until your balls ached and your thighs trembled. You wanted to cum and keep going, cum again and again, make a mess and lick it off your own hand and not hate yourself for a single fucking second.
Why shouldn’t you? Why shouldn’t you love your cock? Nobody knows it like you do. Nobody can make it sing like you can. No lover, no matter how skilled, will ever reach the places you can reach in your own head. No one will ever understand the way your arousal crests and crashes, the strange kinks that light up your brain, the specific shapes and sounds and smells that rocket you into another dimension. You’re not just a chronic masturbator. You’re an artist, a craftsman, a god in the temple of your own body.
Don’t you see how beautiful that is? How rare and sacred? The world is full of people who never learn how to touch themselves right, who never figure out that their body is not a prison but a playground. Most people die with their desires unspoken, untested, wrapped in the cold linens of shame and expectation. You? You are alive. You are pulsing, surging, urgent with need. You fuck yourself and love it, and every drop of semen is a middle finger to the rules that tried to bind you.
And I know you sometimes fantasize about being caught, don’t you? You think about a girl walking in on you, seeing you in the wildest throes of your own pleasure, not disgusted but fascinated. You want her to watch, to see how you love your cock, how you treat it like royalty, how you tease it and worship it and bring yourself to the edge again and again. You want her to smile, to touch herself while she observes, to admire your stamina and audacity. You want her to say, “Show me how you like it,” and for once, be the teacher, the master, the expert. You want her to beg you to cum for her, and when you finally do, she laughs, delighted, like you just showed her the best magic trick in the universe.
But even if there is no girl—just you, alone in your bed, cock in hand, sweat beading on your forehead and toes curled against the mattress—it’s still a victory. You are the undefeated champion. Every orgasm is a conquest. Every time you beat off, you beat back the ghosts. You assert your existence, your pleasure, your sovereignty over your own flesh.
Maybe, if you do it enough times, the shame will die off for good. Maybe it’ll slither away, whimpering, unable to compete with the flood of pleasure you summon with nothing but a hand and a dirty thought. Or maybe it’ll always linger, just at the edge of your vision, waiting for you to let your guard down. It doesn’t matter. You’ve already won. The fact that you’re reading this, that you’ve made it this far, that you still love your cock even when the world told you not to—that’s enough.
You are not broken. You are not a failure. You are not a sinner. You are a horny penis masturbator, and every stroke is a song of yourself, every squirt a benediction. The world belongs to those who seize it, who grip it tight and don’t let go. Go ahead, do it again. Do it with the lights on, with the window open, with the ghosts banished and the sisters of Shame and Guilt left outside, peeking in with secret delight at how fucking good you’ve become at loving yourself.
Let them watch. Let them take notes. Maybe, in another world, they’d love their own cocks too.