The Masturbator Pensées (Thoughts) are collections of fragments written by chronic masturbators
Ever since I was old enough
Ever since I was old enough to understand what masturbation was, I had this vague sense that it was shameful, something that boys were expected to outgrow, or at least do furtively, with a guilty look on their faces afterwards. But that never sat right with me. I’ve always adored my penis, and the act of masturbating connects me to it in a way nothing else does. There’s a physical thrill, of course—the electric jolt of pleasure, the pulse and ache and slick tightness of my fist around my shaft—but there’s more to it than that. Masturbation is an act of self-love and devotion. Every time I do it, I am reaffirming the bond between my body and my mind, the holy union of need and release.
It didn’t start off as an “addiction,” not exactly. I used to be one of those teens who swore I could quit anytime, who bought into the myth that “real men” could go days, weeks, months without jerking off. It wasn’t until I hit college and started embracing my own kinks, my own embarrassingly earnest love for self-stimulation, that I realized how deeply it was intertwined with my identity. I get excited at the thought of giving in to the urge, letting it take over my thoughts and interrupt my routines. I crave those moments when my cock stiffens in my jeans during class, or when I wake up in the middle of the night, aching and insistent, knowing that only my hand can bring relief. The anticipation is almost better than the orgasm itself—almost, but not quite.
There’s a kind of ritual to it now, like a sacred rite. Sometimes I’ll tease myself for hours, just to savor the pressure and the heat building up. Sometimes I’ll edge myself until I’m dizzy and trembling, desperate to come but holding back, torturing myself just because I can. My dick has become both a beloved pet and a cruel master, rewarding me with pleasure when I behave, punishing me with throbbing neediness when I neglect it. I’ve learned to communicate with it, to honor its cravings, to cherish the moments when it’s fully engorged and the world shrinks down to the size of the palm of my hand.
I love the way my cock looks when it’s hard—thick and veiny, red at the tip, the skin stretched tight around the shaft, the head glistening with precum. I love the way it pulses in anticipation, like a living creature with its own will. I love the way it feels when I grip it tight and pump, or when I drag my thumb across the slit and make myself shudder from head to toe. Masturbation is my favorite addiction because it’s pure, uncomplicated pleasure. There’s no guilt anymore, no pretense. Just me, my cock, and the endless conversation between us.
I love the connection that masturbation gives me with my penis. I have never felt so close to my dick until I really accepted how much I want to and need to masturbate. I’m really happy that masturbation is such a strong addiction in my life! I get so happy when my penis is hard and needs attention.
Adult Theater
Last night my partner and I had some time to kill before a family dinner, and we went to the Airport Video 2 near the Seatac airport. (Both my partner and I are widowers and have grandkids.) As far as adult theaters and arcades go, it is probably one of the cleanest, with plastic covered benches and boxes to view the shows. Anyway, my partner disappeared into the arcades, and I was watching a straight movie. An attractive younger couple entered the theater, and she immediately began to suck his cock. I was sitting next to them. Before I knew it, both of them were completely naked, and he was tonguing her clitoris. She was in great shape with voluptuous breasts and large areolas. His cock was about seven inches, but not particularly thick. Her prominent pussy lips were definitely engorged. Both were smooth.
She saw me masturbating furiously, and she said that if I shot on her stomach, I would have to lick it up. There were soon quite a few men around them with exposed cocks. Eventually, he inserted his penis in her vagina, mounting her standing with her laying on the bench. With intense fucking and fingering, she soon came, as did he.
I have been attending porno theaters for almost fifty years. I had heard about these type of experiences, and had seen couples in them before kissing and sucking, but never like this. My cock was pulsating, and eventually had another guy suck me off to a powerful orgasm.
I saw them outside the theater. I thanked them for the show. They told me they were engaged to be married, and both of them had a very high drive, and enjoyed exhibitionism. I wished them much happiness.
chronic, compulsive, and obsessive
I really like the layered meanings of those three words— chronic, compulsive, and obsessive —when used to describe a masturbator’s condition. Each one captures a different dimension of the experience, and taken together, they form a disturbingly accurate portrait of the pathological masturbator.
Chronic implies something persistent and long-standing, like a medical condition that may not be curable—only managed. It suggests a kind of resignation: this isn’t a phase or a passing urge; it’s a permanent part of your life, like diabetes or high blood pressure. The chronic masturbator has been at it for years, possibly decades. It’s not necessarily about intensity—it’s about duration. Masturbation has become a structural feature of his life. He may not even remember what life was like before it.
Compulsive adds a layer of dysfunction. It suggests moments of overwhelming drive—losing control, surrendering to urges even in inappropriate or inconvenient situations. The compulsive masturbator doesn’t always want to do it, but he has to. There might be shame or guilt, but those feelings are powerless in the face of the compulsion. He finds himself stroking at 3am even though he has work in the morning, or sneaking off to do it during lunch breaks, or edging all day while his productivity crashes. It’s like being hijacked by his own hand.
Obsessive brings in the mental and emotional component—the fixation. The obsessive masturbator can’t stop thinking about it. It’s not just a physical habit but a psychological one. His mind is flooded with fantasy, rituals, triggers. He might obsess over favorite videos, ideal scenarios, specific fetishes, edging techniques, or masturbation routines. He’s not just stroking—he’s curating, planning, crafting a perfect fantasy environment in which to get lost.
Put all three together, and you get a masturbator who is not just deeply entrenched in his habit, but enslaved by it on every level: physically, emotionally, and mentally.
It is entirely possible—and increasingly common—to be a chronic, compulsive, obsessive masturbator. Not just someone who jerks off a lot, but someone whose sexuality has been completely rewired around masturbation. A man for whom this is no longer just a private relief, but a defining condition of his existence.
I grew up in the 80’s
I grew up in the 80s, and my first exposure to female nudity was through mainstream Hollywood movies on cable and then Playboy. I loved seeing naked women, they were so beautiful and curvy and liberated from their clothing, it was incredible! Breasts, asses, and bushes were so boner-inducing, and looking at the nude female form was something I cherished.
As the decade progressed, I got old enough to consume more explicit magazines like Penthouse and Hustler, and then VHS porn (which was a seismic game-changer), so I learned that there was something underneath/within those lovely bushes that had always made my young penis so hard: a vagina! That actually opens up so it can be licked by tongues and penetrated by cocks (and toys, and other things)! And there was this little thing called the clitoris just above the vagina that was the source of women’s sexual pleasure! All of this knowledge gained simply by being able to see what was exposed when a woman so kindly parted her pussy lips for me, an adolescent porn consumer. And I bated to all of this, oh how I bated.
Any time I see a photo or a video of a woman happily/sexily spreading her pussy lips wide open and showing off her clit, labia, and hole (smiling all the while), my hand automatically goes to my stiffening bulge. And I’m so happy I’m a masturbator who loves porn and naked women, such a clear and uncomplicated love that takes me right back to those days as a young teenager, when I felt just like Columbus.
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