Memories of Humping
by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by masturbators like you
I am 65 years old and started masturbating my humping my pillow having been given “the talk” by a male friend of my mother (my father died when I was a baby).
He handed me the booklet the way a man offers contraband—furtive, trembling fingers and averted eyes. As I sat at the kitchen table, sunlight slanting through the dirty window and turning dust motes into slow-falling galaxies, I realized my mother’s friend had put the responsibility of this conversation onto black-and-white pencil sketches. My mother, terrified of the subject and rendered timid by her widowhood, hovered in the next room, pretending to read a magazine but really listening for the smallest hint of distress. The booklet felt clinical, alien, all diagrams of cross-sectioned bodies and arrowed lines, with thick labels that screamed REPRODUCTIVE ANATOMY. No talk of pleasure, no acknowledgment of desire, just an assertion that these squishy organs had a singular, noble purpose. I was supposed to memorize the steps, but like most boys my age I was already running the experiment on my own.
I had begun to have wet dreams, abrupt and startling, the bedsheets sticky and unfamiliar in the morning. My mother washed the sheets without comment, but the next evening a folded towel appeared on my bed. “To help you,” she said, and then walked hurriedly away, face blotched with embarrassment. I didn’t tell her I had already developed a system—a stained, threadbare rag I’d kept hidden in the back of my sock drawer, and a pillow that was beginning to lose its shape from nightly abuse. I became obsessive about the ritual, humping the pillow with the rag wedged underneath, enjoying the pressure, the friction, the animal comfort of the act. I did not know to call it masturbation, and I didn’t care. What I loved was the surging, unnameable feeling that began deep in my gut and exploded outward, leaving me shuddering and half-happy. Every orgasm was a secret handshake with myself; every stain a coded message I alone could decipher.
The September I turned thirteen, I started a new school. My father had died when I was a baby, and my mother, wanting a fresh start, moved us to a quieter part of town. The first week, I made friends with Martin, a tall, freckled boy with a face full of sharp, knowing angles. We walked to school together, eating cold Pop-Tarts and talking about comic books and the relentless stupidity of teachers. It was Martin who, one gray Thursday, brought up masturbation. The question came out of nowhere: “You jerk off, right?” He said it without shame, like asking if I’d ever eaten a hamburger.
I shrugged. “I guess so. I mean, I use my pillow.”
Martin stopped walking, squinting at me like I was a puzzle. “Your pillow?” He shook his head, grinning. “Man, you’re supposed to use your hand. That’s what it’s for.”
I was stunned. “You mean, just… grab it? With your hand?”
Martin rolled his eyes, but there was no malice in it. “Yeah, dude. Watch, I’ll show you.” We ducked behind a row of dumpsters behind the grocery store, and with the solemn intensity of a priest, Martin mimed the motion—fist pumping, thumb on top, fingers curled underneath. “Feels way better than humping some pillow,” he said.
That night, after dinner and the perfunctory “good night” to my mother, I lay in bed with my heart thudding. I hesitated—there was something about using my hand that felt more grown-up, more forbidden. But curiosity trumps fear, so I reached under the covers, wrapped my hand around my cock, and started moving. The immediate feedback was electric. The friction, the grip, the way I could control the speed and pressure—this was a universe apart from thrusting mindlessly into the pillow. The orgasm, when it came, was sharper, longer, almost dangerous. I lay in the dark afterward, tingling all over, convinced that I’d crossed over into some new and better world. I went at it again before sunrise.
This was the beginning of my apprenticeship. I experimented with speed, with lube (saliva at first, then the Vaseline I pilfered from the medicine cabinet), with grip strength and angle. I learned to edge, learned to pull back from the brink and stretch out the pleasure until it became unbearable. I quickly graduated to multiple sessions a day—before school, after dinner, during bathroom breaks. I learned to camouflage the sounds and the evidence, but I could never quite shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, was watching, taking notes.
When I was sixteen, I found a tattered copy of Penthouse Letters in the neighbor’s recycling bin. The stories were lurid and poorly written, but I read them all, transcribing the best lines into a secret notebook. One letter described a man who used an “overhand grip,” and I was fascinated. That night, I tried it myself—thumb pointed down, palm facing away, the entire apparatus inverted. It felt awkward at first, but once I got the rhythm, I was rewarded with a roiling, furious orgasm that left my legs shaking. For a week, I did nothing but overhand, delighted by the novelty and the sense of mastery it gave me.
By college, masturbation had become both a coping mechanism and a reward system. On days when classes were hard and the world felt hostile, I retreated to my dorm room and jerked off until I was empty, calm, ready to face people again. I discovered new techniques from porn sites and sex-positive blogs: the “fleshlight hack,” the “double-fist,” the “frenulum rub.” I became a student of my own body’s responses, mapping out the secret geography of pleasure. The more I learned, the more I craved. My masturbation log—yes, I kept one—became an obsessive accounting of frequency, method, duration, and climax intensity. Sometimes I’d reread old entries like a scientist reviewing field notes, looking for patterns.
Decades passed, the world changed, and so did I. I married, had children, lost my hair, grew a belly, and watched the years gather behind me like a stack of old newspapers. But masturbation never left me. If anything, it became more important, a private sanctuary immune to the hassles and indignities of age. I kept my techniques sharp, always looking for ways to improve—the way an aging athlete switches up his training, compensating for lost speed with cunning and precision.
For fifty-five years, I mostly used the standard underhand grip—thumb on top, fingers underneath—a method I could perform in my sleep. Every so often I’d switch to my left hand, or experiment with toys (some homemade, others purchased discreetly online), but nothing ever felt as good as the original. I’d read about men who could come just from rubbing the frenulum, the sensitive underside of the glans, and though I managed it a few times, it never stuck as a favorite. Still, every now and then, I’d treat myself to a session of gentle, focused stimulation there, just to see if I still had the knack.
Yesterday, bored and restless, I decided to try something new. I remembered the overhand grip from my teenage years, the way it felt so forbidden and powerful. But this time, I flipped my hand completely—thumb underneath, fingers draped over the top of the shaft, palm facing my body. Instantly, I felt a jolt. The pressure was different, the way my fingers pressed into the spongy underside of my cock, the ring made by my thumb and forefinger squeezing just below the head. I started slow, savoring the unfamiliarity. Precum oozed almost immediately, slicking my hand and intensifying the glide. I realized, in a flash of inspiration, that with my hand in this position, the opening formed by my thumb and finger looked—and felt—like a tight, hungry mouth. A hand-pussy, I thought, and the words made me shudder with excitement.
I let the fantasy take over. I stopped moving my hand and started thrusting with my hips, fucking the circle of my own grip. Each stroke closed the makeshift entrance around me, the pressure perfect, the sensation overwhelming. My balls ached and drew tight, the tip of my cock flushed dark and angry. I imagined myself watched, recorded, maybe even shamed for the intensity of my need. That only made it better. I pounded away, hips slapping against my knuckles, and after a few minutes I erupted—jet after jet, hot and sticky, filling my palm and dripping onto the floor. I let the moment linger, basking in the afterglow, not caring about the mess.
But I wasn’t done. The arousal was still high, a low growl in my belly. Without thinking, I brought my hand to my mouth and licked it clean, savoring the salty, animal taste. I had never done that before, but it felt right, like a final, perfect act of self-acceptance.
Masturbation is just amazing, isn’t it?
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