Minivan Masturbation
by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by masturbators like you
I’ve owned a good number of cum rags in my time, but my hands-down favorite was a decaying blue-and-grey terrycloth hand towel that lived in the minivan I drove for work in my late twenties. The van itself was a monument to bad taste and poor design, a bloated silver whale with mushed seats and privacy-tint windows that never quite fit my sense of style. But it was my private rolling masturbatorium, and I adored it for that reason alone. Whenever the stress of my delivery job built to a crescendo, I’d pack up my “tool bag”—a battered gym sack that held wet wipes, a bottle of generic lube, spare underwear, the holy rag—and find a spot to park and get off.
I had a circuit of preferred locations and routines, all designed to maximize the thrill and minimize the risk of being caught. There was the corner of a suburban strip mall lot, shielded from sight by dumpsters and a rising embankment. Or the multi-level parking tower near a college campus, perfect for a higher vantage point of the bustling quad below. Sometimes, if I was feeling especially filthy, I’d park on a downtown street at dusk, when the city sidewalk traffic was thickest and the glass made the outside world feel tantalizingly close and just out of reach.
The setup was always the same. First, I’d park facing whatever pedestrian corridor promised the most foot traffic and fan the engine so the vents roared and covered up stray noises. Then, with the practiced moves of a stagehand, I’d rig a blanket between the front seats and drape another plaid sheet across the sliding door windows. The effect was a softly lit, cocooned playpen, with me as the singular, self-indulgent audience. I kept a $30 pair of binoculars in the glove box for the college campus runs—sometimes, I’d even mount them on a cheap little tripod wedged between the headrests, so I could watch with both hands free.
My favorite times, though, were spring afternoons, when the weather brought out every possible permutation of womanhood in the city. Sorority girls in shorts with thighs chafed red from running. Soccer moms in yoga pants, dragging strollers and Starbucks cups. Retired grandmothers with permed helmets of hair, walking small dogs in paisley sweaters. I loved them all—loved the contrast between their public, clothed normalcy and my own depravity, hidden only by a few sheets of fabric and the upturned windows of my pervert-mobile.
By the time I had everything set up, the anticipation would be exquisite, a humming ache in my stomach and balls. I’d strip out of my work uniform with the windows fogged and the radio low, unzipping my fly and tugging my already-hard cock through my boxers. Then I’d slick my palm with lube, close my eyes, and lean back in the captain’s chair, letting the first slow strokes unfurl every tight, anxious muscle in my body.
Sometimes, if I was lucky, there’d be a cluster of girls walking past at just the right moment. I’d wedge the binoculars against my brow and zoom in on their faces, their hair bouncing as they laughed and chattered, oblivious to the fact that I was pumping myself in time to the sway of their hips. I never wanted them to see me, never wanted to cross the line into exhibitionism for its own sake. What got me off was the secret: the idea that I could witness so much beauty and desire from my hidden little cell, unseen and unacknowledged, nothing more than a dirty ghost with a beating heart.
I’d always try to draw the sessions out as long as possible—let the tension build, then back off, then build again. Sometimes I’d edge for half an hour, touching myself deliberately, then wiping my hand and peeking out the side window to see if the coast was clear. If a new group of women appeared, the ache would redouble, and I’d have to fight the urge to just explode right then and there. I loved the slow burn of it, the way it stretched out time and made the eventual orgasm feel like the only important thing in the universe.
One of my most memorable sessions in that van happened on a rainy Friday afternoon, in a strip mall parking lot outside a hair salon. The windows were streaked with condensation, and I could barely make out the sidewalk through the haze, but I didn’t care—I was already too far gone. The only thing that mattered was the dim reflection of myself in the mirror, face twisted in pleasure, fist working my cock with deliberate, hungry strokes. A group of women exited the salon, their umbrellas blooming like black flowers. I watched them for a few minutes, imagining the warm enclosure of their coats, the soft pressure of their hair against their necks, the faint chemical sweetness of their perfume drifting through the rain.
That time, I didn’t even try to hold back. I came in a shuddering, desperate rush, semen splattering my stomach and the old towel. When the last wave had passed, I just lay there, panting and dazed, the afterglow pouring through me like sunlight. I wiped myself off, used a wet wipe for good measure, and—always the neat freak—made sure nothing dripped on the upholstery before I put the van in drive and merged back onto the road.
I’ll tell the story of how I was almost caught in another post.
It was such a fun, delirious time back then, and I still regret selling that minivan to this day, because it was the most perfect mobile masturbatorium ever.
~~~