The Only Sex I Ever Wanted

I am one of the rare exceptions. I was a virgin when I got married. And I wasn’t in a hurry to have sex with a woman. I mean, I had always wondered what it must be like and I felt a bit of a freak because I had never penetrated a woman. I would sit on the bus to work, observe other men reading their newspapers, gazing out of the window or picking their noses thinking no one was watching.  And I would think, they have all had sex, they all know what is like to get hard, thrust their penis into the warm wet channel that was the biggest mystery of all to me, and I felt inferior, I felt a stranger in the world. And now I was going to get married, I was going to consummate the marriage (how massively important that sounded!), father children, be a real man who could look the nosepicker in the hi viz on the number 9 bus full in the face, man to man.

But I had my little secret. I had already discovered the only sex I ever really wanted. I was 16 when I cast off the particular shame of my Catholic altar boy background and massaging my bellend with my left thumb, ejaculated thick creamy come over my pubic hair, rolled over to grind against the bed sheet feeling the damp spread underneath my groin, breathing hard to capture the new smell that made my retch at first but which I quickly got used to. I rolled over again and enjoyed the way that the semen had matted my pubic hair. I kind of knew then, as I lay in bed, listening to John Peel that autumn evening in 1977 that this was really it. That my need for PiV sex was really just socially conditioned.  Which didn’t mean I could do without it.

12 years later, 19th August 1989 to be precise, Julie and I climbed into my rusty Ford Cortina which friends had thoughtfully decorated with tin cans tied to the rear bumper, waved goodbye to our wedding guests and set off to spend our first married night in an airport hotel.  And there we made love. It wasn’t at all bad. I got hard quickly, maintained my erection, Julie was wet and I managed it despite my nerves.  Julie didn’t come but reassured me that it will all get better. She had read it in a book.

She got out of bed and went to the bathroom. My left hand darted below the duvet and I masturbated to completion, finishing just as she came back into the bedroom.

“What are you doing?”

“Er nothing.”

She lifted up the duvet and saw the damp patch.

“You’ve been playing with yourself. Why? Why?”

I had no answer.

“You’re married now. That changes things. If you want sex you’ve got me. Or am I not good enough for you?”

Again I said nothing. Julie sat on the edge of the bed and began to cry.

“How do you think that makes me feel? How?”

“How?”

“Humiliated. Humiliated David. This was supposed to be the biggest day of my life. And look how it’s ended up. I have a husband who prefers playing with himself and I daren’t think what you fantasise about while you’re doing it, why you prefer it to what you are supposed to do as a husband. I feel sick.”

There was a single bed in the room. She went over to it and lay down, her back to me.

I turned out the light and tried to sleep but couldn’t.  The silence was punctuated by Julie’s sobbing.  I rolled over in the damp stickiness and smelt my come. I was quickly on my feet, rushing to the toilet to be sick into the white porcelain.

Julie and I did get divorced but only after fifteen years by which we had 2 lovely teenage girl twins and a younger boy. Our life together wasn’t unhappy but never quite what either of us would have hoped for on that hot August day in 1989.

Julie did get used to my need to masturbate. She realised that it didn’t have to be a substitute for sex with her but was a kind of reward for me and one I looked forward to. After a few years I began to have problems with erectile dysfunction and it saved our marriage, for a few years at least. For I was able to use this reward as the incentive to get hard for her.  It took time and patience, not least on her part, but the thought that I could have a wank helped me get there. And if it didn’t I punished myself with self-imposed chastity until the next time. I tried Julie, I really did.

Nonetheless it was a relief when I moved out. On my first night on my own I took Sophie Dahl out of the drawer and masturbated to her, slowly and satisfyingly. I knew I would be single from now on. Because this was really the only sex I ever wanted.

A post for Masturbation Monday. See the other amazing posts by clicking on the image below.

Masturbation Monday

7 thoughts on “The Only Sex I Ever Wanted

  1. Sex can put such pressure on people and you show this really well in this piece. Social conditioning of what is meant to happen really has a lot to answer for 🙂

  2. The wife’s belief that masturbation was somehow about how she wasn’t enough is SO real. I wonder how many men out in the world truly do prefer masturbation over penetrative sex. Very nicely told.

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