Masturbation Story #2: Ecstatic At The Approach

Anonymous

In the moments before that first climax, you are ecstatic at the approach and now that you have an inkling of what lies ahead, you finally understand what they meant before when they said “if you don’t know, then you haven’t had it.” Your eyes widen and your wrists twitch and you point your toes as if it somehow cuts wind resistance as you accelerate into that deep abyss of pleasure you have longed for and finally now feel. There is the wave and the sensation is so violent, you have trouble recalling it for several minutes, during which there has time to surface a sudden frustration at all of the years you have missed. But the concerns soon fade with recollections returned and the realization of the power in your own two fingertips to recreate forever the mass of tingling flesh that for the moment seized control of your soul.

How frightening.

You’re uncertain as to why anyone wouldn’t want this, especially after you grow bolder and don’t always stop after each one, but treat yourself to round after round of self-imposed pleasure until you’re dizzy lying down. But if some people choose to condemn the act as sinful or crude, you realize, there is not one of them who can keep you from how you exercise your fingers in your bedroom at night.

You’ll understand soon enough that that’s not all there is, but it will always remain one of your favorite forms of private solace: a celebration of personal agency, a platform for experimentation where there can be no shame, a sexual act in which communication is not so much ensured as omnipresent. It is selfish, yet hurts no one. It is indulgent, yet requires you to earn your reward. It is taboo, yet the most instinctive of operations.

Each night, when work is finished and sleep is gnawing at the corners of your eyes, a second wind begins to stir in the pads of your fingertips and your chest swells with an eagerly beating heart. For those last minutes of consciousness, you race towards ecstasy and find enlightenment.

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