A Solitary Orgasm

When he was fifteen or so he had lain in bed and made himself cum without even touching himself. In college, a new friend who was in the psychology department told him about a study that required women who could orgasm without moving, so that the brain-scan apparatus could read them more accurately, presumably. He asked if they were looking for males too, but she laughed and said that, probably, but they’d be lucky to find any. That was when he told her. She didn’t believe him. It didn’t help that he played it down, telling her that it was a rather freak occurrence and that he had never done it again, nor did he believe he could do it now, as he had been a strange kid with an overactive imagination. It also didn’t help that he currently had an active imagination and sometimes liked to tell amusing white lies to his friends, though he was mostly just doing it for attention, for kicks. Regardless, it hurt him a little that she didn’t believe him, not that it was necessarily an accomplishment that he wanted to shout to the treetops, but still, it was part of his story, and it had truly happened.
A few weeks later he had a date with this girl’s best friend, and they ended up back at her apartment. She was very cute, half Turkish, half white, with short died white blonde hair, full lips and a nose piercing. She was studying marine biology but she mostly liked to talk about bands she was into. They made out on her small love-seat that gave his back a bit of a pain (a lifelong medical issue) but when he tried to slip his fingers down her drawstring cotton pants she told him that she couldn’t tonight. She then undid his zipper and removed his penis like it was a mollusk from its shell. She looked at it at first, examining it, no doubt for anything unusual, normally it would be a turn-off (not that he wouldn’t want his partners to be safe,) but she did it with an eye that seemed so scientifically trained that he wished he could be inside her thoughts. She gave a greeting kiss to his cock-head and then took it in her mouth. She then proceeded to simply suck his head until it was completely purpled. She kept her mouth on it and created enough saliva that it felt like it was a hard-boiled egg about to burst. Then she stopped abruptly and looked up at him. Well? She said. Well? He said, quizzically, not understanding. Their mutual friend had told him about his talent. So she had believed it. He blushed. He didn’t know that she knew. He told her that it was more of a fluke than anything.
“I bet you could do it again. Why don’t you try?”
“Well, I mean…”
“What? You mean you’d rather I suck you off?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Well, what if I’m not going to.”
“That’s fine…I just.”
“I’d just like to watch you try.”
“Okay. Well, you see it wasn’t just like a force of will, it was like…I was in a dream state, between wake and sleep, I flowed into it.”
“So sleep over, you can try it in the morning.”
“Um. Okay. That means…”
“Uh huh. No cumming now. Take a cold shower. No jacking off if you can help it. We’ll watch a movie, go to sleep and you can try in the morning…but if you can’t do it…I won’t fuck you or help you in anyway, because…well you know, but we can go out again, and…we’ll see then. I’m not trying to make you into an experiment…”
“No?”
“Maybe a little. But I won’t make you try more than once. I’ll buy dinner next time too! The good place in town. Please?”
He was too timid to ask her why she was asking this of him. He was understandably frustrated. However, he liked this girl quite a bit, and he hadn’t been out with anyone in some time. He liked her apartment too, aside from her shitty couch. She had a beautiful alcove with a skylight in her bedroom with a king sized bed which was unusual for a girl who lived alone. There were girly touches like Christmas lights with paper stars and the curtains were in differing shades of pastel. It made him feel like he was in an underwater cove. He stared at his still hard cock as he used her scented tea-tree lather in the shower. It started to sting him and he rinsed it off in a hurry, stroking himself for a brief second. Down boy. What was the upside to this? If he managed to make himself cum then she’d be asking him to do it all the time, like some kind of magic trick. On the other hand if he didn’t they would have a hard time believing him and he may end up seeming average, ordinary to her and perhaps lose interest. Sure, that was perhaps insecure, but he couldn’t help believing it might be a little true. He didn’t quite know what to do, and even if he did, he didn’t know if he could perform this erotic feat or mental manipulation.
He always had a hard-time talking about his youth. He was an active daydreamer. He got in trouble in school on occasion because of it. He didn’t play any sports. He didn’t do any after school activities, and barely had friends, but he wrote well and he did his homework and so as long as his grades were decent his parents let him alone. They would have probably done so anyway; his father was on business trips more than half the year, a consultant contractor for major government buildings halfway around the world. His mother would later get clean, but during his teenaged years, the years that his father was the most absent, before the divorce, which would make his absence total, his mother drank pretty heavily. During those years, they communicated less and less. She blamed it on him being a teenager but he felt that she had distanced herself from him conveniently as well. She’d say passive aggressive things to him when he was being “difficult” like “he was acting like his father.” It was predictable and almost cliché, and she usually had drunk when she said it but it still hurt. She was what you’d call a high functioning alcoholic. You might even say she was a very high functioning alcoholic. She practiced yoga before it was in fashion. She ran the same marathon every year. She ate well and she made sure to be present for important events, which, come to think of it, in high school were scarce. And he was an only child, which left him off the hook a lot. He didn’t do drugs, only occasionally had a beer, and kept to himself, mostly watching TV, writing in his notebooks, and playing the piano, so as a result, when he was 14 or so, his mother seemed completely fine with leaving him alone as she went on her “retreats.” The house had an alarm system, and she would stock the fridge, and there was even spending cash so he honestly couldn’t say if the solitude and neglect was worse than being parented by two people who obviously didn’t feel like parenting at all.
One day he found some old porno magazines deep in his parent’s closet. He wasn’t sure who they belonged to, but somehow he preferred to believe they were his mothers. Thinking about his father as some horny teenager masturbating to magazines made him lose all but the little respect he still had for him. Did women masturbate as frequently as men? A friend told him that to girls it was more of a spiritual act. The porn magazines were mostly of girls, but there were some gay porn mags as well. Again, he chose to believe it was his mothers. There was a very old looking vibrator which he pressed against his cock out of curiosity until he realized where it had been and then he carefully put it back in the closet and never touched it again. There was also a notebook with what looked like short stories. They were erotic in nature, written in a red pen with a lot of notes above the writing and smaller notes in the margins, which struck him as he had the habit of doing the same thing. Perhaps he had picked it up along the way from his mother though he didn’t recall her writing much around him. Her prose was interesting, it was vaguely poetic, a little lost sometimes as if she’d been writing drunk.
A woman in the first story he read was in a faraway land on vacation and ended up being kidnapped and put into a harem of some sort and had to manipulate her way out, perform sexual acts, there was a man in it that was described in such detail that a fear leapt into his heart — he somehow knew that his parents would be getting divorced and perhaps very soon, but the thought only scared him for a moment.
Weeks later he came back to the magazines, to jack off, and he noticed that one of the magazines had a post-it in between the pages with a smiley face on it. Below the post it in the magazine was a short story that had been written for this alternative erotic magazine. It was not one of the same stories that he had read in the notebook, and obviously it was not his mothers name but one that sounded like a pseudonym. The story was far less of a swashbuckling adventure. It was about a girl in high school having an affair with her teacher just after graduation, and it had some flowery language but it was far more polished and professional than the writing in the notebooks. He thought at first that this wasn’t his mother’s writing, but the character of the teacher struck him as similar to the other story’s main character. When he cross-referenced the two he found three parts that were exactly the same: “Tawny eyes,” “Vaguely asymmetrical slouch” and “a long slender cock that extended like a sunflower to her sun.”
The realization that his mother had published her erotic writings made him feel conflicted. As a writer, he had always wanted one of his parents to show more interest in his creative projects, though he was too shy to share them. They rarely read his essays, though they liked seeing the As that were sometimes written on them. They were such capitalists. His success was quantifiable to them; they didn’t care about whether he was growing to meet whatever success might be waiting for him.
So he was torn because he knew he could never bring it up, for fear of causing her shame that would make her…what? Drink more? Divorce his father prematurely? It felt like he’d found a kit to burn down their house.
However he craved the intimacy that he had suddenly found, the creative bond they had — margin notes and all — but it came with a sudden flash of knowledge that his mother was perhaps with someone else, perhaps right at this very moment. He re-read the passage about the man and then read it again, as if it would make the man appear to him. Perhaps he would be doing his father a favor, he’d be able to identify him if he came over, he’d talk to his mother then, save their marriage, they would be grateful and pay more attention to him. Suddenly, he thought he saw something outside his mother’s sliding patio door. It was just the sunset crossing above the pines. The glistening light made him see spots. He closed his eyes and knelt in the walk-in where he had been reading, holding the notebook like it was a bible. Suddenly an image came to him. He was in a room, a young woman’s room, colorful and delicate and girlish and he saw his mother as a teenager, his age, and she was lying on the bed looking up. A door opened and someone came in. She sat up. He suddenly got scared and opened his eyes. He put the notebook away, the magazines, and pushed the box back into the dark recesses of his mother’s closet.
That night he remembered that he had felt horny and was going to masturbate and hadn’t and wondered if that was a good or bad thing. He touched himself in bed but felt off. The vision he had came back to his mind but he blocked it. He forced himself to think about some girls at school, a movie he wanted to write, and after some concentrated effort he managed to fall asleep.
In the ensuing months he would re-read the story in pieces when his mother was gone. He really did like her writing. Occasionally he would get too turned on and he would have to distance himself. It felt confusing. What ended up helping was he started writing erotic stories of his own. They were very poorly written at first. He knew he was just copying the language of erotic fiction he had read — he didn’t know the mechanics, not really. It would turn him on to write it, and sometimes he just needed to cum and put his pen down, but then he would read it back and more often than not destroy it in a petulant rage. Mostly though, he felt purged by the process of writing and editing and he saw his efforts at studying the form as fruitful. If nothing else, it was helping him get to know his mother, however strangely. If she was anything like any of the girls in these stories she felt stuck, imprisoned even and deeply unhappy.
He didn’t remember what he was thinking about when he came without touching himself early that morning laying in bed. He was writing his own story maybe? Maybe he was continuing a story that his mother had started. He couldn’t remember.
They watched a comedy special on her computer as they spooned awkwardly. He was alternately rock hard and would press against her ass cheeks but as she would only push against him to reposition herself he would eventually get the picture and give up and get lost in the show they were watching. When the show ended she yawned and turned over and told him sweet dreams and gave him the faintest peck on the lips. He spooned her for a second, but as she was wearing booty shorts and was topless the attraction was so frustrating that he was glad that she had a king sized bed. He rolled over to his side and after an hour or so of thinking about the play he was writing he finally fell asleep. He had even forgotten why he was in this predicament to begin with.
When he woke up she was there starting at him. Had he slept okay? He had. Did he want her to play with her pussy for him? For a second he got excited but then he remembered. He was already hard. How about some music? She has some trance music? Or some singing whales? Just kidding. She got up and bent over for him as she clicked her ipod, ripe nectarine. She threw the blankets off of the bed. Actually, let’s leave them on. He didn’t know why. Okay. She put the blanket back on him. He laid back as if to try to remember the day, almost a decade ago. The music was helping, no, it was interfering — he was too calm. She got up and turned it off. He had been a little restless. He was trying to escape. He was trying to escape something. But what? They waited in silence. He turned to her. No luck? Are you any closer? No. He said. Could she tell him something? A secret? Something dark maybe, or something that was too awkward to tell anyone. It was difficult to explain, something that excited her but made her feel ashamed. She looked at him. Really? Really. Whisper it into my ear, like a story & take your time.
She hesitated for a long moment. Then she lay next to him and cupped her hand over his ear and started to speak…
The next day his friend texted him and asked him to have coffee. He was certain she had been told. Indeed she had, she said which is why she wanted to talk. She wanted to apologize for not believing him but she also wanted to let him know that her and her best friend told each other everything. He shouldn’t feel awkward. They were the only two people in the world who had this information. They would tell no one else. Everything? He asked. Did she tell her the story he told her in his ear? Yes, she said. Even that. Okay. He said. Did he like her? His friend asked. Yes. He said. He liked her. I’m glad, she said.
Thankfully after that the experiment was over. They started dating, or, if one were technical, they started having a lot of sex with the occasional bite to eat. She was bold and aggressive. She would pull him into the woods when they were hiking and start sucking him and have him fuck her against a tree. She would take him into bathrooms and ask him to eat her out on a toilet (rim closed fortunately.) She would give him road-head in the middle of traffic. She managed to keep surprising him and he felt a kind of luck that he had never felt in his life.
A few months in he was sleeping over and she asked him if he would be willing to entertain something a little unusual. Would he be willing to repeat his trick with their friend? Would he be able to do it with her there? They wouldn’t have a threesome, probably, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to, yes they were close but they were not particularly into the idea, they felt more like sisters she said, but their friend had asked so many questions that she kind of wanted to share this with her. She was sorry if she was making him feel like a freak. She wanted him to know that she was starting to care for him and that this would be the last time that she’d ask this of him. He said he’d think about it. He looked up at the ceiling for a second then said sure.
They all had dinner together at the good restaurant in town and his now increasingly sort-of girlfriend wanted to pay but he insisted, then they had an awkward moment and decided to just split it three ways. They were aware of why it was suddenly awkward and they tried to laugh it off. They talked about students they knew and favorite and least favorite teachers, and performance reviews and the like and it was pleasant chitchat considering they were all holding down their nerves. When they got back to his girlfriend’s place they put on some music and she made a jasmine tea that he liked and then asked if they wanted some wine as well and his friend said yes but he told her that he probably shouldn’t. They nodded like they were witnessing a professional. For a moment he felt almost powerful, like a mutant, but he wasn’t sure he was entirely comfortable with that image. They started to talk about their friendship and how the girls met and why she couldn’t find a good guy, and the last guy she dated and started to talk intimately about him, his way of making love and his cock and he realized that he didn’t have guy friends with whom he shared things in such detail and that seemed somewhat of a shame, though he didn’t know if one could get started at such a late age. Somehow it felt right when girls were talking about the crook of a penis, while describing the size of her engorged clitoris to a guy friend felt TMI. He didn’t quite know why, but he suspected it might not be something he’d ever figure out.
Well, she said, do you want to give it the old college try? He smiled. Okay, he said. They went over to the bed & his friend said that she would keep her clothes on if that’s okay and he said of course, naturally. His girlfriend took her pants off and left her bra on. She sat beside him and their friend sat at the foot of the bed, looking a little guarded. Just take it off, his girlfriend laughed — he has nothing to be embarrassed about, and she blushed and started to strip him. Okay, okay, he said and he took off his clothes and sat there with his penis starting to engorge and lengthen. I need the cover over me he said, at first anyway, and he slipped underneath. He told them he’d just try to relax, they could lie down if they wanted and so she lay next to him and their friend next to her. After a few minutes he told her she was ready, and their friend changed places, and she asked him, like they were in some kind of scientific lab and he was both the doctor and the patient, if he was ready, and he said yes and for a moment she looked almost like she was about to cry but then she cupped his ear and started to tell him her story. It wasn’t long before he lifted the blanket off of him and he felt himself being overtaken by this wave, and he came more plentifully then he ever had in his life — his girlfriend was there only a millisecond after he burst and she took him in her mouth. She sucked him until the secret had worked its full effect & then took her tongue to his belly where some cum had landed. Mmm. She said. Your secret tastes even sweeter than mine. He looked over at their friend. Their eyes met and she smiled. Thanks. She said. Sure. He said with a sigh.
They kept dating until the very end of the school year. Unfortunately she received a grant in another state and after a painful series of discussions they decided that the long-distance thing wasn’t going to work. He considered moving but it didn’t make sense for his career. They said they would keep in touch, as much as their hearts could take, but after a few months away she told him it would be best if they just cut it off. It hurt too much. He reluctantly agreed. He was pretty depressed for almost a year after that. His friend was still there but he started to avoid her as she reminded him of her and he would always be tempted to ask her about her. Had she moved on? Was she dating anyone? That kind of excruciating knowledge wouldn’t help things.
His friend started dating a guy who seemed nice and before the year ended she asked to have coffee. She was moving in with this guy and they were thinking of moving into the city after she finished her degree. He was happy for her, truly and he was sorry they had drifted apart. She understood. She asked him about the night they had shared together and if he still thought about it. He did, he said, but it reminded him of her and so he didn’t like to think about it. Maybe someday. She was sorry. She thought about it a lot. Did he know why it worked the way it did? Why secrets? He didn’t really know. He thought it had something to do with the first time he had done it. When she had asked him to do it the first time he was completely at a loss as to how he could recreate the situation, but then he remembered that that was the time he had been looking through his mother’s stuff and how he’d found some things he wasn’t sure if he should have seen. He found some of her secrets. I see, she said thoughtfully. I’m sorry if you were expecting a threesome she said. I don’t have anything against you, I just would feel weird doing something sexual with or even near my friend. I think maybe she would have felt different, we talked about it a little before but I wasn’t sure. I understand he said. Some lines are best left unblurred. Yes. She said. Anyway, not sure when we’re going to get together again. Sorry, I know you don’t want to hear about her. I’m a little heartbroken too you know. We were very close. I know, he said. He gave her a hug goodbye and told her they’d get together before the year ended. They did later with a group but they didn’t say anything to each other. They just exchanged a few looks and smiled.
That summer he went back home and when his mother was out he looked in her closet for the box but it was not there anymore. He looked out the window at the pines that had grown taller and now blocked off the setting of the sun almost completely. He had a sudden impulse to call her and tell her that he loved her and that he’d like to move, to go wherever she went but then he remembered he had taken her number off his phone. He took a shower and suddenly the morning and the night and the secrets came rushing back to him and he grew hard and with only a few solid strokes he came on the black tiles of his mother’s bathroom. He watched it slide down. Were some secrets really sweeter than others? He took the shower head and pressed it against his heart.
