I should enjoy playing with myself just for how good it made me feel, he said. He also taught me some new strokes-taking your dick and rubbing it with both hands like you're trying to start a fire sounds ridiculous until you give it a whirl.Īll of those things helped, but the most important thing he told me was to not worry about squirting. We did some "body awareness" exercises, where I explored parts of myself other than the organs surrounding the taint to see what else gave me an erotic charge. He suggested breaking all of my usual habits during "gentleman's time." He told me to experiment with a new time of day, new positions, new lube, and maybe even some new hand movements to shock myself out of complacency. After talking to him about my past habits and current predicament, he told me that my mind was so used to the excess stimulation of bodies rutting on screen that it was having trouble remembering how to enjoy a good old fashioned stroke like my grandparents used to. I called my friend Don Shewey, a writer and sex therapist, who I figured might be able to cure me of my porn addiction. But no one wants to owe their pleasure entirely to another person (and, as much as I like fucking my boyfriend, no one can make me feel as absolutely filthy as I can on my own), so I decided to get professional help. I was a masturbation addict who couldn’t get a fix on his own and had to rely on his enabler for even the smallest of stiffies. When my boyfriend returned, he became my dick dealer. Even trying to remember past encounters of my own or my favorite fuck flicks didn't put any lead in the ol’ pencil. It was like watching so much porn for so many years had atrophied my erotic imagination. Every attempt I made to paint my balls a color other than blue was for naught. The desire to get it out was overwhelming. I had made the idiotic choice to start this experiment while my boyfriend was out of town, and after about five days without shooting I could feel the ammunition building inside of me. Without that visual stimulation, I would rather just watch some reality shows and pass out on the couch. Now that I couldn’t watch strangers having sex, I was having trouble getting hard. My nightly ritual had been to pop on a movie (or three, or 24) and punish the pope in bed before turning off the computer, rolling over, and passing out with one sticky hand thanks to nature's Ambien. My member was more dependent on seeing poles going into holes than I ever imagined.Īfter quitting Fleshbot for some non-porn opportunities, I decided I would give it up for good and find the boners deep within my soul. The straw that broke the camel’s penis, however, was when keeping up with it became my professional obligation. Then, when the internet hit, I had every type of porn known to man just sitting there in my room, waiting for me to masturbate to it. In college I graduated to VHS tapes before DVDs took over. In high school I had underwear catalogs (and, yes, Cinemax), and then, after getting a job in a bookstore, I purloined stroke mags that were supposed to be mailed back to the distributor. Oh no, I was still slapping my salami as often as possible, but I had only done it in the company of visual stimulation for as long as I could remember. It’s not that I became desensitized to it. Watching people fuck had lost its magic for me-it was work and I was "doing research" nearly every day. Like most horny uglies with small dicks and big opinions, I took to writing about porn, covering the industry and its gossip on Fleshbot for about four years. I wish I could say it's because I’m hot and hung enough to star in it, but I am neither. It had been a week and I hadn't gotten wood of any kind but the morning variety since.īefore going any further, I should mention that I probably have a more complicated relationship to porn than most people. In a valiant effort to prove that my cock wasn't indebted to images of manufactured sexual abandon, I had decided to give up pornography altogether to show that I could still beat off like a 15-year-old who just discovered what happens on Cinemax after midnight.
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