Wednesday, Apr. 24, 2002 - 8:13 p.m.
Solitairerotics

Although jerking off has not been a major part of my sexuality for many years, I certainly do enjoy it every now and again. And I’m a bit of an odd duck when it comes to what gets me off: I pointedly refrain from summoning up images (or conjuring up fantasies) involving men for whom I feel bonafide affection. Scanning my repertoire of erotic material as I move into the masturbation zone, occasionally I see flickers of experience sexually and emotionally meaningful; don’t go there, something inside me orders. There’s a somewhat phobic quality to my refusal to draw on memories of intensely interpersonal sex for the purpose of a quick wank.

So my JO fantasies tend to revolve around impersonal sex. Sometimes I extrapolate a scene from the day’s unconsummated arousals; more often, I replay a recent tryst with a hot stranger. Mostly, truth be told, I tend to jerk off revisiting one of the many erotic massages I’ve had over the years.

Recent toss-offs, however, have been confusing, if not distressing: I’ve not been able to focus on the usual fantasies. I’ve been distracted. My mind flits from this hot image to that luscious memory, and nothing’s doing the trick. Although in each case some sort of puny orgasm has resulted, I’ve barely been sustaining a hard-on.

My onanistic life has become pathetic.

Meanwhile, things with Cyrus have been going so well, erotically and otherwise. So I haven’t been worrying a whole lot about this seeming erosion of my bawdy storehouse.

But still. I’ve been curious about what’s going on with this.

I crawled into bed last night and, as usual, read for a while. As I went to turn out the light twenty or so minutes later, my crotch beckoned.

This is how it usually begins. I feel a twinge of horniness, so I jerk off. Lately, though, the urge has not been all that masturbatable.

I lay the blanket aside, yanked down my briefs. Frustrated, I glared at my flaccid, lately uncooperative cock. Strangely, I was reluctant to touch it. It was as if one more semi-erect, impoverished experience would confirm some irreversible—no doubt age-related—dysfunction.

Cyrus, I thought, gazing down at myself.

Cyrus.

Something gave way inside. I relaxed. My cock sprang up fiercely.

Cyrus.

At first, I wasn’t imagining any specific sexual experiences with him. I just heard myself silently pronouncing his name to my receptive body.

I did not touch myself. I merely watched. And I was rock hard in approximately 17 seconds. I honestly cannot remember the last time an erection came about so spontaneously without me or someone else lending a hand.

Engorged now, I still felt scared. This was all so new. I was open.

And he kissed me, then. Those full lips pressed wet against mine. And I felt his smooth wiry body wrapped around me. I grabbed hold of my dick, then, but Cyrus did the rest.

My orgasm—a full-bodied, writhing splat—landed me on the other side of some wall.

Cyrus.