Riding the thermals

I like porn as much as the next guy. I probably look at it more than the next guy my age since I’m unable to get myself to the place where it loses its appeal temporarily. Orgasmically speaking, I’m like a bird catching thermals. Spiral spiral spiral UP…spiral spiral spiral UP…always on the move, never resting.

I pay a lot of attention to the stuff that gets me off turns me on. Different things at different times. Sure, there’s the gender thing. Some days women are more appealing than men. But also scenarios. Women dominating men. Women being serviced. Men dominantating men/being serviced. Some days it’s just boobs that really get me going. Some days it’s just penises. Or men fucking women. I mean, this is all pretty basic, but what I’m saying is since I never “complete” a session with porn and only stop looking at it when I run out of time, I can pick up on how the texture of what I react to changes. It’s interesting. Well, to me anyway.

Some days, like yesterday, it’s men having orgasms that gets me. Specifically, close ups of men jacking off and then spewing their loads, thick and ropy, right into the camera and/or all over themselves. And when I say “gets me” I mean “leaves me staring slack-jawed.” The way a reformed smoker probably watches someone in a bar light up. Mesmerizing.

And I could feel it. The way it was to come whenever I wanted. Whenever I had the barest inclination to do so. How a guy can almost pull one out anywhere there’s a bit of privacy. At work. At the gym. In an airplane. That sensation of gripping a hard cock and how it felt in my hand and how as I got closer to coming I’d get up on my toes (if I was standing), eyes half closed, and then that breathless, weightless moment right after the point of no return and before the ejaculate slams past the prosate. Gasping. Moaning. Warmth.

Usually, I don’t miss it. Or I enjoy missing it. But sometimes, rarely, I miss it. I want it. I need it. It leaves a hole in me.

But it’s been so long since I can do it whenever I want that I find what I think it feels like and what it actually does doesn’t match. I imagine the penis feeling more substantial in my hand (to match the porn, I guess). Thicker. Longer strokes. And I can’t jack it or come without a sincere wave of guilt. And even if I could, it doesn’t last. I can’t savor it. Like the cigarette, once lit, is totally consumed in the first drag.

So I watch the men with their nice dicks do their thing and shoot their loads like a former fat kid pressing his face against the donut case glass. Wanting. Salivating. Jealous. But that’s all. Nothing more. Because there’s nothing more for me to do. If I ever had that kind of access to my own body again — to my own pleasure — it would mean I’d have lost so much that it would probably leave me sad.

But, you know. I’d still do it.

3 Replies to “Riding the thermals”

  1. Fascinating. I actually have noticed that there are blocks of similar photos as I peruse your tumblr. (For science. Always for science.) I wasn’t sure if that was just coincidence based on what you were viewing or because of what was appealing to you in the moment. Now please excuse me, I’ll be in my bunk.

    1. A bit of both, actually. I repost what flips my trigger but I can only repost what’s in my feed and I have time to get to. Some days I post nothing because I open Tumblr and nothing appeals to me. Other days I post everything because I’m feeling especially voracious. I have chosen never to post images of men having orgasms to my main Tumblr so when I’m feeling that it doesn’t show up in what I queue.

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