Slapping The Monkey

I wish I could stop masturbating but I can't. I have no control over the arousal. I love the way it feels. The stroke I have refined like a golfer who hits a hole-in-one. I use this wealth of knowledge for women who give hand jobs. I tell them to move their hand a little closer to the top and the results are immediate. Sometimes a need a video to complete the action, or sometimes it is just a memory. I lay in bed and let my imagination flow. It's vivid. I see myself pounding the object of my desire. I do not close my eyes. I watch. I see the pulsating vein and feel the power in my hand. Each stroke is like each entry into her. I see her facial expressions and the cum sliding down the side of my dick. I am talking to her.

"You like this dick, don't you?"

"Yes," she murmurs.

"Tell daddy to fuck you harder," I whisper.

"Fuck me, daddy." And the stroke increases its intensity.

I was incarcerated once and thought I would not have any sperm left when I got out. I remember going to the hole for fighting. Twenty-three hours lock up. I smoked weed and jerked off every day. When I got tired of my right hand, I switched to my left. Sometimes I reversed the grip or sometimes I stood up and imagined her bent over the bed. I play acted the scene in my head. I stoked in the position I would if I was hunched over her. In prison, we called it slapping the monkey. Lol, I slapped the shit out of that motherfucker. When I was released, those girls I saw in the magazines were on video. I made love to them again.

I thought it was only me. A friend who had done time himself told me that his girl came home early from work and caught him in bed jerking off. She was devasted. She could not understand. He said she thought it was her fault. She wasn't enough for him or wasn't doing the right thing. He tried to explain that it was just in him and had nothing to do with her.

Even when I am in a relationship, I feel a need to masturbate. Either when I am home alone and thinking about how good that sex was or when my mind says, "this is a good time." A good time is when I should be working on something but feel a need to take a little break. I rationalize that I have worked hard enough. I deserve a reward or some love.

My first time was when I found some pornographic magazines that my stepfather had stashed under the mattress he slept on with my mother. There were images of white girls with their legs spread wide and their fingers spreading their lips to see the pinkness. I rubbed myself forever until I finally came. It was hard work, but I did it. I was so proud. I may have attached love to that moment. I couldn't wait to tell someone. My friends had reached that stage before me, and they joked that I still shot duck water.

When I got the chance to have sex with a neighborhood girl, she told me I was taking too long. I asked her to give me a minute. I went into the bathroom and beat the shit out of that sucker to the point of cumming. When I came out, she was dressed.

"I'm ready," I said.

"I don't know what you were doing in there so long. I'm going home."

How could I explain?

It feels sooooo good. In the end, I feel relieved and guilty. That is until the urge rises again. I am guilty because I am wiped out afterward. The stress is gone. All I want to do is take a nap. I need my strength to be motivated and productive. On top of that, it is just a fantasy. It is not with a real person. It's just a pipe dream. Yet this is self-love. It is a moment when I am in pleasure from touching my body. I never grew hair in my palms nor has my vision failed me.

I am thankful for the fantasies and all the imaginary pussy I got. I know there will come a time when he won't stand up on his own, and I must slap him a little harder, and the memories will have faded.