All Work, No Play

Work is vicious these days. I'm rarely out of here before 9 pm, so there isn't really time to hunt. Slick boy from last weekend has expressed interest in another go round, and this time I might get farther with him. Most likely, I'll just get really worked up and go home and fuck b&c, though. That's a win-win-win situation, if I can manage to find the hour or so (plus travel time) I need to spread the oil. But that hour is really hard to come by. I'm almost constantly horny at work, though I can now keep that in check a bit because every time I walk by the office of the higher up who responded to my craigslist ad for a bondage sub, I'm too busy trying not to laugh to be horny. Still, I'm horny 90% of the time. That's a conservative estimate.

Even jerking off (which, really, should be the national pastime) has become complicated. Typically, I'll yank one off to some porn after I get home while b&c's making dinner, but these days I get home too late for that, so I have to get up early, and since b&c's still sleeping, I can't turn the TV on.

When you're as skilled a masturbator as I am, you don't need porn to get off, but you do need some time to do it right. On some level, ejaculation is like eating: if you don't do it at all, your health will suffer. But fine masturbation is as much more fun than a fast one in the men's room as a great dinner is better than the McD's drive-thru. With plenty of time, you can bring yourself to the edge and keep yourself there for a good long time before you shoot. There aren't many better ways to spend an hour.

When you only have five minutes, you have to be efficient. That's easy with a hot porn scene to focus my attention. My memory and imagination are hotter than any DVD, but five minutes isn't even long enough to choose what to think about. Six or seven years ago, I'd have just thought about whoever I was dating or one of the limited number of guys that I'd had very hot sex with. Now, if I start remembering hot guy A, my mind shifts over to hot guys B, C, D, E, and F, and it's all good, but it's not getting the cum out within five minutes.

This is why I avoid those restaurants with twenty-page menus.

Ultimately, I manage, if not in five minutes, then in ten. Sometimes I think of the second guy I fell in love with. He wasn't that great in bed, but he had the most amazing body I'd ever seen, and all I had to do was put my tongue against his asshole or bite down on his nipple, and his whole body would jerk and he'd start shouting as if he had Tourette's. Sometimes I think about the guy who still emails me once a year but who I only fucked once, at his boss' house, a few months before his wife outed him and he lost his job. He was tall and smooth and cute, and he kissed well. He was sad, but he loved to suck cock, and he was happy for the three hours we spent playing. Sometimes I think about one of several men who have been tied to my bed and begging me to fuck them. And sometimes I think about that cute, naive, twenty-five year old boy from South Carolina who I took to the movies and then drove back to his apartment. It was late, and no one was around, and we started making out in the car, and when I reached down and squeezed his crotch, he shuddered and came, making a big wet spot in his jeans. He was so embarrassed that he ran out of the car, and I never heard from him again, but he occasionally still gets me off.