Recently, I’ve been able to put words to the restructuring my brain is doing about sex. For a lot of years, the main if not only things that I associated actual sexual arousal with were exhibitionism, voyeurism, denial, and the like—anything that defined sex by fear, control, or shame. A lot lead me there, but there was a time when that’s not what I wanted out of sex. I wanted laughter, tenderness, romance… That kind of gestalt. It’s been a long road, but I’ve healed a lot and been able to start getting back to that. Tonight was an example.
I was talking to one of my closest friends on the phone. We had been talking for hours and hours. Before yesterday, I had been so busy since late last week that I hadn’t teased myself in several days, though. Yesterday, I thought I’d masturbate to relax before going to sleep and I almost got caught; I got going, forgot how good it was, and could barely stop when someone came in to adjust the AC on the house HVAC box in my room. Today, I got ahold of the shower head and came again, several times.
On the phone with him, I noticed I’d been absentmindedly stroking myself through my thin night-sweats. Trying for that to be a passing thought, I noticed it more. Started getting more worked up.
For awhile, we were talking, and I was lightly brushing. We kept having our normal, fun, winding conversation. My hand feathered over it, brushing up and down, up and down. I don’t think I was noticed.
Pretty soon, though, I started to press harder. I held it with my right hand, through my pants, and I felt it getting warmer.
I pressed too much and with the unexpected nature of it, let out a tiny, quiet sigh.
That was dangerous. I nearly froze. I stopped, breathless, for a moment, and was quiet. Let out a slower, more even breath.
But then, my hand started moving again. I gripped harder. Soon, I was full-on humping my hand. My whole right hand was gripping my crotch through the thin pants, my middle finger digging in in the middle. It was too much.
I held my breath when I needed to, but things slipped out.
Some of them were breaths, some were little grunts (followed by little sighs), some were tiny sigh-moans, but they remained.
A long, firm pillow moved between my legs. I tried to maneuver on top of it, but I couldn’t quite do so. Even so, I was moving through the air trying to get any pressure at all, hoping the motion against the chair’s fabric covering wasn’t making too much of a sound.
I stopped trying with the pillow, turned, and slipped a hand into my pants. A held breath, moan-sigh. The right-middle finger worked my clit. Then the pointer finger pressed into it while the middle worked over my vagina. Circles, ups and downs, all hard-pressed. I pressed my legs together. Couldn’t decide whether the slickness or the pressure before the slickness was more arousing.
We honestly kept conversing as normal through all of this, unbelievable though it may seem. It was spread out over a much longer period of time than this story might suggest, though, so that might’ve been why.
But during that time, I found myself getting aroused by the exhibition and fear that had driven me before, yes, but also by older, more wholesome things from before all that.
He and I would spend a ton of time together with our other friends in the common areas at college, too, especially when we all lived in dorms together the past two years before this one. A bunch of us would hang out in common areas, or we’d hang out together in our different rooms; I loved those times, too. I love all those people. We would watched TV together, talk, and we all enjoyed spending time together so much.
All the times he and I would stay up late into the night, or all night, talking, though, in common areas just the two of us or even right outside my room. This year, too. When we would watch TV together, too, fewer of us or just he and I. Especially this year, now that most of those sweet guys moved into an apartment of their own and I moved into a double apartment dorm in which my wonderful roommate and I both had our own rooms, he would come over to my roommate’s and my apartment more.
All the times he would sit on my couch in the den and we’d watch shows together. Some were shows we just watched on relaxing, familiar, late-night TV, all three of us—hanging out and relaxing for the evening/night. But we’d also watch shows that he and I picked out to watch together, to show each other or otherwise that were just us two.
The times when he was over at our apartment late and before he would go/as we were saying goodbye, when there would be moments between us that got/were deeper, somehow. Our eyes, we would be looking into each other’s eyes, a moment would pass of us not talking, loaded, the air would be heavier… Like there could be, something.
When I gave him a present from one of our favorite TV ships.
Times when his face leaned down towards me on the couch while we were watching TV. He laid down on his side one night; He laid down that way—feet nearby the arm of the couch, he face near me—even though so often he’d been like “two bros, sittin in a hot tub, five feet apart cause they’re nOt GaY” (XD) while sitting with me so often. He looked up at me, we’d pause the show and talk. Observant a person as I am, I’m fairly oblivious as to people flirting with and/or expressing feelings for me… I remember I was thinking about what it meant, even while it happened.
I could’ve leaned down and kissed him. I remember all those times he was leaving the apartment—I was kneeling by the edge of the couch, my arms propped up on the arm of the couch—and I could’ve kissed him. I remember thinking so, too. I remember those depth-filled moments when I could’ve kissed him, and those moments didn’t only happen before he would leave.
All those times we‘d talk on the phone, over the summer, and I would think, “Yeah. ?” You know? And realize how happy I was.
I’m a storyteller; I know that. But though it might have been a small moment, it was so nice to think about how I hadn’t only thought about “danger, danger.” There was lightness. Laughter. Feelings of heartwarming. And I thought, if he ever kissed me, we ever kissed; he was kissing me, wherever; I would feel like **that**. And that’s the kind of intimacy I want. That’s how I want that all to be. That’s how I want intimacy, including sex, to be.
I had healed a little. And that was a nice revelation. ?❤️
(Wash your hands, love yourself, and stay safe, everyone. ?)
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/grh72y/f_talkin_on_the_phone_with_one_of_my_best_friends