Chapter 5: “Roll ‘em!”

So, let’s get into the mechanics of this depraved obsession of mine by way of taking an even closer look at some of the masturbatory movie fantasies I had devised for myself; shall we? Somebody’s got to tell you about it, so it might as well be me.

Now, I hope you won’t mind if I break a cardinal rule of erotic story writing and occasionally give you a “blow-by-blow” account of some of the sex acts themselves? Perhaps through a descriptively graphic, expletive-filled narrative, one which holds back none of the gritty, smutty details, you may get a better sense of just how lascivious my mind had become.

At this point, I should warn you—and this is especially directed to the female readers in my audience—that all the screenplays I had conjured up read like so many of those cheap vintage pornographic pulp fiction books which were largely marketed to men back in their day. These books were “triple X” porn readers, their covers usually emblazoned with hot, graphic illustrations, and their pages filled with insensitively phrased, male-centric sex scenarios.

You know the type I’m talking about, right? That kind of dirty-word-filled, trashy smut literature tattered copies of which you might accidentally stumble upon hidden at the very bottom of one of your daddy’s dresser drawers under his shirts, next to his gun, and Jehovah Witness pamphlets?

God knows I had read plenty of them! Many a Saturday afternoon was spent laying prostrate on my bed, thumbing through their course pulp pages. With one sweaty hand grasping the book as the other firmly rubbed the prominent bulge in my denims, I’d slowly bring myself to the boiling point. Oh, but I wouldn’t stop there! I’d do it right up to the end, actively working toward “blowing one” inside my pants without any consideration of my mother, and what she might think on laundry day.

No, I would resign myself to the inexorable fate, and deal with the mess and repercussions later.

During those breathless moments, logic or guilt had no meaning. Self-pleasure took precedence. With my grasping hand continuing to jerk and wrench at the nagging stiffness distending my trousers, I’d tease myself toward the inevitable climax, fully encouraging a sticky “accident.” Nothing short of a bomb exploding right in the middle of my room could tear my attention away from the dogeared pages in which I was so absorbed. My narrowing eyes scanned through those lurid paragraphs taking in every adjective, every verb, every dirty phrase, feverishly anxious to arrive at that one keyworded “orgasm trigger” so often found at the conclusion of each sex act.

Admittedly, the books were somewhat predictable. However, there was an applied psychology as to why they were so effectively fucking hot to young boys of my age at that time. It had to do with the repeated themes of unrestrained lewdness. It was all about the authors’ choice of words when describing the sex acts themselves. And all that fucking cum! Jesus! Both males and females always seemed capable of squirting gallons of the stuff—drinking it in, covering each other in it, almost drowning one another! The writers went into great detail about every passing moment during cum scenes, devoting multiple paragraphs to describing a fleeting minute of finale rutting, ejaculation, and pussy climaxing. And I would read every word of these paragraphs with the utmost amount of focus, sometimes backtracking and re-reading them to achieve the most vivid pictures in my head while I worked my demanding cock to a frothy finish.

No, these were not shining examples of great literature, either erotic or otherwise. As I said, they were predictable. One book was pretty much like the other. Oh, the characters’ names would change, and perhaps some of the words. But the rabid, horny thrust of the phrasing contained within each description generally remained the same...

” ... Bernice continued to moan uncontrollably even after Harry had pulled his seething cock out from between the tight seal of her lips. Reaching the end of his endurance, he began tugging fanatically on his painfully stiff boner mere inches from her face, desperate to coax spurt after spurt of his lust to splash all over her bruised cock-fucked lips and reddened cheeks...”

... Nope, not great literature. But these books served their purpose!

The sheer dirtiness of such phrasing, as well as their intent, stuck with me. I couldn’t help feeling the influence. It was the unsuppressed wanton sexual appetite communicated through the vulgarity of words and phrases like these which found its way into my dirty little screenplays. The result spurred big box office orgasms for me.

Because of this factor, I am acutely aware that a good portion of the graphic language and situations to which you are about to be subjected—a narrative that will include all those well known, possibly overused, keyword “orgasm triggers”—might appeal more to some of the men than it will to most of the women in the audience. For this, I offer the most sincere, humblest apologies to any female readers. Ladies: I admit that at the very core of these sweat-drenched fantasies there exists an underlying theme of male sexual dominance. And I’m also painfully (embarrassingly) aware that, at times, the nature of the following descriptive text smacks of abuse. However, there’s no getting around the language and depiction of these lust-driven, sometimes brooding teen musings.

I do have a sense of decorum, though. I had it back then, as well. These dirty late teen thoughts of mine had their place. That place was the family bathroom; the space where my early sexual frustrations and unreasonable urges were thoroughly “worked out.” But none of their content ever passed beyond those four walls. Everything that happened in there was kept between me, the towels, the toothbrushes, the razor, the shaving mug, and the porcelain fixtures. Nor did I ever have any inkling to act out these indecencies in real life. That was simply unthinkable! It just was not part of my make-up. Besides, it was hotter to fantasize. Somehow, I knew that very few events in the real world could match the intensity I was capable of dreaming up.

So, as suggested in the blurb for this story, I ask you to look upon all of this through a “Thurber-esque” lens. Yes, think of “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” (though, not anywhere near as well written.). Only, picture Walter as Alexander from “Portnoy’s Complaint,” with a dripping hard-on in his hand—minus the piece of liver, of course!

(Hmm ... I don’t know ... Was that last bit going a little too far? I’ll let you the reader be the ultimate judge and sort that one out while I make my apologies to Thurber and Roth.)

At any rate, once more I must assure you that within this chest, both then and now, beats a heart of pure love; and not only a heart that holds a great deal of respect for women but one which has the capacity and inclination toward the “gentle touch” and shared partnership within a relationship. So again; at the risk of sounding over-conciliatory, I apologize.

With all of that said and hopefully understood; onward we go, into the darker side of my nature...

With my teen penis now doing most of the thinking for me, scripts for these “mind-fuck” movies of mine became progressively more elaborate and infinitely more down-right dirty. Ideas were coming fast and furious for plot lines; and with every new idea, the level of licentiousness increased. Varying darker scenarios started to conjure in my febrile thoughts. I began to construct little-themed plays to enhance my hand jobs. These were short but steamy performances I had worked up during the numerous trips to the bathroom. They were constructed using different storylines within which little snatches of fictitious moments in life were played out.

These plots were fluid, not static. They developed and evolved/devolved over a series of hand jobs. Which elements I’d use would wholly depend upon how I felt at a given moment during the act of masturbation. I’d keep the on-the-fly, accidental elements that worked to produce more heart-pounding breathlessness, more throb, and more shattering hard cum shots. Others I’d discard or file for possible future rewrites.

I had “produced” many different movies, and they could feature any one of my favorite obsession characters starring in the main roles. Movies involving this aunt, that cousin, or some other unsuspecting smoking female family member, would be threaded on the projector and shown to suit whatever masturbatory whim. One screenplay was used repeatedly as a classic. I’d call it up more frequently as I found it quite effective. The signature elements always made me cum hard. It became a smut-glutted standard!

While involving interchangeable main characters, the thrust remained true because the idea was based on a general concept. Its overarching plot point was built upon a very stimulating consideration I had running through my mind at that time; one which pondered a question concerning possible character motivation: What if these sexy women were ignorant of the effect their smoking was having upon the men around them, especially young men like me?

Of course, this concept was by no means a stroke of genius. Although somewhere within the psychology, among the many factors which motivate one to begin smoking in the first place—e.g., peer pressure, rebelliousness, the appearance of independence, a rite of passage into adulthood, etc.—there also exists a need to project a seductive image of sexual sophistication and prowess (thanks to media). However, in large part, a woman’s ignorance of this fetish would be perfectly understandable. Most women, in fact, are unaware of the lust they may inadvertently be inspiring through mostly innocent gestures, mannerisms, or the normal use of objects. But the very idea that these desirable smoking women of my youth could be completely oblivious to the oral sexual implications being communicated to men through their smoking became a hot point for me.

In my heated thoughts, different men—totally aroused and teased males desperately wanting release—would be popping titanium-hard boners inside their trousers. Imagining their stiff dicks pushing out the fabric at the crotch of their loosely fitting pants into obscene-looking tents while they stood there watching these women of my dreams innocently dragging on their cigarettes and exhaling smoke through their provocatively pursed lips, was an incredibly intense picture to me!

Yep ... The motivation was simple, direct, and arousing within this scenario. The women were chaste, smoking innocently, behaving normally, and completely unaware. And the men? Well, burning, impure, unadulterated, inconsiderate, reptilian-brained savage lust was at the heart of their motive. They looked on with bad intent, just hungering for the opportunity to thrust their hard cocks into every orifice of these bejeweled, beautifully made-up women; but they especially longed to forcibly shove said erections into their mouths, piercing them right through their painted, shiny-red smoke-blowing lips.

Doctor: have I told you that I’m also fetish obsessed with make-up, lipstick, jewelry, earrings, and such? Perhaps later, huh? This session’s almost over.

Anyway, sometimes these male actors would be nondescript; just random highly aroused bystanders on the verge of shooting off into their own pants; men, who, while breathing in the exhaled smoke from these hot women, seemed helplessly caught in this web of unintentional seductive behavior. Sometimes the stiff-pricked fellows would be their boyfriends or husbands. And then, there were those other times when I would step onto the sound stage taking the role of the totally frustrated, effectively teased, and over-stimulated male.

On the other hand (as a switch-up), in different constructs of this masturbatory play, my aunts and cousins weren’t acting so innocently. This scenario was of particular significance to me. I would imagine them acting in a lascivious manner, naughtily teasing the male subjects with their smoking, and otherwise behaving like “bad girls.” They would be doing this while feigning innocence. But their intent was clear; they wanted to entice, and yes, to actually incite a passionate, perhaps even an aggressive or impetuous reaction from the men nearby.

However, during this variation, the teasing women at the center of attention would end up getting something for which they hadn’t really bargained. I’d imagine them miscalculating the intensity of their target male’s reaction. Therefore, a passionate, somewhat violent and animalistic element of force would be introduced as a theme in this particular fevered rendition.

Something close to the sexually tense atmosphere depicted in the film “Fountainhead” would develop; however, without the politically twisted worldview memes and the philosophical “objectivism” claptrap threading through the theme of the play, as preached by its author Ayn Rand. No. The resemblance to which I allude is only mentioned in reference to the sexual interplay depicted between the Roark and Francon characters of Rand’s narrative. Because, quite abruptly, the women would have an “out-of-control,” lust-charged, aggressively dominant male to deal with, as well as having to cope with the result.

You see, it didn’t really matter which concept I’d use. In conjuring the final act, the outcome in these little fist-fuck vignettes always played out basically in the same manner. Much to the ladies’ chagrin, cum would have to be ejaculated and ejaculated hard. Exactly where that spent semen ended up would depend on the situation.

If my male subject found himself compelled to yank his cock out in an abrupt manner and beat off in front of the hapless, smoking female; then warm, sticky sperm would be splattered forcefully all over her surprised, distraught face (“surprised and distraught” being key expressions of emotion in my mind’s eye). This “action sequence” would be replete with copious spurts of semen shooting across her painted lips as she casually blew smoke.

Had I imagined my female character being taken abruptly; because of her incessant teasing, this once-in-control-smoking-woman would suddenly find herself being strong-armed to jack off the nondescript actor’s hard dick (or my own). Sometimes she would be pushed roughly to her knees while being forced to continue the hand job. Hot sperm would then either end up flying against her lips—again, lips poised in a relaxed purse, exhaling her teasing smoke—or all over her jacking fist, and all over the cigarette, which in my mind would be clutched between the fingers of her cock-grasping hand. That last bit was another “hot point” for me!