Titfuck

She looked directly into my eyes from my phone screen, as she talked dirty while jerking a guy off with her big tits, until completion. I had innocently opened a video a friend from Chile sent me on WhatsApp. “For your day, mate,” he’d ambiguously written in the preceding text. After a second or two, I comprehended what I was watching, but couldn’t look away. On my defense, I was kind of waiting for a quick cut to a meme or a funny ending. The only thing that came at the end of the video, though, was the guy’s dick being wanked by that woman. And I was left there; horny, sad and confused.
What was sadder in this whole scene? This insulting reminder that I haven’t fucked in months nor masturbated in weeks? And what the fuck was my friend thinking? That this was somewhat entertaining? For whom? I don’t get it. Shit, for all I know, he gets off with making other men aroused. For some undisclosed, fucked up reason. Or is this one of those behaviors they label under the generic term “toxic masculinity”? Fuck if I know. There are so many layers to this, if we go down that road.
“But hey, Eduardo, why the fuck aren’t you beating your meat?” you are probably wondering. Well, on one hand (not pun intended), I got bored of it. But, also, because I wanted to try something new. Having a purpose, or at least a distraction. Whatever I could do (or avoid) during the lockdown that’d give me a certain sense of achievement, really.
It’s no completely new to me, to be honest. Around the time I turned 18, I felt so repulsed by my “constant” auto-erotic compulsions (which, surprisingly enough, were nowhere near my later years’ urges), that I stopped pleasuring myself completely for over a year. I was a sexually frustrated, angsty virgin teenager (the very definition of an incel) and yet, against all odds, I managed to keep my hands off my genitalia for what now feels like ages. And it was… great. The repressed sexual energy transmuted into this unstoppable creative drive. I wrote over half a novel, plenty of short stories, dozens of movie ideas and even songs. It was crazy.
Now, while socially isolated, stressed with my injured ankle PTSD and ravaged by the abandonment issues of my breakup, what seems crazy is not unleashing this fucking sexual fury into hours of porn binging and unrelenting masturbation. Instead, I caught myself staring, with the same enthusiasm of a dentist appointment or a supermarket queue, at some anonymous lady’s tits finishing some faceless dude. The high of my motherfucking day.
Maybe it’s about time to finally put and end to this charade and, once and for all, announcing it to the world: all my books are filled with filthy lies, cover to cover. I have never fucked anyone. Not even myself. I’m a hack. A -technically- asexual, mentally castrated hack. Watch me rot in these pajamas, as my balls cash their pension checks for all of us to have food on our damn plates. God bless America.

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