When I saw this Kink of the Week prompt approaching, I knew exactly what story I wanted to share. This is a story about my first adventure in mutual masturbation – albeit a slightly fictionalised one.
Content note for mention of mental illness.
My most memorable adventure in mutual masturbation happened after I’d had my first kiss, but before I’d had sex for the first time. It happened when I was trying on the label ‘queer’ but was still terrified of dick. It happened when we were both trying desperately hard to convince ourselves that it wasn’t going to happen, that we weren’t going to fuck.
We did, of course.
I don’t think the fact that us having sex was utterly forbidden made it hotter. Not exactly. We were clinging together because our worlds were falling apart and the only sanctuary we could offer each other was this strange, sexually-charged dynamic. But the fact we were fighting it – making excuses and pretending that we were the good people we really wanted to be – made ever inch we slipped closer to fucking even sweeter. Deliciously sweet and dirty.
We’d been talking about sex for weeks – for months probably, at that point. We’d been exchanging filthy words – mostly me confessing kinky secrets that aroused me, and him helping me build those ideas into full blown fantasies with words that made me squirm and beg. We talked through texts and Facebook messages, with my hand was down my knickers more than half the time. I liked to think our conversations turned him on just as much as they did me, and I think once or twice he came to the ideas we discussed – but afterwards, of course.
He was far too much of a gentleman to come while talking to me, even though I was increasingly sure that I wanted him to come all over my tits.
And he really was a gentleman – to the extend that the personalised erotica he was writing for me was almost completely girl-girl sex (or girl-girl-girl sex) scenes. I loved them, and even more I loved how he never pushed me on the fact that I terrified of his body as well as being scared of my own. I was still exploring my body with nervous excitement, still working out what I was into. But as much as I wished it wasn’t true, I was into him. Which is how he ended up being my first penis.
Not the first penis I’d ever seen, of course, but the first one that I hadn’t wanted to ignore because of my fear. So I suppose my blog post title is inaccurate: his was my first cock. Not just an anatomical body part, but something I wanted to touch and taste and tease. I thought about it and desired it. I wanted to know if I could see it and still desire it.
Which is how I ended up sitting in a giant double bed that wasn’t mine – wrapped in a blanket and with my laptop. It was dark and late and the sheets felt cool to my touch. I expect the video call was my idea, because I was so often the one who was pushing the limits of what we convinced ourselves was ok. I can remember what his room looked like when he called me, with the poster in the background and this boy – this man – who I desired with a desperate need, sitting on his bed and still wearing jeans. I don’t remember how we went from the embarrassment and teasing and me-getting-my-tits-out that we undoubtedly started with to the point I was looking at cock.
Maybe he’d been touching himself already through his jeans while we talked. Maybe we started masturbating after I’d asked the dozens of curious, scientific questions I had about . I don’t remember if he called me out for already having my hand down my pyjama bottoms, working out that I was wanking from my guilty expression and little squeaks of pleasure. I don’t remember what we said to each other, even though dirty talk was such a huge part of our sex that I know we exchanged filthy words.
But I do remember the sounds he made when he touched himself. I remember how I found that if I made more sounds – not a hardship, he has since teased me about how noisy I am and moaning while I rubbed my clit felt so good – he would respond with louder whines and whimpers. It was delightful; I was captivated. I remember looking at his foreskin and wondering if my hand could move as deftly on his shaft as his could. I remember how he checked that with me that it was ok for him to come, and I remember him coming.
He came into a tissue. He took a minute to clean himself up. We talked about whether or not I could get myself off with my fingers and gave each other aftercare without being aware that’s what we were doing. When we said good night and ended the call – and then we’d texted it too, because I wanted to say thank you – I thought about his cock.
It was that night, falling asleep while breathing in the scent of my own arousal on my fingers, that I became sure that we weren’t going to stop there. We were going to escalate beyond mutual masturbation: I was going to taste his come.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.