This was actually written last night in my PDA before bed.
Mom stood silhouetted, black on black. She was a shadow in the darkness, like a fucking implication. For some reason, I kept having Psycho flashes.
"Norman?!?"
Yes, Mother?
"Norman?!? What are you doing out there in your car?!? Norman?!? It's the middle of the night. It's raining. Norman?!? It's the middle of the night and it's raining and you are sitting in the dark, in the driveway, in your parked car. Norman?!?"
It's okay, Mother. Just go to sleep. I am simply lying across both the driver's and passenger's side seats discussing the taste of urine with a friend of mine on the cellphone.
The neighbor's cat had played a similar game with me earlier that evening. She clambered up onto the hood of the car and began screeching at me through the glass. When I failed to acknowledge her presence, she precariously balanced on the mirror casing and attempted to find entry through the driver's side window. Then through the passenger's side window. Then through the roof. It was, of course, raining so she rapidly lost her footing and proceeded to slide down the windshield with a comical flatulent sound, all the while begging to join me.
But I was busy delivering a diatribe about people who put t-shirts on hangers.
When I become interested in someone, I reach this stage of fascination wherein I probe into details that, however mundane, bring me fulfillment. How many pairs of shoes does he own? Twelve. How many t-shirts featuring a particular rockstar? Forty-Three. How many suits? Five, I think. Metrics. Meaningless facts that add up to some portrait of a person I find interesting, with whom I engage in suggestive and salacious talk, but whom I have never met. Therein lies the rub.
Earlier at Tower Records, I was stalking the fellow who works at Video Vault. I am uncertain whether he recognized me or not. I suspect he only did when I stood next to him and began confidently plucking bargain DVDs out of the clearance bin (Dune?!? How dare they?). I was stalking him just because I suspect he is homosexual and, even though I have no interest, it boosts my self-esteem to know other people are checking me out. But either he is not queer or just not interested. Still, we shared a secret smile as an old man with remarkably odd posture ranted about the faulty, high school economics of record stores and inflated CD prices.
My cum-stained boxers are secreted away in the back of my childhood closet right now. I need to fish them out and put them in my backpack before I depart for my own apartment Friday. Lest I forget them and my depravity be revealed. It wasn't the best orgasm, fear of being caught does not really amplify things for me because, well, I am not that afraid of being caught. It was a conceptual orgasm, if you will, orgasm with a purpose. I just wanted to commit the act; any pleasure was merely a convenient side effect of creating an anecdote, something to tell at parties when I am feeling socially awkward and don't want to discuss other mundanities.
"Oh yeah, I jerked off in bumper-to-bumper traffic during my evening commute from work... Pass the cheese doodles."
I am spending entirely too much time engaging in sexually-charged IM conversations while at work. The problem is two fold: first, it makes me horny while at work, which, while not all that unpleasant, is like an itch I can not scratch; second, I begin to feel so damned innocent, inexperienced, and fucking virginal while talking to people who have done damned near everything that is legal (and a few things that are illegal in some states). So, I begin to experience a rising urge to relieve these two pressures in some way.
Next thing you know, I am driving down Route 66 at 6:30 PM with my fly open and my hand pumping away. It took me at least twenty minutes to cum, if not thirty, not because the situation was awkward and not terribly arousing (although I am sure those were contributing factors), but mostly due to the constant interruptions. You see - I drive stick. I love manual transmissions; they bring an added degree of control and stress relief to my driving experience. But I will admit that they certainly add difficulty to one's attempts to jerk off while driving.
Second gear is the automotive masturbator's best friend.
The entire process was only made possible by boxers. I traditionally wear boxer-briefs when I anticipate even the slightest possibility that my pants might be removed. Happily, on this particular date, I had no such plans and was therefore wearing a fairly loose fitting pair of drab green boxers (yes, coordinated with my olive green slacks and dark green shirt). It proved fairly easy for me to slip my hand through the open fly of my slacks and that of my boxers so I might stroke my erect member without even loosing it upon the outside world. And stroke I did. I began to develop a bit of an abrasion on my wrist from the metal teeth of the zipper, but otherwise things went fairly smoothly (or as smoothly as is possible in the absence of lubrication and while being forced to occasionally reach over and shift gears). When I finally came, I shot my load right there in my boxers, which, to their credit, did a fairly decent job of containing what was a large, sticky mess. Regardless, I receive bonus points for having the forethought to keep a box of tissues behind my driver's seat.
I think perhaps my favorite part of the whole experience was when the metrobus passed me in the right lane, affording its passengers an excellent view of the aftermath. Five crumbled tissues lay scattered about the floor in front of my passenger's seat. If that managed to adequately pique their curiosity, perhaps they glanced over at me, reclining, still catching my breath as the fly to my pants gaped like a hungry maw.
Life is really only as surreal as we make it. I am doing my part to combat boredom.
"Norman?!?"
Yes, Mother?
"Norman?!? What are you doing out there in your car?!? Norman?!? It's the middle of the night. It's raining. Norman?!? It's the middle of the night and it's raining and you are sitting in the dark, in the driveway, in your parked car. Norman?!?"
It's okay, Mother. Just go to sleep. I am simply lying across both the driver's and passenger's side seats discussing the taste of urine with a friend of mine on the cellphone.
The neighbor's cat had played a similar game with me earlier that evening. She clambered up onto the hood of the car and began screeching at me through the glass. When I failed to acknowledge her presence, she precariously balanced on the mirror casing and attempted to find entry through the driver's side window. Then through the passenger's side window. Then through the roof. It was, of course, raining so she rapidly lost her footing and proceeded to slide down the windshield with a comical flatulent sound, all the while begging to join me.
But I was busy delivering a diatribe about people who put t-shirts on hangers.
When I become interested in someone, I reach this stage of fascination wherein I probe into details that, however mundane, bring me fulfillment. How many pairs of shoes does he own? Twelve. How many t-shirts featuring a particular rockstar? Forty-Three. How many suits? Five, I think. Metrics. Meaningless facts that add up to some portrait of a person I find interesting, with whom I engage in suggestive and salacious talk, but whom I have never met. Therein lies the rub.
Earlier at Tower Records, I was stalking the fellow who works at Video Vault. I am uncertain whether he recognized me or not. I suspect he only did when I stood next to him and began confidently plucking bargain DVDs out of the clearance bin (Dune?!? How dare they?). I was stalking him just because I suspect he is homosexual and, even though I have no interest, it boosts my self-esteem to know other people are checking me out. But either he is not queer or just not interested. Still, we shared a secret smile as an old man with remarkably odd posture ranted about the faulty, high school economics of record stores and inflated CD prices.
My cum-stained boxers are secreted away in the back of my childhood closet right now. I need to fish them out and put them in my backpack before I depart for my own apartment Friday. Lest I forget them and my depravity be revealed. It wasn't the best orgasm, fear of being caught does not really amplify things for me because, well, I am not that afraid of being caught. It was a conceptual orgasm, if you will, orgasm with a purpose. I just wanted to commit the act; any pleasure was merely a convenient side effect of creating an anecdote, something to tell at parties when I am feeling socially awkward and don't want to discuss other mundanities.
"Oh yeah, I jerked off in bumper-to-bumper traffic during my evening commute from work... Pass the cheese doodles."
I am spending entirely too much time engaging in sexually-charged IM conversations while at work. The problem is two fold: first, it makes me horny while at work, which, while not all that unpleasant, is like an itch I can not scratch; second, I begin to feel so damned innocent, inexperienced, and fucking virginal while talking to people who have done damned near everything that is legal (and a few things that are illegal in some states). So, I begin to experience a rising urge to relieve these two pressures in some way.
Next thing you know, I am driving down Route 66 at 6:30 PM with my fly open and my hand pumping away. It took me at least twenty minutes to cum, if not thirty, not because the situation was awkward and not terribly arousing (although I am sure those were contributing factors), but mostly due to the constant interruptions. You see - I drive stick. I love manual transmissions; they bring an added degree of control and stress relief to my driving experience. But I will admit that they certainly add difficulty to one's attempts to jerk off while driving.
Second gear is the automotive masturbator's best friend.
The entire process was only made possible by boxers. I traditionally wear boxer-briefs when I anticipate even the slightest possibility that my pants might be removed. Happily, on this particular date, I had no such plans and was therefore wearing a fairly loose fitting pair of drab green boxers (yes, coordinated with my olive green slacks and dark green shirt). It proved fairly easy for me to slip my hand through the open fly of my slacks and that of my boxers so I might stroke my erect member without even loosing it upon the outside world. And stroke I did. I began to develop a bit of an abrasion on my wrist from the metal teeth of the zipper, but otherwise things went fairly smoothly (or as smoothly as is possible in the absence of lubrication and while being forced to occasionally reach over and shift gears). When I finally came, I shot my load right there in my boxers, which, to their credit, did a fairly decent job of containing what was a large, sticky mess. Regardless, I receive bonus points for having the forethought to keep a box of tissues behind my driver's seat.
I think perhaps my favorite part of the whole experience was when the metrobus passed me in the right lane, affording its passengers an excellent view of the aftermath. Five crumbled tissues lay scattered about the floor in front of my passenger's seat. If that managed to adequately pique their curiosity, perhaps they glanced over at me, reclining, still catching my breath as the fly to my pants gaped like a hungry maw.
Life is really only as surreal as we make it. I am doing my part to combat boredom.