NaMaMo: Day 30


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We’re almost at the end of NaMaMo! Tomorrow we’ll get all the goods on how it went for everyone. But for today, a comic from Least I Could Do!

Today’s optional prompt: Do you talk about masturbation? When, how often and with whom? Are there topics that you won’t discuss, or is everything game?

One more day! Pleasure away!

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About Shanna Germain

Writer. Editor. Game Designer. Leximaven. Geek.
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One Response to NaMaMo: Day 30

  1. Mat Twassel says:

    For me, masturbation has always been intensely private. On special occasions I might masturbate in front of my partner, but it’s not something we discuss. I’ve always been pretty inhibited face to face. I’m sure it was something in my upbringing—which is to say, masturbation was something never discussed at all in my family, so I learned that it wasn’t something to be discussed at all.

    On the other hand, I don’t mind telling my partner to masturbate, in person or on the phone or via text messages. The pleasure is in the situation and the detail. And sometimes the feedback. But she never responds in kind. Maybe someday.

    The only time I remember a conversation (of sorts) about masturbation was before I even knew what masturbation was. I was in fifth grade, trotting out to the playground. One of my classmates, Charley Boyd, a sort of chunky, genial kid who wasn’t really one of my best friends, trotted along next to me. We were about halfway to the ballfield when he asked, “Do you like to fiddle your dick?” I was taken aback, confused, and I said nothing. I didn’t know what “dick” meant. The only dick I knew was from the Dick and Jane readers back in first and second grade. And I couldn’t really figure out what he meant by fiddle, either. Running through my head was the nursery rhyme, Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon… Charley smiled at me in an easy-going way, as if to say he understood my silence, and said, “It feels good, doesn’t it? I really like to fiddle my dick.” If I said anything to this, I don’t remember what it was. I do know that something about the whole conversation seemed “off” to me. Peculiar. Wrong. Alarming. The “conversation” stuck with me. It was probably at least three years later that I realized what Charley had been talking about. He and I never became friends, though we were in many of the same classes all the way through high school. For a very brief time I had a mild crush on his little sister, but nothing came of that. And some years later, I learned that Charley had died of AIDS.

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