Girl on the Net

Initially I thought number 20 was a massive liar. I only saw him once, but he was great – beautifully scruffy, with a lopsided smile and a penchant for getting so stoned I could feel the high through his tingling skin. It was good, for a first date. But I still thought he was a liar.

He told me that he only ever watched porn that girls he knew had made for him. Specifically, he collected clips of them masturbating. Some of it, he said, was full-frontal – you saw their tits jiggle and their cunt get slick as they fucked themselves, rubbed their clits and finally came, just for him, in grainy homemade videos.

Some of it was filmed just in close-up on their faces. Women he’d known, loved, fucked, and got drunk with would stare straight down the camera as they made themselves come.

Hot, yes. True? I doubted it. Women, I thought, would be naturally nervous about doing this. Not just because they’d worry that the footage would fall into the wrong hands (although for the record he did not offer to show me, and I didn’t ask to see) but because wanking is special – private.

I don’t actually like to wank on the bus

Wanking is something that even I, an irritating exhibitionist sex-pest, feel nervous about doing in front of someone. It’s what I do on my own -it’s mine.

When I wank in front of someone I feel a bizarre urge to do it wrong – to do it like they do in porn. To spread my cunt wide and fuck myself with my fingers so the watching boy gets a good view. To wank so that it’s difficult to come, so that I last. Home alone I can go from nought to soaking orgasm in the time it’d take to fire up xhamster, but in front of others I’m embarassed to do that. I don’ t want to be a freak, I want to be like the girls in porn.

And ridiculously I thought all women would be the same. I didn’t realise at the time that girls can be sexually confident enough to wank on demand for a friend. That they could be open enough to let a guy keep footage of their most private moments, just to facilitate his own private moments. I was an idiot.

It’s actually quite a big favour

Number 20 didn’t ask me to fuck. He got stoned, and stoned, and stoned until it was time for me to leave. Then as I put my shoes on he leapt on me. Pulling at my clothes and kissing like a teenager, he whispered excuses to lower my expectations.

“I’m on antidepressants.”

My hand strayed to his cock, and squeezed. He was rock-solid and straining at the crotch of his trousers.

“I find it hard to… finish things.”

I undid his flies.

He took me into the bedroom and took off everything I had. Frantically, like he wanted to prove to me that he could fuck. And he could – he was good. His cock was long, and thick, and straight. As he fucked me I could feel it stretching my cunt, filling me up, hitting the back of my cervix like he wanted to get as far inside me as possible.

As I came I licked his neck, tasting the mixture of sweat and lingering, smoky weed.

And then he stopped. He pulled out, took off the condom, and held his dick in his hand.

“Can I ask you a favour?”

Oh God, please don’t ask me to touch myself.

“Can you touch yourself?”

I’m going to be so bad at this.

“That’s it, open your legs so I can see. Lean back. Enjoy it – please. That’s it.”

Awkwardly, nervously, I wanked for him. Aware of my porny attitude, I tried to suppress the temptation – to make startled moans and aching sighs like they do in the movies. To wank like it was normal, like I was at home in my bedroom and having fun. I looked at him, imagined he wasn’t there. Imagined I was watching him on film, in a video made just for me – a guy in front of a webcam holding a nice, thick, straight cock and rubbing it vigorously – lubricating it with spit. Kneeling on the bed with a face red with lust and hands that squeezed tighter the closer I came to coming.

He so clearly liked watching me. He’d enjoyed the sex but while he watched me touch myself he grew even harder, even straighter. His eyes glazed over and his cock turned a darker shade of red. And as he grunted, nearing completion, he moved closer – knelt over me and looked straight at my fingers rubbing hard on my clit.

And then he came. In buckets, in slicks, he shot rivers of watery spunk all over my tits, my neck, my face. Droplets wet the ends of my hair and splattered the well-worn bedsheets. I licked a drop from the side of my mouth and I heard him panting – satisfied and calm.

And then I realised how much he loved this. How hard he’d come just watching me come. So finally I believed him.

As I walked home I was sad that I didn’t make him a video myself.