Girl on the Net

Second only to blow jobs, I think the most-covered topic on this blog is the joy of watching men wank. I am a masturbation voyeur: there are few things that make me hornier than seeing someone I fancy rubbing vigorously away at their junk, with a precision born of years of practice coupled with an urgent need to come. Recently, I got to watch an extremely hot guy do this and just after he’d come I tried to explain to him – with breathless and grateful awe – the exact moment when the wank he’d shown me turned from ‘hot’ to ‘transcendent.’

Performance vs privacy

Most of the time, watching someone masturbate is like watching a performance. It’s rare for someone to be able to wank exactly as they would when they’re alone. It’s why some of my hottest wanking fantasies are also entirely unachievable – ones I would never even attempt to fulfil. They basically require non-consensual wanking voyeurism: catching someone in the act of beating one out when they didn’t expect me to burst in, or secretly filming them so I can watch all the gestures and expressions they make when they don’t know that someone’s looking. As I say: non-consensual. Actually doing it in real life would be extremely creepy and therefore a massive turn-off.

The closest I’ve ever come was walking in (genuinely) by accident on an ex boyfriend cracking one off on the sofa in my living room. He leapt nearly twelve feet into the air, immediately threw his phone aside and rearranged his dressing gown. Gutted to have interrupted, especially because the angle at which he was holding his cock was one that he’d never used in front of me (a downwards-pointing angle, legs splayed wide, a position that belied a pragmatic urgency to simply dump his spunk rather than a languid, performative wank for an audience), I urged him to continue but sadly the mood was lost. Even though he knew I’d have loved to see him wank, the shock of me walking in triggered deeply ingrained wanking shame, and that alone was enough to throw a bucket of cold water on the hot scene I’d briefly been lucky enough to glimpse.

Please understand that I am not trying to denigrate your sexual technique or confidence if you personally find it hard to let go when wanking in front of someone. Dropping the performance in any area of life is a phenomenally difficult thing – dropping it when we’re doing something that we’ve been taught we should feel ashamed of? It’s borderline impossible. I don’t think I manage it very often when I’m shagging – unless I’m high or I know someone really intimately. And although I manage to drop the performance occasionally during a fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever managed to truly let go when I’m wanking for an audience. I’m too focused on their reaction. I’d love to try and tackle this aversion one day, but frankly my therapist already has her hands full talking about my dad – I think it’d be confusing to add masturbation into the mix.

These masks we wear, they’re comfy

So: performance. Performance is at the heart of this blog post, and it’s also at the heart of the man who features in it. I’m extremely fond of him, and he’s very fun indeed, but he also confuses the hell out of me sometimes because he’s 99% performance, 99% of the time. I hope he won’t be annoyed by me telling you this: on multiple occasions we’ve discussed the fact that both of us perform in different ways. Me on the blog, him in real life, and then me occasionally grudgingly admitting that I’m also performing in real life too, most of the time. Even when I work hard to try and articulate what I believe to be truths – how I feel about sex or what I want, for instance – there’s a voice in the back of my head that says ‘do you really think that? Or do you just want other people to see you as a thoughtful person when actually you’re just using rhetoric and fancy language to articulate base instincts for which you have no rational justification?’

As I say, I hope he won’t mind me telling you that he exists as layers of performance: we are both (I think) fairly open about the different masks we wear and the ways we use those masks to impress people into bed, including each other. Being one’s authentic self is tricky when dating new people, so there’s a ruthless and refreshing honesty about hanging out with this guy: someone who openly admits that everything’s an act, allowing me to relax into acting the parts that I want too.

Masturbation voyeur

It’s this guy who I’m watching wank at the end of a horny evening. Condoms make coming so much harder, so he always graciously (and phenomenally smoothly) slides in options towards the end of each fuck, asking me where and how I want him to come. I love it. It gives me the option to swallow or be covered in spunk, of course, but often I choose to sit back and watch. See him grip his dick exactly how he would when he’s alone, and give me a tantalising glimpse into the voyeuristic joy of watching him beat one out.

And as I say, he’s all performance. So when he’s wanking for me I sense he’s aware of the way he’s presenting himself. He knows that he looks astonishingly hot from this angle, understands instinctively where best to come for visual effect. The masks we wear when we’re together, in which we put on the right face to show the other that we’re horny, happy, eager, close-to-coming… whatever… he’s adept at wearing these masks, skilfully slipping from one to the other depending on what he thinks I want to see.

Perhaps that’s why this moment has a bigger impact when it happens with him than with anyone else: that moment when he lets go.

At the start of the wank he tells me “this might take a while, I’m quite high.” So I reassure him that it’s fine: “Take your time. I love watching you do this. I will not get bored, I promise.” And I, the masturbation voyeur, settle down next to him on the sofa, gaze flicking between his rapidly-shuffling hand and his face – eyes closed, lips slightly pursed – as he builds himself up to a climax. His body settles neatly against mine and it’s like he’s presenting his cock to me so I can watch exactly how he touches it. The whole performance is as beautiful as he is, and the fact that he’s doing it for me is a thrill in itself.

Then, as I’m admiring the hot way he shows off, there’s this sublime moment when he changes gear. A slight increase in speed, a subtle shift in grip, a tension in his body that sits entirely apart from the way I’m leaning against him. In that moment, I feel suddenly as if I’m not there: as if he’s forgotten I’m next to him.

This is undeniably the transcendent moment in a wank: the point at which someone drops the performance. That priority-switch from ‘looking good for you’ to ‘need to come for me’ – that’s exactly the moment I live for. The ultimate goal. The key to elevating a sexy, performative wank into something that gives me that kick-in-the-gut of lust that will linger for longer. Watching an orgasm born not of obligation or deference to my request, but of total and complete abandon.

In that moment he’s so keen to come that he lets every layer of performance drop – either deliberately ditching the mask he usually wears, or temporarily forgetting that he wore one in the first place. Concentrating not on how he looks or what I think or anything external at all, focused purely and doggedly on getting off.

No performance. No masks. No ego, only id.

Just him, and his hand, and to hell with the rest of the universe.