I lied to you. I rarely use my hands. There is no certainty that way. I might be suddenly impotent and the awful need and hunger that this would produce. I need the sure quick release and the hand made variety is often not forthcoming.
I think of being naked, really naked, and looked at. My body. This less than perfect body. I come very quickly with the assistance of my battery operated device. The idea of you standing close up to me and resting your hands gently, almost without touching on the small of my back. You clothed, me naked. You do not see me properly, you catch glimpses of me in your peripheral vision. You are too embarrased or repulsed perhaps to look at me completely. Still it is enough, this almost-touch, this being naked. A minute, less and I am overcome by the force of the ending. The sad, over-used fantasies that never fail me.
But with my hand I might fail. I rarely attempt conclusion this way. I must be forced into secret by your proximity in the next room. By someone's parents, by the paper thin closed door of my office.
Sometimes with the assistance of pornography I can manage it. Violent moving images. The sexlessness of jobbing actors. And after, I feel bad about myself, cheapened.
But with the right equipment, even an oblique glance and myself standing naked is enough to send me. Aways a small event from a limited palate. The gentle push of a clothed crotch against my knee, a whisper - why does this have to end. Interlaced fingers. A kiss full of fingers.
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