“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
We were laying across my bed naked, about a foot apart, both of us propped up on one elbow and facing each other. He was furiously jerking himself off.
“Just sit there,” he panted.
“Just… sit here? Like… doing nothing?”
“Do you want to touch yourself?” he asked.
“Not really, this doesn’t feel very sexy.”
“OK, well just stay still and let me look at you.”
He kept beating himself off, while I just lay there. A furrow set into his brow and his lip curled into a sinister grimace as beads of perspiration began rolling down his forehead. I imagined him in his mother’s basement, significantly fatter and balder, years from now, a dog-eared poster from his failed indie-pop band yellowing on the wall as he jerked off to some weird fetish porn, and I momentarily felt sick.
“So, do you think you’ll go out tonight? Maybe I’ll come meet you later or something.” I no longer knew where to look. He was wanking himself so fast I thought he might set it on fire, and the perverted expression on his face was creeping me out. He kept staring at me.
“I really need to do my laundry, then I think maybe I’ll cook dinner. No wait, maybe I’ll order in.”
Wanking. Silence.
“I think… I dunno… Maybe I’ll watch The Walking Dead.”
He stopped suddenly: “Kat, please. Can you just be quiet? You’re breaking my concentration.”
I felt indignant as I sat in silence until he came all over my duvet.
It wasn’t like I’d never seen a guy jerking off before. Sure, in heated, intimate moments, we all get caught up in the sneeze feeling between our legs and give our own selves a bit of a rub, but this was something else. It was the opposite of intimate. It was clinical and to be honest, sort of degrading.
Speaking to my girlfriends after the event, it seemed like every one of them had been through something similar.
“This one guy made me sit up on my knees and put my hands against the wall while he sat behind me staring at my naked ass and beating himself off,” my friend Ella told me. “At least I didn’t have to see his face while he did it.”
What I’ve learned is that there’s a type of men out there (and maybe women too?) who simply want to treat you like a live centerfold. In the case of my lone wanker, and in my friend’s experience, intercourse wasn’t the climax of the sexual encounter. It was merely foreplay to the final act—one that didn’t actually involve us at all.
Everyone’s got weird sex shit going on (I’ve barely even scratched the surface of the bizarre things I like), and I’m sure there are some women who get turned on by passively existing as the object of a man’s carnal instinct to sexually pleasure himself, to hell with anyone else. But sitting there opposite a guy who had no interest in me beyond my silent submission to his masturbatory needs didn’t exactly make me feel like the porn star he was imagining me to be. It made me lose my girl boner, and somehow that made me feel disrespected and resentful.
I felt like a teenager. You know, when you first start having sex and the only thing the boy knows about it is what he’s seen in porn? I wondered if my objectification wasn’t somehow related to the pornification of IRL fucking.
When we have so much access to so much pornographic imagery, are our real life sexual encounters evolving into an extension of our online fetishes? And is that sexually liberating, insofar as were recognizing and acting on our impulses, or is it damaging to how people include each other in their off-getting. More importantly, if the latter is true, what does this mean for the role a woman plays in heterosexual intercourse, given that the majority of heterosexual porn casts the woman as a prop, a proverbial cum bucket for a generally pretty filthy dude?
Yeah, I had a lot to ponder while I watched that dude bust his nut in front of me.
http://www.vice.com/read/living-porn-when-a-dude-wants-you-to-sit-there-and-do-nothing-while-he-jerks-himself-off
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