The first time I ever masturbated was in the middle of 7th grade English class.

Our school happened to have a sustained silent reading program and once a week our teacher was obligated to force us to read something, anything, (preferably without pictures) in a vain attempt to improve our overall vocabulary. Personally, I relished the time. Rarely did I need an excuse to read.

It was during silent reading time that I suddenly found myself overcome by an almost irresistible urge to pee. Briefly, I thought about raising my hand and requesting a hall pass. However, I was in the middle of a particularly smutty sex scene in my book and I was reluctant to put it down for even the 10 minutes it would take me to run to the restroom and back. Instead, I resigned myself to doing the ‘pee dance’ in my seat, shifting around from side to side like an excited second grader, as I gobbled up sentence after sentence with my eyes on the page before me.

Out of nowhere, my thighs started to spasm. Panicked, I looked up from my book to see if anyone was watching me. Luckily, everyone was obediently reading or sleeping, so I was free to conduct my mini break down in relative peace. With a choking sigh, I slumped over on my desk and forced myself to breath slowly.

After a few moments, the feeling finally passed. When the bell rang a couple of minutes later, I escaped into the hall without the vaguest notion of what had happened to me.

It took 2 full weeks jam packed full of fresh incidents before I made the connection that the episodes nearly always occurred when I was reading a book. It took another week on top of that for me to realize they happened whenever I was reading a sex scene, in particular. But even as I made the connections, I tried to deny what was happening. I told myself that my body was being ‘all weird’ and I had nothing to do with it.

But the truth was I was masturbating.

What was so foolish and silly about the whole thing was my aversion to touching myself. I would twist around in my seat. I would rub up against my blankets, spray myself with water, or gyrate in my clothes. Yet…yet…I could not bring myself to connect my finger to my clit.

It was almost as if my lack of finger action gave me some sort of victim status. After all, if I never made the conscious decision to diddle myself, I could continue to pretend that my body had a mind of its own and I was helpless against it. Right?

This went on for months. It might have gone on forever, if not for the fact that every instance of muffled masturbation produced a more and more muffled orgasm. Like a heroin addict who needs more drugs to achieve the same high, I found myself pacing my room frantically wondering how I could intensify the feeling between my legs.

Finally, that fateful, desperate day arrived where finger finally connected with clit and life became an almost nonstop blur of chronic masturbation. I masturbated when I woke up in the morning. I masturbated in between classes at school, hidden in the rarely used 3rd floor restroom. When I gothome from school, I holed up in my room with my hand permanently attached to my crotch. I touched myself so often that a few times my wrist literally gave out on me. But even as I clutched it, moaning with pain, I would find myself eying my room looking for alternative ways to get myself off.

I was a goddamn fiend.

Anyway, the reason I bring this up now is because a friend and I were recently discussing all the odd fetish porn out there nowadays. One of us brought up balloon porn (girls masturbating with a balloons, yes, there is a market for this shit) and I started laughing as I remembered all the fucked up shit I masturbated with as a teenager while I waited for my poor wrist to heal.

However, after thinking about it in depth some more, I was struck by how hard it was for me to actually touch myself in the first goddamn place. Never in my life had anyone told me that touching my nether regions was gross or dirty or anything like that, either. In fact, no one had mentioned masturbation at all. Still, I was definitely skeeved out by the idea.

To this day, I have no idea why.