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The Tale of Harry the Masturbator

By Punkerslut

Image by NiD
Image: "Masturbate" by NiD

Start Date: Monday, April 22, 2002
Finish Date: Monday, April 22, 2002

     It was another dark night, another rainy night, and Harry was at his favorite place: a club downtown sitting at his favorite booth. It wasn't his favorite booth because it was the most comfortable, but because he was hidden from the people in the booth. And it was there that he would sit, resting his head on the table with a trench coat over his head, watching the people and masturbating.

     As a career, Harry alternating between being a garbage truck man and a landscaper. He hated both of his jobs and was always being told what to do and how he failed miserably on his last course. He enjoyed one thing, though: masturbating. He was far too shy to ask anyone for sex. Normal conversation always seemed fine, but when he went close to the topic of dates and sexual contacts, females often responded quite obscurely -- and sometimes even refused to talk to him afterwards at all.

     When at home, Harry liked to read books about history. TeeVee did not stimulate his mind much, but to read about the great conquests of Napoleon and the political endeavors of Churchill would amaze him. He even had a copy of Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes, Utopia by Thomas More, and The Heroic Frenzies by Giordano Bruno. His apartment was small; it only had four rooms: a kitchen, a living room, a bathroom, and a bedroom. The furniture was cheap and the tables wobbled. The TeeVee may have been small, but Harry did not mind. Every night, after work, and after reading, he would retire to his bed at 10:00 PM and sleep.

     There were some times, though, when Harry would not read, but he would go to the pub downtown and sit in his favorite booth. His eyes would caress the legs, the thighs, the breasts, the stomachs, the faces of all the beautiful people. It was dark, too, and there were only a few disco lights. He could see the people dancing, and with the camouflage of his booth, he would touch the most secret parts of his body. Maybe he was just ugly or shy, but people have not been his friends for long. He knew one thing, though: he liked to watch them. Their laughter became his, their smile became his, their lives became his, and - above all - their bodies became figments of his mind for the briefest of moments for sexual stimulation.

     It was late one Thursday when he was at the pub masturbating to the people dancing. While hiding under his trench coat, his hand rapidly caressing his crotch, he was watching the folk. Unknown to him, though, a small group of three people saw him. "Hey, is that guy masturbating?" she said, almost laughing. "So, what," the guy said, "Doesn't matter." The other girl spoke up, "No, no, that's fucked up. See, look at him. He's rubbing his crotch and watching the people." The guy looked over. "Yeah, he's masturbating." The girl looked in the guy's bag. "What do you want?" he asked. She replied, "I want your flashlight." The guy, agitated, responded, "What do you want that for?" She responded, "It's pretty dark in here. This will put light onto the situation." And for a few small moments, Harry's eyes were blinded by the bright white light as he heard a girl scream, "Hey, we know what you're doing..." Shame, humility, embarrassment, he ran out the door, his trench coat flapping as he held on to it with one hand. When he got outside, Harry realized he was crying.


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