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Saturday
Dec172005

Shoehorn Porn

I didn't masturbate until I was twenty years old. I'm not sure if this is late, early, common or uncommon. I was born and raised in the Mormon church, or as the old, rich, white, church leaders now like to be called, "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints." As a well-trained young latter day saint, I was taught masturbation along with sex of ANY kind before marriage is just wrong, wrong, wrong! Sex is for procreating and all good little girls should save themselves for marriage.

Although I figured out early on, (well, earlier than many) that the religion was a way for Church leaders to part church goin' folks with ten percent of their hard earned cash each month, these rules, or "Words of Wisdom" as they're called, are engraved in my brain. Consequently, pleasuring myself wasn't something I thought much about. Until the day my much older, married boyfriend bought me an industrial sized, heavy-duty back massager.

Lying on my bed, body racked with cramps, I struggle to forget the pain and absorb myself in mindless daytime television. Every month it feels like someone shoves their gigantic hand up my vagina, grabs my uterus in a vise-like grip, and attempts to yank it from my body. I have already ingested a near fatal dose of Ibuprofin and soaked in a warm bath to no avail. The invasive hand continues its’ dirty work on my innards.

My eyes fall upon the back massager Older Married Guy had recently given me. If I use the massager on my stomach, maybe it will loosen the muscles and release some of the pressure in my roiling stomach. I hoist the back massager onto my lap and innocently flip the switch to the "On" position.

Immediately an orgasm rips through my body. I've had orgasms from intercourse, but not like THIS! MY body shudders to completion. Cramps forgotten, I place the massager in a slightly more strategic position and again flip the switch. The results are the same. Shocked at this development, I let the massager drop to the floor and dart to the bathroom for a look in the mirror. I inspect myself. I still look the same. Dishwater blond hair, blue eyes. The same acne covered chin courtesy of my monthly visitor. I am momentarily distracted by my disgusting zits, fingers probing skin, searching for a poppable pustule. Pustule. Such a disgusting word.

Did I really just give myself an orgasm? Is that okay? Am I supposed to have fun, alone with my own body? Is it perverse? AM I A PERVERT? After all, my body isn't an amusement park. Or is it?

Fuck it. The dirty deed diminished my abhorrent cramps. Gone! I tiptoe to the front door of my size small condo and twist the dead bolt securely into the locked position. I peer worriedly through the blinds of my window. I'm not sure why. Perhaps making sure the Masturbation Police don't have the place surrounded, guns drawn, chief addressing me through the bullhorn.
"We know you're in there, pervert. Put the "massager" down and come out with your pants and hands up!"

I scuttle back to my bedroom and climb into bed. I try to watch television, but my eyes keep wandering to the massager. It lays innocently on the carpet while my internal debate rages. It's wrong. Fuck that, it's my body and boys do it all the time. But you're supposed to treat your body like a temple (popular church mantra). But I'm dating a married guy AND I babysit for his wife. It occurs to me then that masturbation might be a few rungs above adultery on God's ladder to heaven. I'm already going to hell, case closed. In the end, THAT superior logic wins out and I retrieve the newly discovered all-purpose massager from the floor.

Sufficed to say, I don't leave my condo that weekend. I eventually admit to Older Married Guy, also known as Ryan, exactly how much I've been enjoying his gift. He, also raised Mormon, twice my age, and from the Ward Cleaver era of husbands who jovially hand out cigars in the hospital waiting room while their wives rip from vagina to asshole giving birth, is appalled, simply shocked at the notion of a woman masturbating. He says it feels like I've replaced him. In a way, I have. Sex with Ryan, at this point, had lost its’ appeal.

It all started two months ago when I discovered he has "old man skin." You know, when people get older their skin begins to thin? It gets saggy. Losing elasticity, it begins to feel like tissue paper. Old man skin is creeping across Ryan's body like a disease, rendering his skin loose and flimsy, like gossamer, tenuously floating on a summer breeze. It feels filmy, stretching delicately over his frame. I had begun to fear it might tear. He wasn't THAT old either, about forty to my twenty. But once my brain grabbed hold of the image of delicate flesh tearing under my grip, it was tough to shake.

Ryan had a vasectomy the year we began dating. Dating. Such a quaint word for adultery, isn’t it? He already had four kids, so he and his wife had decided it was time for the old sniparoo. Consequently, we never used a condom. I actually believed him when he said he and his wife no longer had sex, that they were as good as divorced. But more importantly, no condom meant sperm would slowly leak from my body for nearly an hour after he fiddled and tweaked my body to an orgasm for him.

I have never been into faking orgasms. Often I say, "it isn't going to happen, just do your thing." Thus the fiddling and tweaking. I always reserve a part of myself when having sex with OMG. Whether out of guilt over the illicit affair, or bothered by the age difference, I don't know.

Yet the relationship continues and I allow it. Due, most likely, to some twisted father complex I am unready and unwilling to explore at this particular juncture in my young life. Sometimes it feels like he is more interested in my youth than my personality. Sex with the massager is joyfully clean. No muss no fuss. They should have commercials for vibrators with just that slogan. No muss, no fuss...AND FAST ACTING! I only have to set it on my clitoris, even with my clothes on, and within seconds I am on my way to heaven. Or hell, depending on your point of view.

Ryan eventually manages to make me feel so lewd and inappropriate for using the massager for such an "obscene" purpose, that in a fit of shame one afternoon I run out to the condominium dumpster and throw it away.

I find that immediate destruction or elimination is my best bet to successfully avoid or quit an unwanted part of my life. This theory includes men. And food. If tortilla chips are anywhere in my home, I will eat the entire bag in one sitting. Unless I fill the bag with water, rendering the chips soggy and tasteless.

This technique was blown out of the water, pardon the pun, when stoned one night, I pulled the soggy bag from the trash and laid each destroyed chip onto a cookie sheet. In pure Keebler Elf style I proceeded to bake them back into crispy shape. I know I am disturbed. I grew up on welfare. I will eat anything, anywhere, at anytime, if I want it bad enough. Had I left the massager in the closet say, it would have called to me, day and night. The nasty, yet pleasurable habit would never be broken. So the dumpster it was. The trashing effectively ended my love affair with the back massager.

One sultry summer night about a month later, I am watching a rented movie with a particularly steamy sex scene. All worked up with no massager in sight, I curse Ryan, then myself for throwing away a perfectly good back massager.

In desperation, I began to touch myself, trying to stimulate vibration with my fingers. But as I wasn't raised on X-Box or Nintendo, I just don't have that kind of manual dexterity required. And I feel dirty. Me touching me. I need an intermediary. A hand to pussy liason, if you will.

In my frenzied distress, I grab a hairbrush and try to move the handle in small quick movements against my clitoris. One minute, and a very sore clitoris later, I end up feeling justifiably perverted. All right, this is ridiculous. I may as well come to terms with my masturbatory nature and purchase the proper tools.

Once I've admitted I plan to masturbate on purpose with the appropriate appliance, not accidentally-on-purpose with a back massager, I climb into my car and head to the only place in Mormon Country I know to tell such sinful you-are-going-to-hell-do-not-pass-go-do-not-collect-twohundred-dollars- items.

I nose my car into the parking space at the "Boutique", switch off the engine and glance guiltily around. What if I run into someone I know? What if I am in the vibrator section when we see each other? Or leaving the store with my new lewd purchase? I might as well take out space in the local paper announcing my newfound hobby.

It occurs to me then, that for me to run into somebody I know at the Boutique, they would also have to be shopping for their very own vibrator, chocolate body paint, or whips and chains as the case may be. Our sex shopping run-in would transform us from acquaintances into sexual accomplices, not likely to share the story with gossip mongering cohorts.

I had passed the Boutique often. It's directly across the street from my favorite bookstore. The Boutique always has the most interesting window displays. Once holiday season they had a female mannequin, artfully arranged on all fours over Santa Clauses' lap. She was receiving a spanking, I presume for being a very bad girl.

Upon entering the all things sex store, I am certain the music playing on the loudspeaker stops and every head whips my way. I can feel their eyes scrutinizing, judging. "That dirty little pervert is probably here for nipple clamps and anal beads". I feel naked and dirty. But I guess if one is to feel naked and dirty, the sex store is probably the best place to be.

In actuality, nobody pays me much attention. They're engrossed in their own sexual quests. There are a smattering of men and women browsing through the mostly PG-rated items in the main room. I can't blow my cover and head directly for the black curtains on the other side of the store. They will know for certain that I have been home masturbating with a hairbrush handle. I take my time, picking up and feigning interest in various items for sale. Fast acting hot sex oils "in all flavors!" Naked board games, nudie playing cards, feather boas.

I attempt to walk breezily through the lingerie section, finger a couple of crotchless panties and pretend to consider buying a pair, a look of thoughtful "I wonder if this color will look good on me?" pasted on my face. I make for the bras with nipple hole cutouts. Not because I want one (although I won't rule it out) but because they are the closest item to the thick black curtain that separates the main room from the back room.

The Back Room. Where all the good stuff is waiting. The thing about getting to the vibrator section is you have to pass through the black curtains. Going through those curtains is tacit acknowledgement that yes, I am a perverted sex addict on the hunt for the newest sex toys.

To act casual is to imply, yes I do this often, I am a sex toy junkie. To act nervous and embarrassed is just as humiliating. So there I am, fingering the nipple clamps, edging closer, evvvver closer to the aforementioned curtains. Slowly now. Act cool... A couple feet from the gateway to certain embarrassment. I glance nervously around the boutique and make my move!

The back room is smaller than I thought it would be, which makes the enormous dildos hanging across the back wall seem all the more obscene. I feel like a druggie, meeting my dealer for my latest fix. Have you ever checked out the dildo/vibrator selection at your local sex store? Holy Christ. Well, there's nothing HOLY about it, but man is it impressive. Two-headed, rubber monstrosities that are the size of my arm, swear to god! There are rows and rows of rubbery looking penises in all shapes, sizes and colors. The dildos made to look like real penises damn near send me running for the exit. From medium sized-white-guy to giant-black-man, all races are properly represented and adorned with bulging, authentic-looking veins.

My face red wine colored with embarassment, I edge past the display of nipple clamps and cock rings in an effort to get a closer look at the vast selection vibrators. In my hurry, I knock a box of anal beads to the floor. I bend to retrieve it, stand up and bump squarely into an middle aged man.
"Sorry", he says, his eyes immediately fastening on the box of extra large anal beads I am clutching in my sweaty hands.
"Um, Yeah. Sorry." I reply.
"No problem" he nods at me with a knowing half smile and moves on.
Oh god. I shove the box back on the shelf and dart to the vibrator selection. My god! I could be here all day. From tiny little gadgets you slip on your finger "not for use underwater" to these crazy contraptions containing two penises and what looks like silver marbles that rotate in the base. Marbles? There is even a pink bunny rabbit with creepy rotating ears. Yikes! I had heard rumblings of this particular model. However, I cannot envision fucking a toy with an adorable animal face. There are even little "pocket vibrators" you slip in your underwear. Pleasure for the working woman!

I have to pick my poison and get the hell outta here. Every time I hear the woosh of the curtains I crane my head in that direction, certain my bishop, my mother, or both will be standing there, arms crossed disapprovingly, toes tapping, waiting for an explanation.

A space age looking number, sleek metallic silver, with no character whatsoever catches my eye. It's shiny and clean, almost sterile. There are no throbbing veins or terrifying little animal faces. Very anonymous and non-perverted.

After a small but heart stopping scare at the cash register I am on my way.
"We don't take checks", the pierced, pink haired, cats eye glasses wearing hipster says.
I hand over my only credit card. It has a five hundred dollar limit. Terrified it will decline, my heart in my throat, I wait an eternity while the machine considers me. I expect store security to swoop in at any moment, confiscate my vibrator and send me packing.

The machine beeps. Joyous, exciting beeps of approval! Within minutes I am zipping out the door, my purchase, now wrapped in a discreet brown paper sack, clutched securely to my chest. After a quick stop for batteries I am home staring at my brand new vibrator. I can no longer tell myself I am only "massaging cramps". This bad boy is built for masturbation only. I turn it on, then quickly off. It sounds like a chainsaw chopping down trees for god’s sake! The noise alone makes me flush with embarrassment. "Hey", I tell myself, "thems the brakes". If I want to masturbate, I'll have to endure a little chainsaw action. I shrug my shoulders and go to work on my own bush.

Thus begins a new era for me. A time of of alternating shame and pleasure. A time, I wisely keep to myself. Until one day I'm helping Ryan move from his condo to a brand new home. As I mentioned before, he is one of these older, rich fellows that wears expensive, tasseled loafers to work. I have a whole theory about guys who wear tasseled loafers but we can save that digression for another time.

To maintain loafers of this stature, one must employ those clunky wooden shoe holders that slip inside the shoe and maintain the integrity of the soft leather. I am haphazardly packing the two dozen different loafer styles and colors into a box when I come across a shoehorn. You know what these are. A smooth curved implement, often metal, that the shoe obsessed employ to help leverage pedicured feet into unyielding shoes.

This particular shoehorn is a shiny, metallic number. The very sheen of my favorite toy, safely tucked away in my underwear drawer at home. The similarity is striking. Same length, same color, same texture. Of course it isn't a cylinder, but it looks just enough like my little friend that I comment, more to myself, than anyone else, "this looks like my vibrator."
"WHAT!?" I hear Ryan sputter behind me.

I whirl around to see him standing in the door, eyes popping from his well-tanned face.
"I said, THIS LOOKS LIKE MY VIBRATOR!" I shout these words as I toss the shoehorn into the box of girlyman shoes. I notice a couple sets of loafers even have pennies placed carefully inside the slots! It strikes me then, that I don't belong with a man who alternates tasseled loafers with those of the slotted penny variety. Funny it's the loafer that finally drives me from Ryan. Not his habit of staying married, not the lies. It's the loafers.

At this point, my relationship with Ryan is in its' twilight, with night rapidly approaching. This was after I had caught him dating his wife. (Try and figure that one out.) After I had nearly suffocated to death while hiding in the back of his giant sport utility vehicle on a hot summer day.

I had curled up under his golf clubs and carefully eavesdropped on the cell phone calls he made. For hours, I silently monitored where he went, what he did and whom he did it with. Yes, I am slightly insane, but this is also the natural progression of things when one dates a man who consistently lies about the state of his marriage and his various "extracurricular" activities. You can understand why, at this point I know longer care if he thinks I'm a chronic masturbator or not.

Ultimately the relationship ends, of course. Three years into the agony, I finally come to my senses and decide to move on. Ironically, Ryan's divorce becomes official about a month after I choose to leave. This marks a flurry of desperate messages on my voicemail, begging me to give him another chance. Flowers are sent to my work and my home.

One day, I open my bedroom door to discover a brand new bed had been delivered to my house. Mounds of flowers, stuffed animals and all manner of stupid girly gifts cover the bed. I am slightly concerned to find a ladder leading up to the window of my second floor condo. He must have used it to let in the deliverymen, (this was before I spent my nights hanging around on fire escapes) But I don't really dwell on the negative as I had scored a new bed out of the whole deal. I didn't discover the true depth of his violation until two days later.

I am lying on my fantastic new bed when the urge to satisfy myself forces me from beneath the covers. Pleased with my new, fabulous, single self, I dance over to my underwear drawer to grab my trusty friend. I open the door and rummage around the various granny panties and "boyfriend lingerie" until my hand closes on the cool, welcoming metal of my little buddy.

Wait! Something doesn't feel right. I pull my hand, and the object from the drawer. There I am, mouth agape, staring at the shiny metallic shoehorn that months before, I had taunted Ryan about! That bastard!

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Reader Comments (6)

So I had posted this story a while back.. Then removed it for various reasons. But it's back. At this point, I see no reason not to post it.
December 17, 2005 | Registered CommenterMonicaBielanko
I'm glad you brought it back Monica. Hate when you take things down for whatever reason. Some what feels like your being censored in away.

This is a good one.
December 19, 2005 | Unregistered CommenterFiabug
I quite enjoyed this one! Maybe even got a little turned! :>
December 19, 2005 | Unregistered CommenterJen
I love this story, you are a very talented writer.
January 31, 2006 | Unregistered Commenterk

Since Child hood once i came accrose the speaker diapharam vibrations and i foud it very pleasureable when getting those vibrations on my stomech and i quickely feel a great orgasum. After that i usualy whenever get a chanse use the speaker for masturbation and play music of high basss. Once i play a music in which the sound of truck horn played as i got those sound like (Pannnnn..Pannnnnn..panpanpanpanpan..pannnn.nn) on to my stomech the vibrations were extreemely deep and pleasurable. After that i like that horn sound through speaker vibration on my stomech. I use the speaker vibrations on my stomech for masturbation quite a long time. Then one day i came accrose horn sound vibrations while reparing my jeep that was extreemely powerful and intense. I decided to try horn sound vibration on my stomech.Since then i like to performe the horn sound masturbation. First i wear the black one piece body hugging swimming costume then i took out my loud set of horn (the integrated set of cmplete horn kit)realy enormous one
and place the horn with mouth upward on my bed mattress surrounded by pillows so that little sound and vibrations comes out of my house.
then i lay over it as my stomach touches the horn mouth which is ready to rock my stomech and the other hand on push on button taking controle of rocking session in a rythmic way. After that i hold the power supply button and start honking the horn continuously again and again. The enormous buzzzz of intense sound vibrations directly enters into the stomach and a storm of humming and buzzing vibrations produces in side the stomach with enormous horn sound !!!!--pannnnnn--pannnnnn...Pannnnnnn---PannnnnnnnnnPannnnnnnn. the whole stomach deep
inside vibrate with the intense sound vibrations that is too penetrating and intense that I cannot hold my stomach against the horn through a complete honkkkkk of buzzing horn because of intense intolerable tingling and erotic sensation with pleasure deep inside so I honk the horn in small pulses and in between long honking like pompnpnpnpnpn-- pompompompompommmm----pommmm--Panpanpanpanpannnnnnn---Pannnnnnnnn---Pannnnnnn--Pann-PannPannn Repeatedly continuously again and again. Each time when i honkkkk the horn in a continuos rythm that will rock my stomech deep inside and take me to higher level of pleasure and near to orgasm but then i just taking a small pause in the honking horn session and take breath (during the pause i still feel my stomech vibrate like the horn is inside me) then again start repeat the same procedure with different different type and intensities of horns such as truck Air horn, Train horn, big vibra horn the extreemely intense one whose flat diapharam directely touches to the stomech and send whole enormous intense vibrations right into the stomech with rocking sensation but the train horn is mind blowingg!!!!! very very loud and extreemely intense with enormous vibrations rocking whole body with solid sound and reverbrations of Pommmmmm---mmmmm--mmmm--mm-mm-m---Pommmmmmmmmm--mmmmm--mm-mm-m only one session of this horn end up with colapsing body orgasm. I repeatd the different horn sessions on my stomech several times till I cannot control my self and taking complete horn vibrations without taking off the stomech from horn insted i just move my stomech rapidely up and down left and right with continuos honking of horn in small pauses and feeling of shivers with each honkkk---Pannnnnn......Pannnn...starting from deep insde the stomech to whole body again and again ultimately with several repeated session of horn pannnn--Pannnnn i end up with exteemely intense orgasm colapsing on horn. Another one i love train horn session in which when i honkk the train horn (single matelec long tube Air horn) the extreemely intense hummmm of Ponnnnnnnnnnnnnn----Ponnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn---Ponnnnnnnnnnnnnn with slowly decreasing reverbration hummmm vibrates and buzzzzz whole body and i vigrously move my stomech up and down with pleasure screems some time touches the storming horn mouth where matelec vibrations enormous then again upward where the sound intensity is maximum with enormous hummmm of solid ponnnnnnn...nnnnn..nnnn.nn in the space between horn mouth and my stomech center i cannot set escape my stomech from intense horn sound vibrations ponnnnnnnn..nnnnn....nnn Ponnnnnnnnnn....nnnnn...nnnn..nn and reverbration of horn is extreemely effective that one reverbration is about to end the other new solid sound vibrations ponnnnnnnn....ponnnnnnnn comes and a complete cycle of up and down horn vibrations compleately saturate and rock my stomech deepely again and again with every switch press finaly only a single long honkkkkk of intense buzzing horn sound ponnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn...nnnnnn..nnnnnn...nnnnn.nnn with long reverbration slowly decreacing vibrations stretches my whole body vibrating stomech with horn sound could not guess the end of buzzzzz with continuos feeleing of enormous buzzzzzz of ponnnnnnnnn....nnnnnn...nnnnn..nnnnnn.nnn ultimately leads me to intense orgasm. Even after orgasm i feel the repeated cycles of ponnnn ponnnnnn inside my stomech without horn blow as my stomech enriched with horn vibrations and i feel it vibrate even after orgasm the whole next day.

Eevery time i hear a sound of horn from outside or on road i just turn on and feeling as it was for me on my stomech.
Am i alone enjoying by this or any one else having same kind of fetish on this earth?

January 1, 2011 | Unregistered Commenterhornpannnpannn

tragically, monica, i could actually fall in love with you...
you are soooo... and soooo... words are just not enough... :-)

March 21, 2011 | Unregistered Commenterfahrenheit

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