“From masturbating?”
“Yes, we’re still on that subject.”
“9-1/2 hours,” he said flatly.
“Nine point five?” I chuckled. “That’s an interesting number. Care to elaborate?”
“Usually I do it before bed, and then again before I start my day. That’s two times during a period of 19 hours a day that I’m awake. As I can’t do it while sleeping, I’d say the average must come from the waking hours. 19 waking hours divided by 2 sessions equates to a nine- and one-half hour average.”
“You only sleep for 5 hours a night?”
“I never sleep more than 5 hours.”
“Why?”
“It’s all that’s needed.”
“And then you wake up and whack off?” I asked, laughing. “Like clockwork?”
“Yes. When I wake up and before I go to bed,” he replied. “What’s your average?”
“Sleep, or my average period of abstinence?”
“Abstinence. We’re still on that subject,” he replied mockingly.
“My average is going to hell.” I let out a sigh. “I’ve been too distracted, lately.”
“When is the last time you masturbated?” he asked.
“Truth or a lie?”
He chuckled. “The studio audience prefers the truth.”
“Let’s see.” I twisted my mouth to the side and glanced at the time. “I’d say, roughly 43 minutes ago.”
“Is an eleven o’clock diddle pretty common?”
I laughed. “Diddle?”
“That’s what it’s called when women do it.”
“What’s it called when men do it?” I asked.
“Whacking off,” he replied as if he were answering a question on Jeopardy!
“In response to your question,” I said. “The time of day isn’t important for me. I’m partial to events. Showering, for instance. I do the dirty little diddle when I shower.”
“Before or after you wash yourself?”
“During,” I replied. “It’s like an intermission. Have you ever been to a hockey game?”
“I have.”
“Then you know the importance of the intermission. That’s the way a shower is for me. I need a little break between washing my body and washing my hair.”
“It gets pretty boring, otherwise?”
“The diddle breaks up the monotony of showering.”
“Is it an ‘every time you shower’ type of affair?” he asked.
“That’s affirmative.”
“How many times a day do you shower?”
“Normally, at least once.” I laughed at the thought of how filthy I’d become a week prior. “A week ago? Once a week, maybe.”
His face contorted. “Once a week?”
“I was going through an adjustment period. A confinement meltdown.”
“No shower, no diddle?” he asked. “Is that the rule.”
“That is correct. Dirtiness deprived me of the diddle.”
“Is showering the only time you do the diddle?”
“No, no, no, no, no.” I shook my head in protest. “Not at all.”
“How often do you partake?”
“Whenever the opportunity presents itself.”
He rested his chin in the web of his hand and rubbed his stubble with his thumb and forefinger. “What qualifies as an opportunity?”
“Generally speaking? Five or ten minutes of solitude. I’ve done it at a stoplight and in the drive-thru at Taco Bell, once. There was a van from the old folk’s home in front of me, so the line was moving really slowly.”
“What gets your mind headed in the right direction? Are you a partaker of porn?”
“No, no, no,” I said. “A memory, the right song, or the smell of certain colognes set me off. Often, the slightest suggestive comment is enough. It doesn’t take much, as long as I’m not in a funk.”
He lowered his hand. “Interesting.”
“What’s your weirdest story?”
“In general, or masturbating?” he asked.
“Let’s go with masturbating.”
“The combat jack.”
I stared. “The com-what?”
“The combat jack,” he replied. “It’s jacking off while in combat.”
“Wait…how can—” I waited for him to laugh or say he was joking, but he stared back at me stone-faced. “When you’re in combat?” I asked. “Like, at war?”
“Right in the middle of it,” he replied. “We had contests. To see who could be the most creative. One of the guys did it while he was firing his machinegun.”
I couldn’t come close to reaching climax unless I was completely relaxed. Getting the job done while bullets whizzed past would be impossible.
“That’s just weird,” I said. “I need music and serenity. If there’s a horn honking in the distance I’ve got to throw in the towel.”
“You said you did it at a traffic light,” he argued. “And at a Taco Bell drive-thru.”
“I had the stereo playing and my eyes were closed.”
He looked at me like I was nuts. “You close your eyes?”
“Always,” I replied. “You don’t?”
He laughed. “Nope. I like to watch myself ejaculate.” He smirked. “The cum shoots out of the tip of my dick like a rocket. It’s really something to see.”
I swallowed a ball of desire as it climbed up my throat. “I think this interview’s over.”
“You were right.” He laughed. “It doesn’t take much, does it?”
With the right man, it didn’t.
As much as I wanted Braxton to be nothing more than a friend, he continued to inch his way closer to my heart each time we saw each other.
Even if it was through the lens of a cell phone’s camera.
Marge was on the top step of a three-foot step ladder, washing her windows. The day’s attire was a pair of bluish green pants that came to mid-calf, and a royal blue top. I would have never thought to put them together, but they looked remarkable.
I stepped into the street and shook my head. “You’re going to fall if you’re not careful.”
“I’ve been washing these windows like this for longer than I care to admit,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m just about done.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
She wiped the window with the towel she held, laughing all the while. “Well, you’re making me nervous.”
I cringed as she swayed back and forth, rubbing like her life depended on it. “Sorry.”
She leaned her head from side to side, looking for streaks. When she found them, she wiped the glass vigorously until they were gone.
She took one last look at the window, and then began her journey down the ladder. “Have you ever struggled with something you wanted to say but couldn’t decide if there was enough value in mentioning it to go ahead and mention it?”
“I suppose.”
She leaned the ladder against the side of the house and draped her rag over the top rung. She walked to the curb and then turned and came up the street almost even with where I stood, but across the street.