My name is Kieran O’ Connor. I’m sitting naked in front of my computer, five hours in to my fortysixth birthday, writing this letter to myself.
Later, when my wife, Kathy, wakes there will be cards and celebrations. She and the twins will have been shopping for Dad, who is so hard to buy for, and I will be delighted with whatever new object they have decided I ought to desire.
Tonight we’ll have dinner at my parents’ house. It will be a big affair. Mum will have invited all of her friends. My sister, Fiona and her husband, Brian will be there together with their brood of boys. A collection of Murphy’s (cousins from my mother’s side) will be present – looking like characters from an Irish version of “The Sopranos”. I often imagine speech bubbles above their heads with the Italian-English phrases of the mafia transformed in to Irish-English: ‘I’ll be making you an offer you’ll not be wanting to refuse, so.” “Is it me you’re looking at now?” It would be funny were it not so close to the truth; the Murphy’s have been known to break legs from time to time.
I will survive being the guest of honour by becoming the perfect Irishman myself: “It was good of you to come, Mrs O’ Hara. How is young Damien these days? Can I persuade you ladies to a wee whisky, they’ve been poured already and wouldn’t it be a sin to see them go to waste? You’re looking well, Pat, married life must suit you. It’s been too long, Anthony, you and Joyce must come by the house next Sunday.” It’s cartoon Irish but no one seems to notice or else they’ve all lived in England for so long that they can’t tell the difference anymore. Sometimes I think I’m in a Robert Altman movie; we’ve all been given characters and asked to improvise the script around the theme of an Irish celebration.
When we get home, Kathy will shower before she goes to bed, a sure sign that I have one more birthday present to come. She is good at sex, as she is good at so many things. She has magic in her fingers, mischief in her smile and she’s read everything from “The Joy Of Sex” to “How To Give Your Husband The Blowjob Of His Dreams”. I probably won’t even need the little blue pills in order to show my appreciation. If I do, she’ll smile, offer a prayer of thanks to the God of Pharmaceuticals, slide up my chest until she is almost sitting on my face and say, “Now what can we do to pass away the next thirty minutes?” I will smile and keep myself interested by trying to guess, before I take the first lick, what flavour douche she’s used this time.
But all of that is ahead of me. Right now it’s five a.m. and everyone is sleeping except me. I like to sit here, in front of my computer, in the hour before dawn. No one thinks it strange any more, not even me. Habit is a great protector in a marriage. No one questions what is taken for granted. I need less sleep than Kathy does, so it is taken for granted that I will rise before her and spend some time on the net. Doubtless I am getting on with the novel that will, by virtue of being an instant best seller, free me from the rigours of my working life. Or perhaps I am writing to my many friends around the world. It is true that I do these things, but what I do mostly is masturbate to porn.
The internet is a wonderful thing. It allows me to view almost any sex act imaginable and all for free.
I am never impotent when I sit in front of my computer. I start with a comfortably thickened cock, nothing spectacular, just enough to register arousal in the same way that cooking smells can sometimes produce a desire for food that is not hunger but rather the anticipation of a full belly. I stroke myself slowly but often as pictures fill the screen. I keep many windows open at once, skipping from image to image, looking for the one that will snag my attention and quicken my pulse.
Masturbation is my one truly selfish pleasure. I don’t have to think of what anyone else wants or what anyone else would think. There’s just me and whatever it takes to get me off.
This morning I’m looking at a series with a skinny forty something woman using her mouth on her husband’s balls, cock and arsehole and then wanking him into her face while pushing two fingers into his arse. I have a set of Japanese Bukkake and Bondage pics where secretaries are tied, fingered, fucked and spunked on by lots of different guys. Plus two young girls fucking each other and then letting a grey haired guy sodomise them. A set of “real amateur” facials – women of different types and ages with cum in their mouths and eyes and hair and smiles on their faces. Another set with an innocent looking girl apparently getting drunk and fucking first the bottle and then the men who gave it to her. Then a woman of sixty or so sucking off a boy in his late teens, almost smothering him with her large soft shapeless breasts and lastly six Thai whores, none over twenty, servicing some blonde middle-aged European, struggling to maintain their dignity in the face of his crazed grin and oversized cock. It’s a normal sort of morning.
Are you shocked? I am. I think of myself as a nice man, a good husband, a loving father. I also get off on violent degrading porn. For these aren’t the worst, not even close. Some days I need the ones with blood and pain or mock (I hope) rape, or heavy spanking of young girls by men my age or detailed drawings of impossible punishments meted out on helpless women.
So far I’ve avoided the animals and the children, not because they are illegal but because I fear that I might find my cock twitching and cum rushing out of my balls to dribble down over my fist and then what would I do with what I’d know about myself? You see I’m starting to believe that “in masturbation veritas”. This is who I really am. This is where all pretence stops. The rest of my life is a socially acceptable lie.
Today the picture that finally triggered my release was in a set of “gloryhole” pictures – anonymous cocks push through a hole in the wall and a woman, sometimes tied, sucks and strokes until they come. Only as my cum started to dry and matt the hairs on my thighs together did I realise that the kneeling woman in the picture, with the balls in her mouth and the cum on her forehead, looked liked Kathy in the year we met.
It’s time to clear the computer history files and password protect this letter. Then a shower to remove the sweat and semen that are the signature of the most honest part of my existence. Then I can greet my family on this momentous day.
Happy Birthday, Kieran O’Connor.
© Mike Kimera 2003 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from firstname.lastname@example.org
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