Happy Masturbation Month! As promised, the stories of self-service will continue all month long! This little slice of self-love comes to us all the way from Denmark, where National Masturbation Month has apparently gone international! Or maybe every month is Masturbation Month over there… Certainly, no place is safe from the autoerotic administrations of the infamous international correspondent for WHACK! Magazine, Christian Madsen…
It’s was time for my Confirmation; not that my family were particular religious, but it was a tradition nonetheless, a tradition that was taken seriously. I wasn’t pleased about this and tried to rebel the best I could, but was eventually tempted by the promise of a big party, a day off from school and money, lots and lots of money. So at the end I went along with it, much to my mother’s joy.
Part of the Confirmation was [that] I had to attend lectures by the local priest every Monday for three months, and attend church [for] at least seven Sundays. Our local priest was a woman, mid 40s, and gay. She lived in a committed relationship with her partner and was one of these new, hip liberal church people—she was also a major MILF. Many nights my hands would venture underneath the covers and I would get it on with myself while fantasizing about Margrethe, as she was called.
One day, while attending the Confirmation preparations on a Monday after school, we were to watch a film—some dark, Swedish thing about life, love and the G.O.D. All I could focus on was Margrethe sitting next to me, smelling good, looking hot, and being all church-like. The film we were watching cut to a sex scene; this did not do me any favors, as I was getting more and more excited to the point where I couldn’t hide my erection anymore.
I excused myself with the typical, “I gotta go to the bathroom” line. Margrethe was cool and nodded. I almost ran to bathroom already unzipping, looking forward to getting some sweet release. But once I made it to the bathroom it was locked! I don’t know where I got the idea from, but I ran up the stairs and was then standing in the middle of the church itself.
I found a seat behind a pillar and unzipped—this was so fucking wrong, but so goddamn exciting—the big figure of Jesus on the cross behind altar looked at me with big puppy eyes, like it was saying ”Please don’t; I don’t need to see this,” but it was too late. There I was sitting in the middle of an empty church with my hard cock in my hand, moaning, stroking, and imagining myself fucking the brains out of my lesbian priest.
Images of her bent over, lying flat on her back with her legs in the air, kept popping in and out of my mind, as my breathing got heavier and was moving faster, until I couldn’t hold it in anymore and a couple of ropes of semen shot out of me and small pools landed on my stomach. I tried to keep as quite as possible, but could still hear my deep gasping breaths echoing throughout the church. After a minute or two came the clean up: basically I just zipped up and wiped my hand off on the inside of my shirt—I really didn’t have much choice.
I made my way back down stairs, but Margrethe was nowhere to be found. I asked where she was, and was told she went up into the church to get some something … Oh. My. God! Margrethe came into the room, she didn’t look at me, she didn’t talk to me—for the rest of the preparations period.
At the time, the whole ordeal was one of the most embarrassing episodes of my life; it was so wrong, jacking off in a freakin’ church! But looking back now … It was kind of hot. Really hot. I did an unmentionable act in the holiest of holy places. There’s nothing more exciting than what is forbidden.