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Billy can’t really deny it anymore; he’s painfully horny, and he needs to jerk off. He hasn’t touched himself since this whole thing with him and the fish happened—just the idea of it made him queasy. Before holding the funeral for his penis (God rest the little, er, big guy’s soul), touching himself in any way that wasn’t purely perfunctory had felt too much like acceptance.
Now, the thought of trying to relearn how his once-familiar body ticks again feels so daunting, he’s just been avoiding it. But a guy can only re-read the same scenes in Kiss of the Spider Woman while restlessly crossing and uncrossing his legs so many times before he gets too sexually frustrated to function.
And this is how Billy finds himself in the shower one day, soaping himself up and pretending like this isn’t just a prelude to an orgasm. Or so he hopes. If he’s being truly honest with himself, he’s not fully convinced he’ll be able to get himself there.
On top of the discomfort of having genitals he doesn’t want, he’s always found women hard to please, sexually or otherwise. More than one sexual encounter had petered out and ended anticlimactically for his partner.
Okay, maybe a lot of them did.
And now that he’s working with the same equipment, he regrets his lack of enthusiasm for their pleasure, if only because he is now the one on the receiving end of his own inexpert ministrations. He did read the chapter on masturbation in Ray’s copy of The New Our Bodies, Ourselves, with the intention of actually learning something this time and not just looking for jerk off material, but theory is different than practice.
He pauses as he’s rinsing himself off, staring down at his chest, which is something he usually tries to avoid these days.
Growing tits has meant that his shirts fit a lot tighter, so it’s been hard not to notice how sensitive his nipples are. He’s never investigated further with them though.
Maybe touching his tits would be the easiest place to start? Tits are supposed to be hot, after all.
Billy lets his eyes fall shut as curiosity leads his hand, tentatively cupping his left breast. It doesn’t feel all that different from fondling a woman’s boob, except that he can feel it from both ends.
Encouraged, he palms it more firmly, humming appreciatively as he thumbs over his nipple. As Billy continues rubbing, he starts to feel a pleasant, warm tingling between his legs. Oh yeah, this works.
Settling into the mood, he leans back against the shower wall and lets his other hand trail down his stomach while he mentally rifles through his spank bank.
For some reason, the first thing that comes to mind is what happened last night—the crude, slick sounds coming from the bed next door that could only mean one thing, how he had pretended to be asleep, how Ray had keened when he came.
How his heart had thudded dizzyingly loud in his chest when he realized he was wet. Even now, he feels himself clench involuntarily at the memory.
Billy shakes his head violently to derail that train of thought. He’d already spent most of the night agonizing over it and reached the same conclusion that brought him here in the first place: he’s just desperately horny.
He hasn’t come in weeks. Of course hearing Ray beat off would get him going too! His body knows what it wants, he just has to provide. And that’s exactly what he’s going to do.
He purposefully thinks back to the last woman he slept with, a bombshell blonde with doe eyes, great tits, no gag reflex, and an insatiable craving for whatever political power his position could grant her. He pictures her on her knees on the plush beige rug of a penthouse suite, looking up at him through her lashes, licking the head of his cock, and he feels his pulse throbbing in his clit.
Billy’s right hand hesitates on his thigh. He’s about to fantasize about a sex act on a part of him that no longer exists, at least not in its entirety. He feels his missing dick like a phantom limb.
But his arousal wins out over his anxiety, and he’s clearly aching for some release, so he furrows his brows, reaches between his legs, and rubs.
The jolt of arousal that rushes through him catches him by surprise, and an incredulous laugh bubbles up from his chest.
This is what he’s been afraid of?
He dives back in eagerly, rubbing his clit back and forth, trying to find a rhythm that feels good without being overstimulating. He melts against the wall in pleasure as he gets something steady going and decides to get a little experimental by gently pinching and pulling the nub between his thumb and finger.
“Fuck,” he gasps, as his head lolls back and hits the shower wall with a light thud. He continues stroking himself hungrily, not only on his clit but all around it too, oblivious to anything but his pleasure.
Billy considers and then rejects trying to finger himself, not wanting to ruin what he has going on—besides, Our Bodies, Ourselves made it clear clitoral stimulation was superior if not imperative for orgasms compared to vaginal penetration. He thinks a girlfriend or two may have said the same in the past.
It doesn’t stop him from reaching down with a finger and teasing his hole once in a while for the sheer thrill of it, though. It should feel taboo, and maybe it does, but it’s electrifying too.
He doesn’t realize right away that his mind has drifted away from the blowjob fantasy.
He doesn’t realize that he’s gone from fantasizing about a petite woman’s lips around his cock to the feeling of a big, strong hand squeezing his shoulder affectionately as Ray passes behind him at the kitchen island. Of how tenderly Ray had treated him when he was ill. Of how it felt to have Ray’s back pressed against his sensitive chest.
Of what Ray’s weight would feel like above him, holding him down.
He doesn’t realize, until it’s too late. He feels his body tense, and suddenly he’s coming. He keeps stroking his clit as he lets out a guttural moan, past the point of caring if Ray overhears.
It feels like it goes on forever, and Billy’s worried that his shaky knees might give out.
A deliciously intense full-body glow spreads, and God, this is so much better than any orgasm he’s ever had with his dick. He’s sure there are tears in his eyes, and he holds back a sob of relief as he comes down.
Slowly, the sound of the shower brings him back to his body. And to the reality of what has just happened.
“…Shit.”
It’s okay, Billy reasons, suddenly feeling light-headed and planting his face in his hands. It doesn’t mean anything.
He hasn’t even seen a woman in years, let alone touched one. Meanwhile, he and Ray have been all up in each other’s business since the world ended, it would be weird if he didn’t think of his best friend while masturbating, right?
Men always do this sort of thing with no women around, in the military and stuff. It’s not gay if women are extinct.
And with that, Billy promptly shoves any further thoughts on the subject aside, into the same internal abyss as the bowling ball, and distracts himself with how great that orgasm just was.
He still feels tingly and light all over. His treacherous thoughts remind him that, unlike penises, clitorises don’t have a refractory period. Despite everything, he itches to do it again, if only hold off on the post-orgasm angst.
Just as he considers reaching down again, loud banging on the bathroom door makes him jump.
“Billy! Dude! Are you trying to use up our entire water supply?”
Oh. Right.
“I was just getting out!” he calls, shutting off the water. He hears Ray scoff beyond the bathroom door, and something raw tugs in his chest at the sound of his voice.
The shame that creeps in is like being doused by a bucket of ice water. As Ray’s footsteps retreat, Billy sags against the wall.
He exits the shower, dries off, and wraps a towel around himself, chest and all, pointedly looking anywhere that isn’t his body, or his reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t want to see what his face looks like right now. He doesn’t want to acknowledge his heavy heart.
Steeling himself against the real world waiting for him outside, he takes a deep breath, and opens the door.