Masturbation is our first and natural form of sexual activity and if that's inhibited or damaged, then we suffer for the rest of our lives.— Betty Dodson
I scrub and scrub but the dirty doesn't come off. I can't get clean. My thoughts spin, electric and fire. Blood in the water, blood from me. Can't get clean. Just can't get clean.
I try to picture my future wife, make it wholesome. Make it acceptable under his gaze. I'm so dirty, dirty little boy. I want to stop but the feeling. The pressure. The drive. It's elemental and primal.
Each time I feel the surge the guilt sets in. A brief little death of pleasure followed by the shame and humiliation of sitting with semen on my hands and lust fading in my heart.
I wash off and scrub. Burn it away. My privates are bleeding from the soap and washing cloth wearing off the sensitive skin. The pain in the hot water is excruciating. What I deserve. What I deserve.
It will take at least a week to heal. A week I can keep from despoiling myself. A few days I can reign in the desire and want.
Still I lust and lust. My thoughts betray me. My mind wanders to breasts and the soft patch of hair that hides delicate folds. Tracing feminine curves and shapes with fingers and tongue. I imagine her pleasure. Long to hear her moans and sighs. In my mind can't get it out of my mind.
I'm there again, wincing from nearly healed scabs and burns. Lotion to ease the friction and pain. I'm there again shaming myself.
Under god under god.
I sin and sin and sin. Adultery in my mind. Sin against my future wife, against god, against myself. Carnal solo sin. Again and again.
Why can't I get clean?
Blood in the water.
I can't wash it away.
I am ruined.