2 min

The Masturbatory Tales: Volume 2

To mark Masturbation Month, Sharron Matthews shares a story of self-pleasure

Sharron Matthews relates a harrowing tale of masturbation. Credit: XTRA FILE PHOTO

Back in the day, when I was touring with Les Misérables, I found myself in Oklahoma City. One day, a dude in a cowboy hat walked past the stage door of the Will Rogers Theatre, where I stood smoking (yes, I smoked then). This dude exclaimed to me, “Well, girl, that was a lot of sanging.”

I know, who cares? Sharron, get on with it! This story is about friggin’ one’s self, not wind storms and dudes with Southern accents, but I just wanted to set the Western scene, people.

That night, after the show, I was sitting in my hotel room in the Oklahoma City Hilton, when I began to hear moaning and groaning mixed up with furious whispers and the telltale sound of flesh on flesh in the next room.

Some would have turned on the TV and minded their own business. Me? I grabbed a water glass and leaned my ear on the adjoining locked door that led to the room of all the sex sounds.

Judge if you will, but, I mean, a Canadian gal needs some entertainment . . . besides sanging.

Dude says in next room, “Oh god, oh god, your hair is so soft.”

I think in my room, “Lord. Snore. Is that the best you got?”

Dude says in the next room, “I love touching your sweet face.”

I think in my room, “Come on, dude, dirty it up! Give the lady something to yell about. She ain’t making a sound.”

Dude says in the next room, “Ah . . . ah . . . ah . . . wanna . . . fuck . . .”

I think in my room, “Here we go . . .”

Dude says in the next room, “Ah . . . Fuck . . . Fuck, Honey . . . I wanna . . . I wanna . . .” (Slapping sound is louder and louder . . . as one might imagine.)

I think in my room, “What do you wanna?!”

Dude says in the next room, “Fuck! I just wanna walk down the beach with you! AHHHHHH!”


I think in my room, “WHAT?”

Dude says in the next room, “Talk to you tomorrow, baby.” (Click)


Oh — he was alone and that was his sexy phone talk.

Yawn. What a disappointment. I shake my head and put my glass back and turn on the TV in disgust at that paltry showing.

The next morning when I walk out of the room, the door next door opens.

Can you guess? It was the dude in the cowboy hat from the stage door. Swear to the bunnies.

Me: “Hey.”

Him: “Hey.”

Me, under my breath, “Well, that was not nearly enough sanging.”