While the internet did not invent the practice of edging (bringing yourself close to orgasm, stopping just short of it, letting the tension abate and repeating over and over again) nor the idea of solosexuality, it revolutionized the ability to edge and to consider the possibility of being a solosexual (one who prefers masturbation over other types of sexual outlets). If porn is to be a ’bator’s primary fuel, the gasoline that gets the motor running, we have to wonder what it was like pre-internet, when magazines, and later VHS tapes, were the only options. How many magazines can a horny man go through? And we of a certain age remember watching those rented porn tapes, where maybe only one scene out of five really worked for us.
(N Maxwell Lander/DailyXtra)
But the web gives us limitless amounts of porn, and if something doesn’t strike your fancy, a new image or scene is just a click away. We men, hunters by nature, find pleasure in the search for that “right” image or that “right” scene, that will fuel our fantasies. And we can go on and on and on. Add to the mix the ability to cam and to instant message (or “fone-bone”) with men around the world, and is it any wonder that men in love with their dicks might want to stay home all day and jack it?
As masturbation took centre stage in my life, I purposely let my “real” world get smaller and let my ’bate world enlarge. Friends would invite me to parties and half of the time I would decline. If I did go, I was often the life of the party while there, but I was also likely the first to leave to go home, strip down, turn on the porn and check to see if I had any hot emails awaiting me on any of the sex sites I was a part of.
I start a night of edging by stripping and dancing in front of my mirror — just mildly drunk from the party I’d been at, if I’d been at one at all. I turn on the porn, often partnered, penetrative-style porn. While the images evoke waves of horniness, while I fantasize about stepping through the laptop screen and engaging with the performers, the truth is that I don’t need to. The images spur my fantasies, the fantasies engorge my cock and a cycle of edging is ridden up and down and all around.
By the fifth hour of drinking and watching porn, I cannot lie: I might be wasted and hunched over the computer, looking like a sad sack of a man beating my cock like it owes me money, edging it really close and then stopping and then edging some more. While I’m feeling that I’m great and all-powerful, becoming one with my cock until my whole body feels like one huge sex organ, I probably look like a mess. But no matter. That’s what it might look like from the outside, but inside, I’m travelling to heaven, hell and back again in one glorious loop until my cock is worn out. Appearances be damned.
As opposed to my experiences with partnered sex where a hard cock is a must, I’m grateful for periods of flaccidity during an edging session of many hours. The thinking is that if I get and stay hard, it will only be a short while until I come. But edging implies that the hardness of the cock will wax and wane, prolonging the ’bate session until you decide it’s “time to get down to business” and orgasm. Or not. Some men I know engage in “cum denial,” preferring to keep the sexual energy of the ’bate alive after the ’bate session is over. For me, not coming was often more due to my cock losing energy, the heat of my desire finally diminishing, the need for food or sleep taking over.
For an edger, it’s the journey, not the destination. At that fifth, sixth, maybe seventh hour of edging, I look in the mirror and see a naked man franctically jacking his dick . I’ve come to dearly love this sight, the image of me making love to myself with no inhibitions and no concern about my appearance. That man in the mirror has given himself over to the delicious power of his own sexuality. Selfishly, he has concerned himself only with his own sensations, partnering with himself on a trip no travel agent can compete with for pure thrills. I have become my own lover.