I’m sick of John’s masturbating.  He does it all the time now.  Earlier tonight we were sitting together on his bed, watching Law and Order and waiting for the pizza to come, when I felt him move my hand.  I should have picked up on what was coming next, when he grabbed a wad of Kleenex.  John has become predictable now in his procedure.  I think it’s just that he’s grown comfortable enough with me in the room to revert back to his original masturbatory process.  It’s no longer become an activity meant for my pleasure, and yet somehow I’m not allowed to opt out of the process.  

I originally told John I didn’t care about his using my hand as his own, because I didn’t want him to think that I thought he was gross.  The first time, I remember being a little surprised, but then happy that he felt comfortable enough with me to involve me in his private activities.  And really, it’s not that I think masturbation is gross.  It’s only gross when he does it. 

True to form, John is a neat freak, even during masturbation.  Lately, I’ve taken to teasing him about it, but to no effect.  Rather than touching his own penis, which he calls “an extension of myself,” he only allows the tissue to touch it.  Then my hand falls on top of it, and his hand on top of mine.  Part of the problem is that because John is tall, my face gets smashed either against his chest or along his side, while he’s going at it.  I always have to go and wash my face after because he gets all sweaty, and red, and blustering, and gross.

I’m not really sure why we’re still together sometimes.  The sad thing is I’d rather humor John’s masturbation, than have sex with him, which is partially why I think he assumes I like it.  You know, he actually e-mailed me a video of himself doing it about a week ago.  All I could see was a hand and a white Kleenex, then some basic movement, not even really any sound.  I immediately sent the video over to Missy, and her response was that she hoped John was bigger than what the Kleenex seemed to suggest. 

Missy told me that I should tell him now, simply explain why I think it’s gross.  I told her how I’ve tried to move my hand away, but that he insistently puts it back.  Also, in one way, I don’t feel that I should find John as gross as I do.  Maybe another girl would love his strange behaviors.  I don’t want to ruin him for anyone else, though I can’t imagine being with that forever.  I’d have to go to Costco and buy Kleenex in bulk.  Plus, there’s the cat.  The cat loves to shred Kleenex, so if John misses the trash after an episode, that means there’s a good chance I’ll be cleaning up the shredded remnants of his self infatuation sometime during the next twenty four hours.   Gross.  Yes, I know.  Just imagine having to live it.

I do think women put up with a lot more than men.  Most men would have probably ended it after the first night of the Kleenex, or at least after the second.  I wanted things to work so badly, though.   Part of it is, I haven’t come to terms with having to date again.  We’ve been together for a year now, and starting over sounds tiresome.  Right now, the Kleenexes remain better than the possibility of something, which could potentially be worse.  At least John seems to care about me, is disease free, and loves Law and Order.  Maybe I should have just told him in the beginning.