My cock is clamoring for attention. It’s not hard, exactly. It’s a bit firm, I guess, but more than that, it wants to be hard. It’s using all its powers of persuasion to inform me that, if it had its way, it would be receiving considerable stimulation right about now. The stimulation it craves is of every type: it wants to be touched, stroked, squeezed, licked, engulfed, yes. But it also wants the flow of blood that comes not from physical but from mental stimulation.
Kids take years to learn to interpret the bodily sensations corresponding to hunger, fatigue, having to go to the bathroom. I take these sorts of sensations for granted: I know when I’m hungry. I recognize the slight churning in my stomach, that activity that precedes the full-blown grumble, but that lets me know a grumble its imminent. I know when I’m tired, when my heavy eyelids, my difficulty maintaining focus, are indicators that I need to lie down, close my eyes, and sleep. I recognize that feeling in my gut, in my urethra, when I have to pee. Those feelings all are so familiar that I interpret them instantly, unconsciously. And act accordingly.
The hunger in my cock, though, is different. Somehow, even though it’s familiar, even though I know it (all too) well, it’s a bit of a revelation each time. “Oh right,” I think. “My cock!” And it doesn’t quite ache, it’s not quite pressing against my jeans. It’s almost like an itch (though without the discomfort, without the itchiness). Is it temperature? Not exactly. It’s not hot, or cold. It’s more like a restlessness, a bodily listlessness. “MOVE!” it says. Movement, of course, could come by hand or mouth, or by erection. Kegels move it, slightly, and I find myself doing them, over and over and over.
Squeezing my thighs together just a bit as I do a Kegel heightens the sensation nicely. I find my hand roaming, idly adjusting my cock in as unobtrusive a way as is possible. (I’m in public, after all.)
And I conjure stimulation. It’s a hunger, after all, that’s urgent.