Now I lay me down to sleep,
Wishing she would take a peek,
If I die before I conclude,
She will not find me in the nude.

Now I lay me down to sleep…

Well, that’s when I express my kink. Sometimes I also do it when I’m awake but I always, always, always, do it when I go to bed. I don’t think it qualifies as a fetish. It’s certainly a fixation; but according to Merriam Webster (the dictionary, not the lady from the flower shop), fixation is the second definition of fetish and not the first. I don’t need an object for sexual gratification. That’s in the first definition. I also don’t need to do it for sexual satisfaction but sometimes my satisfaction is a by-product. That’s right: my orgasm is sometimes a by-product of my kink.

I would never tell anyone who might know my real name about my kink, but I feel safe enough to write about it under my pseudonym. That’s why I’m sharing it with you. You don’t know my real name. To you, I’m Sleepy the Dwarf. Well, perhaps Sleepy the Giant if you catch me at the right time. (snicker, snicker)

When I lay me down to sleep, I roll my undershorts. That’s my night time kink. It started in my fifties with a pair of undershorts that had a stretched waistband. They wouldn’t stay up unless I rolled the band over a few times. It’s so much more now.

Do I hear a snarky comment from you or maybe a scoff?

Hmmmpf, is that all? Is that what you’re thinking? Don’t judge a kink until you’ve heard it.

Typically I sleep in a colored long-sleeved tee-shirt and I wear boxer brief undershorts that contain thirteen percent Spandex.

I love the feel of boxer briefs on my thighs. They are tight enough to hug my thighs, butt, and waist. The Spandex makes all the difference and provides your cock a proper hug while you sleep.

On the other hand, the simple white (or plaid) cotton boxer shorts your mama bought you and that drape over your member while you are standing (like curtains at Scarlett O’Hara’s ancestral home) is simply a waste of cloth while you are sleeping. They lack the essential snugness to hold your package in place as you twist and turn in the night.

In cotton boxers, on your very first quarter-turn to sleep on your side, you’ll find your limp dick flops about inside and the next thing you know, your cock and balls are hanging down, falling out the opening, and touching your bed…Yours doesn’t touch the bed, you say? Well, it’s not your fault but it’s your DNA.

You should know by now that if your smallish penis and ball sac don’t touch the bed when you lie on your side, it has nothing to do with your self-worth. Your self-worth, any man’s self-worth, is truly based on how much your wife wants to play with your manhood. If your wife doesn’t play with your dick then the size of your dick is actually irrelevant. And, in my humble opinion, a wife who doesn’t play with her husband in bed is guilty of a misdemeanor. I should have had my wife arrested a really long time ago. (Wouldn’t you just love to see Judge Judy handle that in her TV courtroom at 4:00 PM every day?)

(sigh) I mean what is the purpose of a big dick if you can’t use it? Well, any dick for that matter, but especially us larger men.

Let’s get back on track. If you sleep on your side, gravity will pull your cock to the side and down and eventually it will get tangled in your undershorts and bedclothes (unless you are smallish). Then in the middle of the night, you have to twist and turn to Free Willy. It’s such a bother, isn’t it? I mean do you really want to wake up and untangle the damn thing? Your wife will wake up and think you are masturbating when you’re not and she will make an annoying sound that you disturbed her.

To prevent all that bother, buy the boxer brief undershort -with the thirteen percent Spandex- for the right amount of constriction, and roll them.

I begin by folding my waistband down in the front. I keep the band flat and give it about three flip overs until it is just above my member and below my pubic hairline. I have to pull the waistband in the back below my butt in order to properly fit it.

Then I fold each thigh legging from the bottom up about the same width as the waistband; flipping the fold over and over until it pulls the gusset tight beneath my balls. This is when I roll, rather than fold, the three pieces to achieve the perfect amount of snugness across my berries and twig. I’m typically satisfied with the compression when there is a triangle of cloth covering my naughty bits and the undershorts are rolled into the crease of my thighs and pulled tight under my butt.

When done properly, my cock and balls are snugly outlined by the rolled undershorts and they are receiving enough compression to reward me with a pleasant genital hug and sometimes a nice chubby swelling.

Wishing she would take a peek…

The objective of my undershort rolling is two-fold. The first is to keep it in place when moving about after I fall asleep and we’ve talked about that already. The second is to get her to actually check out my package when she finally comes to bed.

The truth is she wasn’t seeing my penis mostly because she came to bed later than me. She has been doing this ever since she stopped having sex on weekdays. In the early days of No-Sex-On-Weekdays (NSOW), she wanted to finish watching a movie or she had to watch the weather or she wasn’t feeling tired. There were different reasons for the different days of the week but it all came down to ensuring I was fast asleep before she came to bed. Snuggled into the covers by the time she came to bed, my body was never on display for her visual enjoyment. However, by wearing that long-sleeved tee and rolling my undershorts, it meant I didn’t need bedcovers at all.

Saturday-Night-Sex (SNX) became our routine two decades ago and, as all routines go, it became boring and functional. It may not be true, but SNX seemed to become a kind of test of our marriage. I imagined her opinion to be: As long as he finishes inside me once a week then our marriage is still a marriage. That’s my view of her feelings about sex with me. Maybe I’m wrong and no one will tell me. I don’t know.

I have good hygiene. I’ve been physically fit until my sixties. I’m a father whose children love to talk with him and to be with him. And yet, my wife’s fire and desire for sexual congress went out a long time ago. It was and still is an arduous and confusing time for me. I hear the word “no” more times than a child at Toys R Us.

Undershort rolling brought me three specific joys. Firstly, I felt sexy and feeling sexy is all about feeling good. Secondly, I had strong erections that were incredibly well-defined and were sometimes still present when I woke up horny two hours later. And thirdly, it was an opportunity for my wife to voyeuristically see my swollen penis without feeling guilty she was looking at it.

In my mind, the more she peeked at it, the more likely she would want it. As I said earlier, it works for men that way so it should work for her that way, too. If we see it, we want it.

If I die before I conclude…

I love that phrase. Don’t you?

Idle hands are the Devil’s pleasure but I enjoy it, too.

You don’t need a long description of my self-pleasuring here. You know how it’s done and if you don’t, then you probably should not be reading this. I will only say that being stretched out almost naked on one’s bed with an erection (at the age of seventy–two, mind you) is good even if there is a small amount of cloth covering it. Not as good as being inside my wife, but it’s still good. Having an erection at seventy-two and bringing it to a successful conclusion is worth mentioning, don’t you think?

I sometimes fantasize I will be in a masturbatory moment just as she walks into the room. She will see me bring myself to the conclusion. The look on her face will be priceless. She has not seen me masturbate in all the years of our marriage. She never wanted to. Whenever I tried, she’d cover her face so she couldn’t see it.

One more thing, at my age, it is technically possible I could have a heart attack while masturbating but I don’t think it will happen. However, if I were to die while masturbating in my bed…

She will not find me in the nude…

So true. So true. So true. She will not find me naked but she will find me with my undershorts rolled up tightly around my legs and under my butt. My hand will still be holding my cloth-covered favorite toy, or not, as the case may be.

Do you remember my third reason for undershort rolling? It’s an opportunity for my wife to voyeuristically see my swollen penis without feeling guilty she was looking at it, right? I was hoping the sight of a triangular piece of cloth covering my swollen penis would cause her to desire me. Well, it turns out that it didn’t increase her desire for me but it did increase her desire to pleasure herself.

The first time I discovered my wife self-pleasuring while watching me “sleep”, I had been caressing my erection. My cock was hard and pointed towards my head. It strained the fabric that held it and I was feeling pretty damn good that God gave me another day with an erection. My undercock was face up and perfectly outlined by moonlight and moon shadows. It looked exactly like that Amazon Prime logo on TV. I had been touching my frenulum gently to keep me erect. It wasn’t exactly brinksmanship; I wasn’t taking myself to the point of no return and then backing off. No, I was just amusing myself while I mused upon other matters.

That first night when I discovered her pleasuring, I heard her footstep in the hallway outside the bedroom and I dropped my hand to the side of my body just as she opened the door.

The moon was full and the window drapes were open. The Moon’s light shadowed my erection nicely. Later I learned my erection is best defined by light and shadow sometime between the Waxing Gibbous Moon and the Waning Gibbous Moon with the Full Moon as being best. That’s about twelve nights a month if there’s no cloud cover.

In the light of day, or bedroom ceiling light, and, actually, anytime I am awake, she wouldn’t be caught dead looking at my groin.

But that one night with my undershorts rolled and my seventy-two-year-old erection in its full state; when she thought I was asleep and her presence was undetectable; that one night when she could study me without fear of discovery and slip her fingers into her panties to pleasure herself while looking at me; that night I learned my wife was a voyeuristic masturbator. Imagine that, seventy-one years old and she took pleasure in peeking at me and rubbing one out.

My wife apparently needed only a full moon, an outlined cock, and the privacy of voyeurism to masturbate. She achieved total sexual bliss, too. Not some frumpy and mild orgasm, but one in which her knees buckled slightly. I peeked at her through half-lidded eyes several times and was astonished at the strength of her climax.

So now I roll my underwear every night. Out of the twelve days between Waxing Gibbous and Waning Gibbous, she visits me and rubs one out maybe two or three times.

I like to think that she’s remembering our passion from years ago. And I like to think that maybe she will come to bed at the same time as me. But then I think, what if this is her kink now? Do I really want to spoil it for her? The answer is no.

One orgasm in hand might be worth two in the bush at the age of seventy-one for her and seventy–two for me. But more likely two is out of the question at our age. I think we’ll both stick to one in the hand.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
Wishing she would take a peek,
If I die before I conclude,
She will not find me in the nude.