Introduction: NorthBridge
In his late thirties, living with a long-term partner and working in a demanding helping profession, NorthBridge has spent much of adulthood quietly unlearning what he was taught about sex, masculinity, and being “good.” Raised in a conservative environment where masturbation was never named but always implied as suspect, his solo life grew up in the shadows: urgent, secretive, and often followed by a familiar wave of self-disgust. Over time, therapy, reflective writing, and the discovery of online spaces where men speak plainly about their own rituals have softened that script, turning late-night sessions into a steadier way of grounding his body and mind. In this interview, he traces how that private practice became a central thread in his life story, how disability and chronic pain shape his pacing, and how a quiet sense of brotherhood with other men has helped him see his solo sexuality with more clarity and less shame.
Core Entry
To start, how would you introduce yourself to someone who doesn’t know you, anything about your life, background, or personality that feels important to who you are today?
NorthBridge: I’m a gay man in my late 30s, living with a long-term partner and juggling a fairly demanding job in a helping profession. I grew up in a pretty conservative environment, so a lot of my adult life has been about gently undoing old messages around sexuality, masculinity, and what it means to be a “good” man. I’m thoughtful, a bit reserved at first, and I tend to process things by writing, which is part of why this kind of project appeals to me.
In your own words, how would you describe your sexual and relational life (for example, the kinds of connections, relationships, or experiences that feel most central to you right now)?
NorthBridge: Relationally, the anchor is my partnership; we’re emotionally close, fairly steady, and we try to communicate honestly even when it’s uncomfortable. Sexually, my life feels like a balance between partnered intimacy and a fairly rich solo world that has been with me much longer than any relationship. I don’t chase a lot of outside experiences, but I do stay connected to a few online spaces where men talk openly about masturbation and solo intimacy, which helps me feel less alone.
How would you describe the place that masturbation or solo sexuality has in your life at this point, whether it feels central, occasional, background, experimental, or something else entirely?
NorthBridge: It feels central and familiar, less dramatic than it used to feel, but still very important. Masturbation is one of the main ways I regulate stress and stay connected to my body, so it’s not just a background activity for me. It’s something I return to regularly, with a sense of comfort rather than crisis.
Masturbation as part of your life story
When you think about your life story, where does masturbation show up as an important thread or theme?
NorthBridge: It shows up almost like a parallel narrative running alongside everything else: school, coming out, relationships, and health. Even when I didn’t have partners, I had this consistent relationship with my own body and fantasies. It’s been a private place where I’ve processed shame, loneliness, pleasure, and, more recently, self-acceptance.
How has your relationship with masturbation changed as you’ve moved through different stages of life (teens, adulthood, aging, etc.)?
NorthBridge: As a teenager, it was frantic and secretive; in my twenties, it felt like proof that I was “too much” or not “normal” enough. In my thirties, especially after some therapy and more honest conversations with other men, it shifted into something calmer and less loaded. I still have habits that go back decades, but the emotional tone has softened from guilt and fear into curiosity and care.
First memories and early learning
As much as you feel comfortable sharing, what are some of your earliest memories of discovering masturbation or solo pleasure?
NorthBridge: I remember lying in bed as a kid and realizing that certain kinds of pressure and movement felt intensely good, even though I had no language for what I was doing. At first, it was just “this feels nice,” and then at some point, I had my first orgasm and felt both amazed and terrified by how powerful it was. That mix, intense pleasure and immediate anxiety, is something that stuck around for a long time.
How did you first make sense of what you were doing, through your own experimentation, things you heard from others, media, religion, or something else?
NorthBridge: Mostly through trial and error and a few half-whispered conversations with peers. Religion gave me the vague idea that anything sexual outside of marriage was wrong, but nobody ever said the word “masturbation” out loud at home. I pieced it together from jokes, health class, and the occasional article, often long after I’d already been doing it for years.
Pleasure, routine, ritual, meaning
If you’re comfortable, how would you describe what a “typical” solo session looks or feels like for you these days (in as much or as little detail as feels right to you)?
NorthBridge: A typical session is usually at night, after my partner has gone to bed, or if we’re doing our own thing in separate rooms. I like to take a bit of time, get settled, maybe scroll a bit, or just let my mind wander rather than rushing straight to climax. Physically, it’s pretty straightforward, but mentally, it’s a mix of fantasy, memory, and simply enjoying the sensations without beating myself up afterward.
Beyond physical release, what kinds of emotional, mental, or spiritual nourishment, if any, do you get from solo sexuality these days?
NorthBridge: Emotionally, it’s a way to turn down the volume on anxiety and feel more rooted in my own skin. Mentally, it gives me a short break from problem-solving and caretaking, where I don’t have to perform for anyone. I wouldn’t call it spiritual in a grand sense, but there is something quietly sacred about having a space where my body isn’t an enemy or a project, it’s just a source of pleasure and presence.
Shame, secrecy, anxiety, conflict
Have there ever been times when masturbation or solo sexuality has felt complicated, stressful, or painful for you? If so, what did that look or feel like for you?
NorthBridge: Yes, absolutely. There were years when every session ended with a wave of self-disgust, like I’d failed some invisible standard again. It felt compulsive at times, like I was trying to soothe something I didn’t have words for, and then punishing myself for the way I chose to cope.
Over time, what has helped you move toward more comfort, self-acceptance, or peace around your solo sexuality, if that has happened for you?
NorthBridge: A combination of therapy, reading other men’s honest stories, and slowly experimenting with being less secretive. Hearing that other people masturbate as often as I do, or that they also use it for comfort, made a big difference. Naming it out loud, to myself and a couple of trusted people, took some of the power out of the shame.
Comfort, resilience, self-regulation, stress relief
In what ways, if any, has masturbation served as comfort, self-soothing, or stress relief in your life?
NorthBridge: It’s been one of my go-to ways to downshift when I’m wound up or feeling emotionally raw. After a rough day, a solo session can help me release tension and feel less like my thoughts are spinning in circles. It doesn’t fix problems, but it often makes them feel more manageable.
Identity, connection, and relationships
How has your understanding of yourself as a man, or your relationship to masculinity, evolved alongside your experiences with masturbation or solo sexuality?
NorthBridge: I used to see my strong solo drive as something that made me “too much” or somehow less mature. Over time, I’ve come to see it as just one expression of being a man whose body and emotions are closely linked. It’s also pushed me to question rigid ideas of masculinity; the vulnerability and tenderness that show up in my solo life don’t fit the “tough, detached” stereotype, and I’m okay with that now.
In what ways, if any, has masturbation or solo sexuality connected you with other men, online, in person, or even just in shared imagination?
NorthBridge: Online spaces where men talk honestly about masturbation have given me a sense of quiet brotherhood. I’ve also had a few in-person friendships where we could talk about this stuff without joking it away, and those conversations felt oddly intimate and relieving. Even when I’m alone, I sometimes feel like I’m part of an invisible network of men doing something similar in their own private spaces.
Has your solo practice ever become social (for example, mutual sessions, group experiences, cam, chat, shared fantasy)? If so, what stands out about those experiences for you?
NorthBridge: Yes, a few times, mostly mutual sessions or online interactions. What stands out is how quickly vulnerability and comparison can surface: there’s a thrill in being seen and in seeing another man in that context, but also a need to be very clear about boundaries. The best experiences were those with explicit consent, a shared understanding of what we were doing, and no pressure to turn it into something else.
Intimacy, boundaries, and safety
How do solo and partnered intimacy compare or relate for you personally?
NorthBridge: They feel related but distinct. Partnered intimacy is about connection, responsiveness, and shared experience, while solo intimacy is more about tuning into my own rhythms and needs. Sometimes, solo time even makes me more available for partnered intimacy because I’m less pent‑up and more at ease in my own body.
What kinds of boundaries (emotional, physical, digital, relational) feel most important to you around solo and shared sexual experiences?
NorthBridge: Emotionally, I need to feel that I can say no or pause without it being taken as rejection of the other person. Physically, safety and comfort matter more to me as I get older and navigate pain and fatigue. Digitally, I’m careful about what I share, no identifiable images, no details that could trace back to my family or workplace, and I prefer to keep certain core rituals just for myself.
Core Closing
How has it felt to write about these parts of your life in this format?
NorthBridge: Surprisingly steady. There’s a slight edge of vulnerability in putting this into words, but the structure helps; it feels more like I’m mapping out a familiar landscape than confessing a crime. There’s also a sense of relief in seeing the whole arc laid out instead of just isolated moments.
Is there anything important we haven’t touched on that you’d like to add?
NorthBridge: Maybe just that my relationship with masturbation isn’t static; it still shifts with stress, health, and relationship dynamics. I’m still learning what “healthy” looks like for me at different stages, and I appreciate that this project leaves room for nuance rather than expecting a neat resolution.
If a man read your answers who felt very alone in his own solo sexuality, what would you most want him to take away?
NorthBridge: I’d want him to know that feeling “too much” or “broken” around this is incredibly common, and that those feelings don’t define the truth of who he is. There’s nothing inherently shameful about having a strong solo life; it’s a very human way to seek comfort, pleasure, and connection with yourself. If anything, his story belongs in the conversation just as much as anyone else’s.
About The Open Palm Project
The Open Palm Project creates space for honest conversation about men’s solo sexuality. Through interviews, essays, and community dialogue, we explore how self-pleasure shapes identity, relationships, and well-being.
I want to thank NorthBridge for his generous submission to The Open Palm Project and for sharing so much of his story and interior world with us. Your honesty about shame, secrecy, and the slow work of unlearning gives language to experiences many men carry alone, and your reflections on solo practice as comfort and grounding widen the conversation in exactly the way this project hopes to hold.