Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.


Fun with Science, Part 2
Girls are different from boys. First of all, there are the boobies, and the hoo-hah. Also, in my general experience, girls also seem to be a lot smarter than boys, if significantly crazier. Finally, there’s the whole masturbation thing.

Girls, assuming some of you actually read this crap, here’s the lowdown on male masturbation: for boys, beating off is the same as taking care of any other biological function. It’s no different to us than having a bowel movement or breathing. It’s one more chore hardwired into our anatomy, one of the parameters that define our gender — hell, our existence. Just something we need to do to function. Shit, as some of you may have noticed, the minute we have 15 free minutes in our schedule and access to a locked door we’re rubbing one out. And if we’re not, we’re at least contemplating it.

I only point this out because girls I know occasionally find themselves dismayed upon discovering their pet boy furtively knocking off a batch by hand. Or, even worse, uncover the dreaded porno stash (the modern equivalent of which might be the uncleared Internet Explorer History folder). This things can trigger strong reactions — moral disapproval, worry that a partner’s sexual needs aren’t fulfilled.

To these women, I say: Fret no more! Your boyfriend, son or husband is too inarticulate to say it, but the simple truth is that masturbation is not a sexual act. So relax, don't be so uptight. You wouldn’t get upset or morally outraged at finding a roll of toilet paper in the bathroom, would you? Well, unless that porno is really grisly stuff (the police can help you decide — you should always take all porno you find to your local police department, so they can take a look and decide if meets community and erotic standards), just lay off. We’re not crazy about tampons, you know? But we don’t make a big fuss unless one ends up in our box of Wheaties or something.

Frequency, though, is another matter. Much like pooping, male masturbation is generally performed once or twice a day. You’ll always find anomalies within any sample set, of course. Some dudes only whack it every few days, some four or five times a day. This is probably no surprise, but at certain times of my life (such as from puberty until, oh, about 20 minutes ago) I’ve tended to fall near the higher range of masturbatory frequency.

About 12 years ago, I was sitting around with a couple of girls, when one of them asked me if I was gay. (Note that this was a long time before I may or may not have drunkenly tongue-kissed George Rebelo, drummer for Hot Water Music, in exchange for sexual favors from really hot punk-rock girls, a one-time act that he enjoyed waaaay more than me, I’ll have you know, not that I’m at all insecure about that, or anything else, and shutthefuckupwhythehellarewestilltalkingaboutthisanyway?!)

“Nope,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, unlike the other guys I know, you’re not always trying to sleep with me, and I never hear you comment on the tits of every slut that walks by,” she said.

“That’s because, unlike a lot of insecure guys, I honestly like and respect women,” I said.

Which was, and is, true. Of course, what was also true was that I was working part-time, living in a house where my roommates were often gone for weeks one end and the owner of a giant stack of porno mags, and therefore beating off about nine times a day. So on the rare days I actually made it out of the house, my sex drive was somewhat dissipated.

The question got me thinking, though. I was always kind of a loner (and by that I mean “wholly unattractive to all women”), but maybe if I wasn’t constantly jacking off all the damn time I’d take more of an interest in girls and relationships and that kind of shit.

Right around this time, my friends in the band
Spoke were preparing for a month-long tour. At its culmination, the group was to record its first full-length album. Spoke’s guitarist and singer, Jon Resh, told me he was planning on abstaining from self-pleasure for as much time as possible before recording, perhaps even through the entire tour, with the idea that it would help his voice boom forth with stored-up masculine authority.

Hmmm. Who couldn’t use a little more masculine authority? And maybe I was missing out on that girlfriend stuff, too. There was only one way to tell, and that was to invoke our old friend, magic! Er, I mean science! And undertake an illuminating, educational experiment!

So I determined to last a week without playing with myself. If successful, it would be the longest I’d go without stimulation since I discovered I had a damn ding-a-ling.

The first day or two produced no noticeable physical effects. I did notice that I had more free time than usual, especially in the mornings and at bedtime. And I had a little trouble falling asleep at night. But it wasn’t like my testes swoll all up with unused man-goo or anything, and I figured I had this thing licked easy. Did someone say licked? That reminds me of a picture I have laying around here somewhere… Licked… Licked… Eaaasyyy… Lick it easy, so easy… Huh? Oh, sorry. Lost my train of thought.

On days three and four I started observing some distinct changes in my behavior. I took a shower, and got a haircut. Primarily, though, I noticed that I was suddenly very interested in what girls had to say. I would even call them on the phone and stuff. We’d talk and talk, and laugh. Just go on and on about nothing, really. Weird.

Also, occasionally I’d be struck by the nagging impression that there was something I was forgetting to do, like pay a bill or water the plants or something… Once I found myself trying to sort out this feeling while absentmindedly stroking an uncooked hot dog, and some teenagers laughed at me.

Days five and six were kind of a blur. My breathing was shallow and I was hopelessly distracted. I couldn’t tell if my voice had more manly authority than usual, but I did sport a perpetual hard-on that I sort of hard to tuck down in my jeans, making me walk kind of stiff-legged. Girls would talk to me, and I’d mutter and drool in response. I was excited by their exposed ankles, their rounded shoulders, their fingernail clippings, canes and wheelchairs. I found myself gazing wide-eyed and longing at a knothole my fence that I had never noticed before. On day six, a slight breeze blew across the front of my pants, and I shuddered.

Day seven came, and so did I. Vivid thoughts of sex were playing endlessly in my tortured mind. I was home, knowing my presence was unfit for civilized contact. Any contact with my body was unbearably overstimulating, so I was naked, restlessly pacing while mumbling and twisting my hands into strange shapes. I was sobbing and hyperventilating. It was rough going, friends, but my commitment to science was absolute, and I was determined to see the experiment through and last until the next morning.

Still naked, I lay on the futon in my living room, and turned on the TV. I was hoping I would find something, anything to distract me. Images of supple, glistening Jell-O caressed the television screen, taunting me. I noticed that Oprah had a set of big ol’ titties, and started imagining them free, bouncing unfettered in all their round, brown glory… It was real, so real. I could almost smell her womanly musk and…

“Okay,” I thought. “This is seriously getting out of hand. I need to get a grip on myself — er, maybe that was a bad choice of words — and settle the fuck down.” I changed the channel to something with nonsexy stuff like dudes and news, and took a few deep, cleansing breaths.

“I am a man, not a base animal,” I said to myself. “Yogis and monks fakirs and shit practice self control and rise above their urges. You don’t even believe in any of that metaphysical nonsense — you’re not going to let those mystical types top you, are you?”

Hell no. I hate those magical dickheads. I composed myself, reached down (hmm, bad choice of words again) and discovered an untapped well of self-control. Soon I found myself disassociated from the corporeal, almost floating on a plane that was… Well, I had always derided the word, but it was almost spiritual. I lay like that, naked and priapic, yet calm, for an undetermined amount of time. I felt enlightened, empowered and strong.

Then, absentmindedly, I reached down and scratched my crotch area. My wrist brushed against my boner, and I had an orgasm that I literally thought was going to kill me.

I’m not kidding. I saw spots, started to black out and seriously thought I might be having a massive heart attack. My entire body spasmed, each taut nerve humming and crackling with liquid electric fire. My eyes rolled up into my head. Digging my fingers into the futon mattress and gasping to catch my breath, my hips thrust forward uncontrollably again and again, while a thick stream of pearly untapped potential arced several feet over my head, landing on the floor with an audible glop. I screamed out in joy and terror while becoming one with all creation; all knowledge and life and the stars and planets whirled and hummed through each of my cells… I glimpsed the indescribable face of God. This lasted for only a few minutes, but it seemed like hours.

The jerks and involuntary contractions racking my body finally began to ebb. My breathing became deep and regular, and I was covered in a thin sheen of warm sweat. I couldn’t believe what I had just experienced — in a lifetime of adventure and mayhem, this was the most amazing thing I’d ever felt. You could rodeo-ride a nuclear-powered shark on the moon while eating a deep-fried Twinkie and getting a backrub from Molly Ringwald and it wouldn’t compare to the force, the passion, the... the… majesty. No words can possibly do it justice.

I made up my mind right there — I was going to masturbate just once a week from then on out. It was just too good, too intense. I was exhilarated. New vistas of pleasure stretched before me, and for the first time in a very long time I actually looked forward to what forthcoming days would bring. I was going to change.

I beat off again a few hours later, of course. It wasn’t the same. And the next morning, I whacked off first thing. I think I may have jacked off around lunchtime that day, too, and definitely sent myself riding off to dreamland on that reliable, sturdy ol’ steed of hand lotion and moist tissue. Pretty much the same as I’ve done every day since.


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