And on that note, I present the latest (and shortest, which may be ironic, I can't tell yet) chapter of Making Sh*t Up: An Improvised Life, which is a memoir of my life, good, bad, and sometimes a little...sticky. Enjoy.
Chapter Fifteen
Giving Myself A Hand
When I was twelve years old, two things happened in my life around the
same time, both of which had a profound impact on my development. The first
was, a neighborhood friend discovered a pile of old Playboy magazines in a dumpster. The second was, my mom’s hot water
bottle mysteriously vanished, never to be seen (by her) again.
MISSING.
Last seen: around 1979, in the vicinity of Larry's bedroom
If found, do NOT attempt contact. But do burn the fucking thing. Seriously.
[Author’s Note: I am about to start talking about masturbation. You
know, that thing that everybody you know says they don’t do, which is probably
true, except for the part where everybody in the world does it. All the time.
If you are at all offended about a person being honest about a thing that
honestly most everybody on the planet – and throughout history – has done, and
continues to do, then you are living at a level of denial that even professional
therapy is not likely to make a dent in. You should stop reading right now,
find someplace quiet and private, and rub one out. Because you really, really
need to.]
When I discovered masturbation it was, to be woefully understated,
the greatest thing in the history of ever. My life began to revolve around four
things: Eating, Sleeping, Watching TV, and Spanking The Monkey. (That is not
the order of importance; I had to eat and sleep to fuel and refresh myself for
jerking off. TV was a bonus.) I told no one about my discovery, not my closest
friends. Not because I was embarrassed, mind you, but because I was that
selfish. I figured I had to be the only kid in all of Conroe – maybe the entire
state of Texas – who had figured out the sheer gratification of doing the
Five-Knuckle Shuffle. I wasn’t about to just give that information up.
I can’t remember when I became
conscious of every young boy’s curse – The
Curse of the Perpetual Boner – but by the time I was twelve it was
beginning to get socially awkward. Walking around school with a tiny tent-pole
all the time was starting to get me noticed in ways that had nothing to do with
my sense of humor. It was always one of those marathon erections that nowadays,
at my age, they would tell me to seek medical attention for. Back then it was
an embarrassing nuisance. Teenage boys eventually figure out how to hide their
boners; clothing choice and positioning are key components. But when you’re
twelve there is a learning curve, including how to even walk normally while sporting a raging hard-on. Because shuffling
down the hall hunched over like Quasimodo was always a dead giveaway. A kid
might as well have hung a tiny sign on his dick that read Sanctuary!
But, now that I could go home and spank little Johnnie behind the
ears, I could at least get rid of my miniature wonder-weasel for a while. No,
I’m not going into detail here; everybody has their own method, speed and style
– women as well as men – and to each his or her own. Whatever works for you is
what works. Period. But, like I said: Mom never saw that hot water bottle
again.
Despite the variety and
veracity of warnings I heard about frequent masturbation as a kid, I did not go
blind. Nor did I grow hair on my palms. My penis did not fall off. I was not
struck by lightning and cast into the Fiery Pit. Not that I didn’t take these
warnings seriously, mind you; I had been
a Cub Scout, if only briefly. I was prepared. I didn’t need my eyesight to jerk off. I stole one of my dad’s disposable
razors and kept it under my sink in case of hairy palms, and we had super glue
in the garage if my winky did pop off. In the case of being struck down by God
for doing something that seemed so natural, I rolled the dice.
I’m still rolling those dice.
Next Week, Chapter Sixteen: New York (First Interlude)
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