I’ve decided to share my latest book (The All-Important, Well-Fed, Giant White Man) with my followers here, free of charge, one chapter at a time. So… Where were we on this read-along… Oh, yes…
Chapter 3: I Would Never Do That
We’re going to talk about this whether it’s awkward or not.
The discovery of masturbation is probably the most universally life altering occurrence in a young man’s life. It’s the golden spike in the ground that divides boyhood from manhood and starts each kid down the path that will lead to the most stupid, idiotic, and glorious decisions of his life.
I like to believe that thinking and feeling is a skill that men have to increasingly master just as they have to learn proper communication skills, parenting skills, or Kung Fu skills.
I believe there are four organs that we each eventually (hopefully) learn to use to both think and feel, and it is only when we effectively can use all four together that we become truly balanced individuals.
When we are children we generally only use one. Our brains. Anyone can use their brain. It is only later in life that we will progress one step at a time to use the correct parts of our brains as well as the other three thinking and feeling organs, starting next with our penises, then progressing to our stomachs, and finally, if we evolve enough, we will start thinking and feeling with our hearts.
When I was still little enough to fit into a standard bathtub with Eric, the two of us used to lie down on our bellies side by side, and slide back and forth in the tub, rubbing our nethers on the smooth porcelain below. We were little and this was fun for two big reasons. One, we could get a pretty good sloshy wave going on both ends of the tub as we went, and two, we’d get boners.
There was nothing sexual about it. Both of us were still years away from puberty when we finally couldn’t fit in the same tub together. And I don’t know if my brother kept going with his slishing and sloshing fun when he went solo, but I sure as hell did. Sure, boners weren’t as funny when you were by yourself, but they were still pretty damn comical.
And when I was eleven years old, my innocent fun in the bathtub one afternoon ended with surprisingly explosive results. It sounds cliché, but I really do remember it like it was last week. I was on my belly, humming me some Neil Diamond, rubbing my willie up and down the length of the tub as I so often did, and suddenly what never really felt like anything at all started feeling really good.
I stopped humming and increased my pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. The more I did it the better my penis felt. And then, out of freaking nowhere, the danged thing had some sort of wonderful spasm, and my body clenched up against my will, I held my breath against my will, I clamped my eyes shut against my will, and I suddenly felt something shoot out of me and into the bubbly water.
Once it had passed, I let myself gasp a lungful of air. My breath was now even heavier than it had been all those years chasing the other kids around at soccer practice. I held myself perfectly still in the bathtub, looked down into the water, and shook my head in disbelief.
What was that? I just thought over and over.
I felt no guilt. No hesitation. No disgust. Nothing bad. I would learn later on that in my Mormon family, masturbation was a big no no. But at that point, I just thought the sin meant not stroking your own index finger in some perverse manner. Dad had never made mention of anything as glorious as this when he gave us the sex talk.
Once my breathing had calmed, I gave it another go. Nothing this time. So I drained the tub.
I dried off, and prayed as hard as I could that the next time I got in the bathtub I could find a way to repeat what had just happened. It was, after all, the most magical thing I had ever felt.
And whatever god I was praying to answered those prayers. The next time it took no time at all for me to get that magic feeling going again. And, just like the time before, I exploded into the water with what felt like the intensity of a fire hose and the magic of a unicorn sliding down a rainbow into a pot of fucking gold.
I started doing it often and with wild abandon after that. I learned that there was more than one way to get that lovin’ feeling. In fact, there were lots of ways and not all of them had to be in the bathtub. Months into it, and probably hundreds of masturbations later, I had never once felt guilt. I had never once felt like I was disgusting. I had never once felt that it was wrong. After all, how could something so wrong feel so right?
After accidentally telling us not to stroke our own fingers in his attempt to teach us not to masturbate, I suppose Dad thought the lesson had been learned, he was done, and he never again needed to teach us not to charm our one-eyed snakes; because of that, he never brought it up again. My friends, on the other hand, they were a different story altogether.
My friends were all raised as Mormons just as I was, and looking back at the often hilarious conversations we used to have as we went through puberty, I’d guess that their dads did a more thorough job of explaining masturbation and teaching them how awful, and sinful, and wrong it was.
The first time masturbation was ever brought up, I was at my best friend’s house. We were laying on his basement floor watching TV and suddenly he piped in, “dude, I seriously dare you to masturbate, right now.”
I had no idea what masturbation was. I’d never heard that word. “What are you talking about? What’s that?” I replied.
“Whatever. You know what it is” he demanded between laughs. I assured him I didn’t. He laughed again. “It’s when you rub your wiener until it spits jiz.”
He needed to offer no further explanation. I now had a name for my magic little secret. Did that mean other boys did this masturbate thing too? Did that mean it was something grown-ups knew about?