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Nothing clears your head like rubbing one out. People have wised up about masturbation over the years. Now we know it cures almost everything — stress, insomnia, headaches. What else…well…mainly those three things. But that’s huge. Don’t overlook the benefits of masturbation. Got writer’s block? Masturbation’s your answer.
Actually, I just googled masturbation and health benefits. It can reduce your risk of cardiovascular disease. So there.
Be careful when you google “masturbation.” You’ll find strange discussion forums. Like what? Well, hundreds of forums begin this way: Someone posts a question, “Do I masturbate too much?”
And then a dozen sexperts will respond with advice like: There’s no such thing as “too much.” Just don’t let masturbation ruin your life.
Yeah, I learned something new last night. Some people masturbate so much that they miss work and worry their loved ones.
A friend of mine used to go home for his lunch break and schedule a fake meeting at a coffee shop. Why? So he could rub one out and take a nap. Does that suggest mental illness, or extreme intelligence? I think the nap makes it okay. Now, if he jerked off twice, that might worry me.
But somewhere out there, people are calling in sick so they can stay home and masturbate all day. That’s not good. Imagine how much that costs their employers. The Economist should do a study. How much money do we lose to masturbation-related sick leave? Does it rival the flu?
Imagine a masturbation intervention. That could be a reality show. Maybe I could host it.
We live in such an amazing, progressive society now that we can talk about masturbation. Doing that used to get us in deep trouble. Both talking and doing. Big trouble. Or at least it did me. Crazy part? My parents didn’t even go to church. Didn’t talk about God. Nothing. Zip.
But they still carried all their baggage from a Baptist upbringing. They just dumped the religion part. The judgment stayed.
To them premarital sex, drugs, and masturbation didn’t make God kill kittens. It was just weird, the sign of a degenerate mind.
My parents lived in constant fear that I’d embarrass them, or grow up to become a huge disappointment.
This one night, my mom walked into my room to apologize for screaming at me earlier that day. Lo and behold, she caught me using her vibrator and wound up screaming at me a second time. The worst part? It wasn’t even a real vibrator. Not the kind made for sex. It was a neck massage wand, kept out in the open right beside the couch.
We all know what comes after your mom screams at you. The talk. I waited an entire day. After dinner, it finally came. They sat me down at the kitchen table for a two-hour guilt fest about everything wrong with me. Those talks sucked big time. It didn’t matter what you said or did, or how sorry you acted. Just when I thought the shit show was over, one of them would shake their head and look at me. “Just what were you thinking?”
No answer could satisfy them. I tried. I was thinking it felt good? Wrong. I was thinking there was nothing wrong with masturbation? Wrong. I wasn’t thinking at all? Wrong again. Dammit, why wouldn’t they just tell me what I was thinking? That would’ve made things easier. Wrong.
Sure, my parents made me feel ashamed for a couple of days. But the body will have what it wants. The lesson learned here? Get smart.
Good thing I was a latchkey kid. My parents didn’t come home until around five or six. The only mistake I’d made was doing it at the wrong time. So I used that 2-hour window to my advantage. I’d sneak off with that vibrator practically every afternoon before they got home from work.
Fine, not every afternoon. After all, I had friends.
Let’s say twice a week.
At the time, I had no real conceptions of sex. Even at 14, all I knew was that the vibrator ignited crazy feelings inside me. I’d really hated life until around that time. Childhood hadn’t suited me well at all. The vibrator awakened me. It showed me that life had more to offer than pretending to sing during music class, or saying thank you when your teacher gives you a fucking piece of candy on Friday afternoon, because you were “good.”
I know what you’re thinking. If my parents freaked out so much about masturbation, then why didn’t they just hide the vibrator? Or throw it away? Because they were stupid? Beats me. Even after I got caught, they just left it in the same spot as always. Out in the open.
Maybe my parents wanted to catch me using it again, to justify another intervention. They seemed to enjoy those.
Anyway, this isn’t some some sob story about my family. Let’s skip ahead to college. You know what’s on every freshman’s mind? Fuck, much harder to masturbate now. With a roommate and all…
You see, by then I’d taught myself how to use my hand. That took care of the shaming. If my parents came home unexpectedly, I could pretend I was napping. Plus, my mom became institutionalized, and that granted me even more freedom.
But entering college came with its own mix of freedoms and restrictions. You trade your own personal space for a dorm room that you have to share with this other person. So for about a month my roommate and I didn’t masturbate at all. Until finally she asked me, “Is it okay if I rub one out? I can’t sleep.”
“Sure,” I lied. And then she said, “You can, too, you know…”
I almost cried.
Oh, my God. I could hear her down there.
If we masturbated at the same time, I seriously thought that might make me a lesbian. So I opted out.
Good thing we had a shower head. Yeah, defiling my roommate’s property somehow bothered me less than masturbating in front of her.
Now, let’s jump ahead to my 20s. Imagine the first time you ever watched someone else masturbate. For me, I didn’t know what the hell to think. The night I lost my virginity in a log cabin, he asked me to watch him jerk off. Not in a Louis CK way…In hindsight, I wish I’d relaxed more. Back then, almost everything about intimacy terrified me.
I’ve even got teaching stories about masturbation. For a while, I worked for academic programs for high schoolers. And one summer, I had this one student who kept getting shuffled around from one dorm room to another. Finally, I asked around and found out why. The little guy would masturbate 2–3 times a night, and it freaked out his roommates. They would complain immediately, and the residential staff would have to move him. Finally, I think the kid wound up with his own room. Again, I’ve got to wonder: Sign of a disturbed mind, or extreme intelligence?
I’ve masturbated in some weird places. When I was 16, I discovered the hot tub at a hotel on a family vacation. My parents got into a huge fight, so I skedaddled down to the pool area and got myself off on one of the jets. While people were watching. I’m not sure they cared.
Grad school taught me a few new tricks. Toward the end, I had to pack in some extra conferences to round out my CV. Once, I drove from one conference in New Orleans to another one in D.C. Google Maps says that drive should take about 16 hours. Bullshit. Add gas stop, restroom breaks, food, and traffic. Now you’re talking 19 hours. I did that in one epic stretch. Utter insanity. After 13 hours, I was passing out at the wheel. Very stupid, I know. So I pulled off at a rest stop. Sure, there was a chance someone would rape and murder me. But if I’d kept going like that, I’d have died in a traffic accident anyway. Still, I couldn’t sleep. So finally I slipped my hand down my pants and rubbed one out. God must’ve been watching, because nobody caught me. Filled with bliss, I napped for 2 whole hours.
Later, I started nodding off again. This time, I decided to see if I could rub one out on the road, yeah, actually driving. Challenge accepted. I slipped my hand between my legs and started working. Eyes on the road, I told myself. After 20 minutes of expert work, I came gently without even veering out of my lane. The endorphins kept me awake long enough to find my exit. And now you know. Masturbation isn’t depraved. It can save your life.