Guy's party for one

Feb 14, 2007 at 12:00 am

Hardly a day goes by that I don’t give my most prized possession a spit shine.

The jerking began one summer’s evening when I was 12. While my parents were in the living room explaining to their party guests that their son was years away from any interest in sex, I was in my room yanking on my dude noodle as if cash might shoot out. My partner was Miss Erika Eleniak from the pages of a Playboy, stolen from a friend’s step father. I wasn’t quite sure what I was working toward, but I was determined to find out.

My parents can’t really be blamed for assuming I wasn’t interested in sex. I was the smallest kid in my class with a high voice, a bowl cut, and freckles. I was cut from every athletic team I tried out for, so my after-school activities included the school play and the magic club.

All I wanted was what my buddies talked about. That glorious release that can set your soul ablaze and ruin your life all in the time it takes fill and empty your lungs. I wanted to know what an orgasm felt like.

When your libido surpasses your body in terms of maturity it just amplifies the frustration already felt by any late bloomer. The aggravation is different when it comes to sex. When sex becomes an option, most people already know what it feels like to have a loin tremor; they’ve just never had it with another person.

We’ve all heard the clichés touting the fucking-awesomeness of sex, but the core of any sexual encounter is the orgasm. The sex is merely a means to an end.

Which brings me back to that 12-year-old old kid with chafe and a sore shoulder. I had been toiling toward an eventuality that I didn’t fully grasp. I was beaten, bruised, sore and frustrated. Then it hit out of nowhere like a sock full of nickels; my vision blurred; my heart raced; and my eventuality streaked across the bathroom rug.

As incomprehensible as it was to me then, my life was forever changed. Since that day, the orgasm — or more accurately, the quest for another — has for better or worse influenced my every decision.

At the time I could comprehend that I started jerking off a lot. A-fucking-lot. I was the Wilt Chamberlain of manual conquest. Every shower took a minimum of half an hour. If I woke up from a good dream I would try to get two in before the hot water ran out. The rest of the family got pissed, but what did I care? A fistful of Pert Plus was worth any punishment I might endure. My thin, prepubescent arm tensely braced against the wall, I would shudder as the clear snot-like liquid dribbled from my pecker. I wasn’t yet launching the fertile nectar that I do today, but it was a start, and it felt the same.

And then I got caught. I was a senior in high school.

Walking through the kitchen one evening, I happened to glance at the Redbook on the counter. It featured a very proper woman sporting khaki Capris paired with a moderately form-fitting cotton V-neck that gave just the hint of a nipple that I needed. The next thing I remember I was standing in my bathroom, bouncing my pinky off my balls, and getting very close … when came a knock at the door.

There’s a moment just before orgasm when you lose any ability for logical, conscious thought. It was in this moment that I thought if I said nothing the caller would go away. Any conscious person would assume that post-knock silence is a clear indication that it’s OK to walk in. And that’s precisely what my brother did. The timing couldn’t have been worse. My brain was detached, and the orgasm’s mass was charging its way from my legs, up through my ear lobes, and back down …

In a panic I used my free had to grab the garbage can, and without altering my rhythm, I sent 4.5 billion years of evolution charging into the can’s bottom. We stood there starring at each other as I used the 5-gallon Rubbermaid to hide the fact that I hadn’t stopped stroking.

In the years since, my horizons have expanded well beyond those humble beginnings. I’ve swung my muff mallet in my car at 85 mph, in airplane restrooms, in airports, in my high school bathroom, in hot tubs full of people (they didn’t know), at work (today), at my grandmother’s house, at a funeral, at a strip club, at an adult book store. I’ve jerked off in front of naked women who were perfectly willing to have sex with me. Most thought it hot.

It’s important not to discount sex, especially lovemaking. Most people, me included, actually prefer it. However, the inevitable consequence of adding complexity is a loss of control over quality.

See Also:

Party for one
One woman’s libidinous view from the bed and head.

A.Z. Nicholson is a pseudonym for an area writer. Send comments to [email protected]