The ass end of my inbox is presently overstuffed with all sorts of prostate-milking missives, informing me of the commencement of May Masturbation Month. Invitations, solicitations, inducements, enticements, how-tos, tattle-ups, tips, tidbits, spreadsheets, stimulus packages, and world-weary slow-hands set forth to aid me through my marathon cumshaw over the next sideric month. Which I appreciate to no end; don’t get me wrong. But it is not like I need forward encouragement.
However, it did get me to thinking. You see, male masturbation is a far more multifarious thing than many women may suspect. It comes in a veritable gift-pack of flavors, shapes, sizes, and durations – set of course to the median cycle of the solar and synodic – la lune et en sof, who guide and gird our loins like a hundred million watts of focalized porn.
The three square meals of daily masturbation, after the jump. MORE>>
The Wake-Up Feeling Yummy. Yes, boys feel yummy sometimes. Straight boys, even. The Wake-Up Feeling Yummy is often the most furtive of the masturbatory urges, as it is the least reliant on any sort of concentrating. Rather it is a perfectly cocksure confluence of intrinsic exigency: bladder pressure, coupled with a wet dream of déclassé wakesurety (which didn’t completely dehumidify when the cat woke you up with a giant paw to the mouth and a subsequent mewling that translated to “give me my fucking breakfast, biped”), and three minutes (thereabouts) to spare. Instinctual and uncivil, it is a paean of sorts to Apollo. Or perhaps Icarus. Depending on frequency, that is.
The Afternoon Delight (a/k/a Blogger’s Prerogative). Granted, it doesn’t have to be a mid-day jerk. But it is most definitely not a jerk that can be conducted at either end of sleep’s circuit. The impetus behind the Blogger’s Prerogative is wholly sensory-based, be it justly or unjustly so. A word, a nod, a glance, the perfect flip of hair; or, more realistically for a blogger: a promissory note via IM of an upturned ass; a bitingly unchaste soundbite of Sapphically sacerdotal porn, replete with strict nuns and forearm-sized strap-ons (in the pornhouse of my mind, Jess Franco directs all the Ultimate Submission porns as women-in-prison or sadistic nunnery flicks); and of course Norah O’Donnell’s 3:00 MSNBC-casts. And let’s not forget the masturbatory inspirato of a hot babe who walks the grammatical walk. It doesn’t take that much; it is just that it takes something.
The I’d Better Or Else I Won’t Sleep (a/k/a The Jerk of Last Refuge). There are some nights when a man will gawkishly heffalump into bed already knowing that nuttage is essential to the quality and duration of his sleep. And then there are other nights, when said male will turn and toss for a great long while, before finally (and sometimes begrudgingly even) coming to the realization that a toss of another kind is needed in order to jump-start sleep’s last gurgling engine. The former is a pleasure; the latter more of a chore: it is like turning the grotto of one’s slumber-starved memory into a sort of Spice! video-on-demand. This is the Nike of jerking off; you just do it. You don’t even have to like it. Although it doesn’t hurt to.
Onanism, schism; jism. The holy triad of sequestered maleness. It is what we do, and we do it well. As Karl Kraus put it, “Intercourse with a woman is sometimes a satisfactory substitute for masturbation. But it takes a lot of imagination to make it work.”
Imagination we got. See, we boys, we like to make magic with our leftovers.
Happy Masturbation Month!
No related posts.