One night when I was 13 I orgasmed eight times while watching Maria Conchita Alonso being interviewed on the Arsenio Hall Show. It was a bad idea, looking back. It was a terrible session of teenage masturbation that spiraled out of control, with every ejaculation becoming less and less intense until I could barely feel anything and my whole nervous system was in frazzled disarray. All of which is to say that I used to jack off like a monkey. Which isn't all that unique, but the inevitable slackening of that once fervent sex drive as I get older makes me wonder.

These days I usually masturbate only a few times a week, sometimes just once. I work too much, and I've got lots of side projects so when I get home from work, there's usually more work waiting for me. Most of my days end not with satisfaction at having completed a full day, but with an accounting of all the things I didn't get around to which will need to be taken care of later. I've also grown tired of those teenage sessions of whack-attack in my pants. When I masturbate I like to spread out and indulge myself. I like to take my time, and not use any kind of sexual propaganda.

Porn is an easy way to get an erection without having to think about it, but I don't generally use it anymore. It's too distracting and I forget what the point of it all was as soon as I get close to coming. It makes masturbation thoughtless and fast for me. Like zeitgeisty, I was always struck by the Woody Allen line about masturbating being sex with someone you love. Judging by the habits of the average male, masturbation is more akin to prison sex than love-making with your one true constant in life. Just think of all the euphemisms for the act that nervous men have constructed for that embarrassing act: beating off, whacking it, pulling the pud, milking it.

There's a bizarre incongruity in imagining the act itself, a frenzied few minutes of knee-buckling friction, and the altar of some airbrushed media construct before which it's generally done. It's like a colony of spider monkeys taking up residence in Versailles and calling it their own.

Since I've forgone the use of porn, my masturbating has become much more focused on positioning. When you're sitting in a chair in front of your computer there's an in-set limit to how creative you can get before you fall over backwards and crack your head on the floor. It's also much easier to think about your whole body when you don't have to fixate on the texture of razor burn and the conspicuous cropping of feet that always pops up in porn. The last time I masturbated I wound up on my bed. With porn I'd have an erection in less than a minute, but lying alone in bed in the middle of the day, with the sound of traffic and the people in the park across the street, it took much longer.

This extra time is a great boon because it frees up a lot of time to focus on parts of your body that aren't penile. The penis is the obvious point of sexual pleasure, but it's far from an exclusive one and it's a great waste to skip straight to it without enjoying the other ninety-nine percent of the Hooksexup endings in your body on the way into the sub-naval regions. In the process of enjoying the rest of my body the other night, I somehow got into a headstand position on my bed, my feet keeping balance against the wall. This puts a good deal of pressure on the neck and shoulders, but there was something about the rush of blood to the brain in combination with the full body flex I had to maintain to keel over.

I stayed in the position for two or three minutes. I had never wound up like that before. It felt great. And then I realized I was going to come much sooner than I had thought. I was suddenly in the direct line of fire of my own ejaculate. I had a few seconds to think about what was happening and get into a different position, but I was too taken with the newness of the experience. Then down came the sperm, raining onto my shoulder and comforter, avoiding my face by a lucky few inches.

Another round goes to the spider monkeys.

 

 

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