Everybody masturbates. Al Gore. Julia Roberts. Maybe even the Dalai Lama. Everybody pesters their bliss-button or slams their sausage -- everybody!
Wanking is the frigging universal obsession! We know this, but still -- we're bashful about it. Incessantly we cootchie-coo our clits and cocks, but nobody mentions their sopping or spitting solitary climaxes when they brunch with their grandmother, or when the boss asks, "What's new?"
Pussy and pud poking and pulling is a private endeavor, the one-handed hidden hobby of humanity. Not taboo, you say? If my statement's wrong, why was Paul Reubens humiliated when he got nabbed with his Pee-wee getting biggie at an X-rated movie house?
Why have I felt horrible blushing shame when I've been intimately interrupted? Yes, I've been caught hot-handed and sticky-fingered -- on four shameful occasions:
My Mother Knows I'm Nasty. When I was 12 years old, I started "experimenting" with my orifices -- curiously, I inched a Vaselined thermometer up the urethral canal of my pubescent penis. Hooray! This instigated my first pudgy woody! Cautiously, I drilled deeper... Voila!
My Virgin Orgasm!
Unfortunately, the volcanoing spunk rocketed the thermometer high out of my weenie; it crashed, shattering on the bathroom's tile floor. Terrified, I wrapped up the shards in toilet paper -- I buried them in the trash basket.
My shrewd mother quickly discovered this evidence -- she confronted me, but I never confessed. She knew I was the culprit though, and she assumed, worriedly, that it had popped out my ass. For the next 20 years, she believed I was irredeemably gay.
My Brother Sees Me Shag a Sleeping Bag. In my early teens, I fought daily with my brother Charles, who is one year younger. We competed in everything, striving for dominance.
Late one night, I was savagely screwing the center coil of a rolled-up flannel sleeping bag. My torrid lunging woke up my brother in the adjacent room -- he staggered sleepy-eyed into my quarters, inquiring what the noise was about. Hastily, I yanked the sleeping bag off my boner; I wanted to hide the receptacle of my affection.
Unfortunately, the swift friction of the soft fabric's sudden removal triggered my pent-up arousal. Aghast, I watched five hot chunks of genital goo fly out point-blank at my brother.
He nearly barfed with disgust. The next morning at breakfast he announced, "I own you, Harry, or I'll totally squeal." Meekly, I accepted his newly superior status, then and forevermore.
The Landlord Locates a Pervert. Ten years ago, I leased a tiny quiet office, where I could write grant proposals in privacy. Eventually, I recognized an optional use -- offices are safe places to stash porn! I could beat my meat luxuriously for hours here, aided by filthy mags, props, and videos.
One afternoon, I had Demi Moore's buff butt from The Scarlet Letter paused on my VCR. I was lashing my lizard lasciviously when a key turned in the lock, the knob twisted, and old Mr. Omar Taylor strolled in, the 83-year-old landlord.
He stared at my stiff, sputtering attempts to zip up the evidence, as he grunted sadly, "I, too, used to be a young man." He apologized for the intrusion, and I never found out what he wanted because ... one week later -- HE DIED!
My Wife Finds Me Fantasizing. My spouse has a college pal who teaches aerobic classes in Kentucky. One weekend, she suddenly showed up at our house -- svelte and curvaceous, a big-lipped redhead in tight spandex and a short leather skirt.
I babbled idiotically all during dinner, as my wife arched her eyebrows. Eventually, I excused myself to take a hot shower before bedtime. My manhood was already taut as I stepped into the spray. With a pawful of soap I imagined "working out" with our guest, "feeling the burn" of my repetitions pump past her round gluts and firm quads. Arrgh!
Ughugh! I unloaded in less than a minute.
That's when my wife walked in. She stared at my red turkey-neck that hadn't gobbled at her for three weeks, and she said, "You pig. You revolting, sick pig."
Why didn't I just smile at the four folks who caught me, and say, "Hey! I'll be with you in a minute -- my hands are full."?
When will the world be safe for the wankers that we know we all are?
Harry Bietoff is the pseudonym of a Wichita, Kansas author who is too shy to use his real name.