Said The Dentures to the Peach...

I always knew my parents were strange as a child, but it wasn't until adulthood that I realized how truly bizarre my upbringing was. See, both of my parents had an oppressively conservative upbringing where wholesome family values were maintained with an iron fist. They ate dinner as a family unit every night, no TV past 7:30, and under no circumstance would they ever discuss anything remotely unpleasant. Well my parents' believe that this practice stunted their development, so they decided to do the exact opposite when they raised me and my sister. While they did enforce certain ground rules, I was always more than encouraged to learn about and then discuss my views on sex, drugs, violent movies, the concept of mortality, and anything else that pre-adolescents like specifically because their parents don't want them to know these things even exist. So when I turned twelve, of course they started leaving porno magazines in the bathroom. At the time I thought it was just a coincidence, until my parents, BOTH of them, lectured me on masturbation technique.  The lecture seemed planned, like they wanted it to introduce the concept, let that sink in, then maybe a quick anatomy lesson, a few basic motions to get me started, and proper sperm disposal.  But they kept arguing over details that were at the time completely over my head, like "If he always uses lotion it's gonna train him to get off too fast and he won't be able to hold down a relationship and he's gonna wind up committing hate crimes" or "That's gonna make it so he can only do girl on top"...  I noticed they were always quietly hovering outside the bathroom door.  Over the course of the next month or two, they repeatedly assured me that the magazines were in the basket next to the toilet for my enjoyment. My dad would wink at me and say, "Hey, I like the articles too, son!" like I was supposed to know what the fuck that meant! Most parents treat their kids like dogs or drunkards they are placating until they sober up into adulthood, my parents treated me like I was their buddy.

All the kids in school would make jokes about jerking off.  Admitting it to their friends was a relief, the relief of admitting something they were made to feel ashamed of.  Oh what I would give to know what it was to be ashamed of something natural! One kid said that the skin was bunched up in folds at the base of his dick like a Shar Pei because he was jerking off so much. Whenever he came back from the bathroom, a few of his friends would make this gushy sound with their lower lips and fingers that I assumed was what it sounded like when people jerked off. This gave me an idea. So whenever I was alone and I knew my parents were standing outside the door, I would make sure my door was locked and I'd sit on my bed and make those gushy fake masturbation sounds with my mouth.  It must have worked because the questions stopped, and soon I found a shelf unit sound system in my bedroom that I never asked for, ostensibly so my parents wouldn't need to hear me "jerking off" anymore.  It was the closest thing to shame I had ever felt, and I loved it!

As far as actual masturbation goes, I remember thinking how gross the whole thing seemed, and wondering why it is such a big deal. I was already freaked out by my new pubic hair, so the thought of anything other than pee coming out of there made my blood run cold.

Midway through that summer, the family packed into a van and drove up to the mountains for a family re-union at my grandparents' house. It was several days full of idyllic memories chasing crayfish under rocks, eating burnt diner pancakes at 6 AM before spending the day hiking, etc... by Sunday I was completely spent lying in the guest room full of aches and bruises as I looked at the old picture framed advertisements hanging on the walls. I was sharing a room with my dad. He comes in and after a few pleasantries brings up a subject I thought had been dropped long ago. "So you haven't been alone this whole trip, bet you must be jonesing for some privacy, eh?" I told him I already "took care of" what he was referring to, as though I took out the trash or mowed the lawn. "Oh, ok. You didn't use one of your socks, did you? I think you're all out of clean ones..." I told him I used a few tissues. "I don't see any tissues boxes in here." I was getting annoyed now, I told him I got them from the bathroom. "I don't see any tissues in the waste basket, either... are you lying to me?" I was tired, achey, and probably itchy from where my armpit hair was starting to grow. So I snapped. "Well... fuck you, dad, leave me alone! Maybe I'm just not in the mood!" My parents had a fairly traditional stance on swearing, especially when directed toward them. He used to stutter when he was this mad, but now he just adds unnecessary pauses and closes his eyes: "What did... you ... just ... say?" My dad tends to dole out impulsive and random punishments when he looses his temper. When my older sister was 15, he made her go on two dates with a guy she'd just broken up with because she went over her texting limit while they were dating that month. He calmed down and said, "You are going to stay in this room and masturbate, and you are going to give me the tissues when you're done. I'll come back here in half an hour and you had better produce something for me or else." I could barely make a fist from skipping rocks all day, and there were no magazines around for me to even try using for "inspiration". I thought about spitting into the tissues and handing that to him, but I didn't know if that would work. I started stroking myself and thinking of girls from TV and movies, girls I liked in school, girls with proportions I had imagined... but none of it was connecting to any real immediate sexual feeling. Then I looked at the old advertisements on the wall. Sure, the photos were black and white, but there were a few post cards with cute island girls wearing straw skirts... a magazine cover with a woman who was sorta pretty but was making a goofy face that I guess was sexy in 1957... and then there was a more elaborately framed dress ad with a woman who was giving me a very welcome stare. Her face was so approachable, as though I could meet her in real life and we could fool around or whatever. Her breasts were full and less pointy than the other breasts on the wall, so I could actually imagine what the nipples would look like in the context of the whole tit... I could see them shimmy gently as I pushed her legs apart and eased my cock inside of her... I had no idea how that would feel in real life, but I realized at that moment it must be some powerful stuff because I immediately ejaculated right over the one tissue I was holding, all over the side of the bed into my dad's open suitcase. I just stared at the mess as my posture deflated, thinking, "Wow, that's a lot! Did all that come from me? That's... awesome!"  I used the tissue to clean up my mess and once my dad approved, it was time for dinner, which I planned to rush through and then go masturbate again while the room was still unoccupied. I sit at the table and take very little from each dish that passes by. It may not be an official rule, but it is implied that I am only to contribute to the dinner conversation when directed to do so. Maybe I'm a gentleman or maybe I just wanted to enrich my first consummated sexual fantasy with some details, but I wanted to get more information about the woman in the old dress ad. I didn't want to ask directly though, so I just talked about how much I liked those old ads hanging on the walls. My grandmother laughed and said, "Oh yeah, when you get old you tend to accumulate a lot of junk," and she paused to glare at my grandfather, then continued "I had such a hard time getting him to throw out any of those old magazines, so we compromised: he got to decide which clips we keep and I'd frame them and send the rest to recycling! Of course, that's why they're mostly pictures of pretty girls!" The old man was a shameless lech who went to great lengths to check out and make crass comments at anything, even girls in TV commercials. When I was little I used to say "She can't hear you, grandpa!", before I realized it didn't matter. My grandmother continued, "Oh, except for that old dress ad in the golden frame. That was from my short-lived modeling career, year before I met your grandfather." I gave my dad an unmistakable panicked look, and he interjected, "Uhh, you mean the one in the guest room that we're staying in? In the golden frame? Closest to the door? Polka-dot dress? That one?" My grandfather slouched in his seat and with a proud guttural groan he said, "Yep. That one."

Unexpected Congregation of Bullies from 1992 in Your Living Room

The following scene takes place in Brad's living room in his downtown apartment at 2:30 AM, as he walks out of the bathroom.

Brad: "Wait... what? Who are you guys? How did you get in here?"

"Hey, Braddie-Paddie! We're high-school bullies from 1992, and we came in through your TV. You left the CW on."

Brad: "Oh. Well what do you want?"

"Dude, we totally heard you jerking off in there."

Brad: "Well I'm sorry you had to listen to that. Must've been nasty."

"Well we're sorry you gotta date Rosie Palm and her 5 friends cause you can't get a real girl! We recorded it and we're gonna pass the tape around to all the chicks!"

Brad: "Wait, hold on... you stood out there listening to me jerk off? The whole time? That's a little weird. I mean, I took a dump afterwards, did you listen to and record that, too?"

"What? No, don't try to turn this around, you're the weirdo who yanks his canker!"

Brad: "Are you saying that you don't?"

"Umm, No!"

Brad: "Well if you don't that's cool I guess... what do you have against it?"

"Uhhh, nothing really..."

Brad: "This is backfiring on you, isn't it? Just so you know it is understood and widely accepted nowadays that everybody masturbates sometimes and it's not a big deal. It also doesn't mean you are dateless. Many guys get laid and take care of themselves on the side, whether it is to help control their endurance or because they just have to supplement themselves because their partner isn't as active as they are. Either way, it's discussed pretty openly and with little to no judgement, unlike the way it was in movies from 1992."

"Really? I guess that's cool..."

Brad: "What do you mean you 'guess it's cool'? Of course it's cool! It's another victory for freedom and tolerance."

"I mean, that's great for mankind on paper... but don't you miss making fun of people for pulling their pork? Even if it's a little umm... uh, hypocritical?"

Brad: "If we're going to have this conversation, please stop using different colourful terms for it, it isn't that funny anymore."

"See that's what I mean... back in the less 'enlightened' time we could jerk off and also make fun of people for doing it and everyone would laugh."

Brad: "Ah come on, it was inevitable that the jokes would get old."

"See, when you say a joke 'Got old', there is really a lot more going on. What you're saying is that society has become too jaded, or as you say 'tolerant' to laugh at a straightforward wack-off joke, and that is scary."

Brad: "Why is that scary?"

"Dude! Don't you see how the concept of infinite tolerance could be manipulated into propaganda to promote communal anarchy?"

Brad: "So? What's wrong with people being completely trusting of and reliant upon each other without the need for supervision?"

"Umm, the fact that not everybody is honest? It is pure scholarly wistful thinking that could never be practiced, bro."

Brad: "Well we won't find out if it could work until we enlighten people like you guys who would rather make fun of people jerking off than try to improve civilization."

"See, I think you need sticks in the mud like us to protect you from yourself. Any anarchist society would fall into mob rule, and the only people with power will be the largest and strongest or the most organized. Where does that leave malnourished Bukowski-reading pork-pullers like yourself?"

Brad: "I would adapt."

"Adapt?"

Brad: "Yes, adapt. Any shift towards anarchy would be gradual, giving me all the time I need."

"Dude, society is a pile of dead and brittle leaves and acts of revolution are matches; and you can't just burn the individual leaves you choose to and expect to know the outcome."

Brad: "Oh what was that? You totally had that planned!"

"I don't know what you're talking about?"

Brad: "You engineered this whole conversation just to get onto this topic and use that line about the leaves and matches. Fuck! Can't I masturbate just once without this bullshit?"

Good Night Wife

Good night boner
Good night wife
Good night pillow between me and my wife
Good night ceiling
Good night breasts
Good night notion of a good night's rest
Good night lips
Good night hips
Good night hands, clenching the sheet till it rips
Good night clock
Good night door
Good night laptop placed on the bathroom floor
Good night facebook
Good night old photos
Good night ex, who may have been crazy and irresponsible but god damn, at least she put out on weeknights, I mean I'm at a completely different part of my life than I was back then and I am overall much happier now, but still shit this really sucks.
Good night rationalizations
Good night door lock
Good night tissues since I don't have a sock
Good night paranoia
Good night squeaky toilet seat
Good night distractions as I focus on my meat
Good night guilt
Good night deflation
Good night to an uncomfortable situation
Good night "Clear Recent History"
Good night walk of shame
Good night nobody but myself to blame
Good night clock
Good night bed
Good night back of my wife's head
Good night wife
Good night boner

Degradation

I treat women the way I treat boners: always excited to show them off at the Old Country Buffet whenever I have one.

I pick my women the way I pick my scabs: the younger they are, the more they bleed.

I choose my women like I choose my cell phone: smaller than they were three years ago and permanently set to silent.

I take my prostitutes like I take my salsa: chunky with free refills.

I use women they way I use my subway pass: 2 or 3 rides and then donate them to a needy homeless person.

I enjoy my women the way I used to enjoy free trials of Cinemax & HBO: all the orgasms I can handle for a few weeks until they ask for money, then I spend the rest of the year jerking off while thinking about it.

I take a girl the way I take a suicide pill: once.

I eat pussy like I eat fast food: convince myself that it is ok to eat the cheese, and wipe off all the sperm from those other guys.

I use women the way I use the toilet: one massive disgusting poorly managed load stops her flow, then I panic and leave it for the next guy.

I treat women the way people treat their pets: pretend they have a personality so they feel better about it when they have sex with them.

I treat women the way Snapple treats the general public: distract them with interesting facts that can't be verified at the moment so they'll drink the nasty juice.

I take my women the way I take Splenda: I see them at Denny's at 2AM and for some reason I take them home with me, but the following morning they are nowhere near my coffee.

I fuck women the way I brush my teeth: It's just what I tell people I'm doing while I'm really just sitting on the toilet thinking about life.

I handle my women the way I handle dreams: when they are around I can't seem to fully appreciate or understand them, and when I wake up and they're gone I often spend many potentially productive hours trying to recapture them. In the rare instance that I do, they aren't quite the same as they were for reasons I can't explain.

I treat women the way I treat pumpkins: I used degrade them and use them for sex, but I have since found that I enjoy them more when I give them a smile and let them stick around.

I feel in an airport men's room how women must feel at bars: surrounded by disoriented awkward men trying to act smooth when they really just can't wait to take out their dicks; and then they try to maintain dignity as they discreetly fart. Yet still even after this they want to be taken seriously.

I take men the way I take Prince: I don't really care what your name is, and I don't care if my friends discover that I find you attractive.

I do men like I do boxing: land one cheap shot then claim my wrist hurts too much to finish the match and then I go bragging about it to my friends about it.

I fuck men the way I play darts: I swear that I'm aiming for the Bull's Eye, but somehow I always end up hitting someone in the face.

Men are like bugs: they often come in my mouth when I'm sleeping.

I treat men the way I make paper airplanes: I fold them in a series of improbable angles for my amusement with no direction in mind, then I toss them and start a new sheet before they even hit the ground.

I do men like I pluck nose hairs: if it takes more than one pull I lose interest.

I take my men the way I take my coffee: full of my sperm.

Vacation Remnants

Ellis and Phyllis Mifflecreet were packing, preparing to conclude their daring vacation at a remote resort in northeastern Argentina in the province of Misiones. They were doing right now what they've been doing most of the journey: rationalizing the trip to one another, mostly with words paraphrased from the Wikipedia, Frommers, and Nat'l Geographic articles which they had independently studied before planning the itinerary. Having absorbed far too much of one another over the years, they resembled two overfilled balloons, too full to be tied so they just keep taking in more of each others hot air, often trembling in anticipation of whatever great pop which will send at least one of them spiraling across the room.

One only acquires a name like "Ellis" through legitimate and organized means. There are now lawmakers in his lineage, but his family always seem to benefit from the world as it is currently set up. He is heir to no permanent income; but rather more of a straight line of effort, as though someone wrote a simple letter on a pile of carbon paper. Each generation is assigned a sheet by which to express themselves. He noticed some of the words were blurry, but he still wanted what he was entitled to, so in order to maintain moral equilibrium he lives his life by a strict code of conduct that allows regimented indulgence paired with states of frantic penance; all of which he imposes upon everyone else as much as upon himself. A blend of Christianity and his own personal philosophies gleaned from old movies and classic American authors.

They were carefully folding their pleated slacks, thinking about which ones they would assign priority to in the instance of a hangar shortage. Then a stowaway crawled out of an open bag. It ran under the bed, then crawled up the lowest point of the bed skirt onto the surface, which it blended with pretty convincingly. The tastefully subdued linens which the Mifflecreets keep in their home would scarcely resemble the markings of a venomous spider from South America with a 5 inch leg span, but they didn't choose their vacation spot by bedroom linens. Nor did they plan an encounter with the Phoneutria nigriventer, commonly known as the Brazilian Wandering Spider or the Banana Spider (as it often stows away in crates of bananas). Their bag did not contain bananas, but gifts for friends and future conversation pieces at dinner parties. Anybody who would be invited to such an event would already know the Mifflecreets went to South America, but the displayed souvenirs would serve well during the panic of quiet moments that occur far too soon to entreat a graceful exit.

Of course any couple about to leave the beautiful, warm, humid seclusion of Argentina who add tedious extra steps to organizing their luggage must have advanced experience with avoiding sex. Despite a healthy, even impressive track record for the first couple decades of the marriage, the combination of a stressful lifestyle and unhealthy eating habits have left Ellis incapable of physical intimacy. He and Phyllis agreed that it would be sinful to include alternative modes of stimulation and pharmaceuticals into the bedroom, so the unpleasant topic was allowed to drop. This made him feel comfortable, as he was then absolved from responsibility with no shortage of valid well-documented excuses. She was distraught at first; she wasn't ready for this chapter of their life together to be over. After years of ignoring temptation, once her children moved out her friends set her up with some pre-screened men, thus tying all loose ends for an airtight rationalization.

The Brazilian Walking Spider was hiding in the crevice made when the blanket is tucked over and partially under the pillows. They made the bed themselves as they always do on vacation when they woke up at 5:35 AM; it kept them busy they were waiting for breakfast to be available. It was now 9:30 and they were done packing, with several hours until they had to leave for the airport. They decided to visit their favorite vantage point, which overlooked a flat path that they were both still physically capable of exploring but at no point took the initiative. Phyllis was sure to make Ellis feel the weight of her curiosity to walk the pathway. Ellis begun his usual protest process with his skeptical groan as he removed his sandals and retrieved from his suitcase the most convenient socks and shoes, which happened to be the more active and durable pair. These shoes gave him the option to actually explore the walkway, thus eliminating one of his excuses. He felt his control over the decision slipping from his grip as he leaned back on the bed to pull on his left sock. He felt a small impact on his hip, immediately followed by a sharp pain that left him breathless for a second, stymieing an otherwise embarrassing screech into a hiccup. They both froze at the glance of the spider as it zipped towards temporary oblivion. They tried to retain dignity as they swatted at it with their shoes the way a reluctant debutante might swing a wine bottle at a reincarnation of Hitler; fighting for their lives but also prepared to rebound into composure if the specter were to vanish. The spider exited through the window, and Phyllis called for help as Ellis scanned online reference material, identifying the species very quickly.

They sent the only medic available, who asked a few routine questions and assured Ellis that he was going to be fine and if he remained calm he would suffer significantly less. His lack of muscle spasms and erratic breathing rate were good signs... the medic's command of English was far greater than his pronunciation lead one to believe, and when he mentioned "priapism" it slipped right by the both of them. Ellis didn't catch it, even though he had read it in his quick research. After the medic left, Ellis went to the bathroom to relieve himself... and after 25 minutes of "be out it a second", Phyllis demanded to know what was going on in there. When he emerged, he was sporting a rehearsed grimace and a pert erection. She laughed at how undignified he appeared at this moment. He explained that the "situation" was a very uncomfortable effect of the venom called "priapism", it may last several hours and hopefully won't require medical attention. The more he tried to be taken seriously, the less she heard him. All she could think of is that it was even bigger than she remembered. She was absently discussing possible plans of action when she interrupted herself to make a far more practical suggestion. She viewed this as an amazing opportunity for a worthy finale to their sex life. Ellis disagreed, he felt that it was a false representation of him and that even though it was not harnessed from a pill it was still not natural. Phyllis found her self once again absently participating in a useless conversation, as he lectured her about the medical research being done on the spider's toxin that was causing this priapism and how it may be incorporated into Viagra in the future, and how the erection was not because of his feelings for her, that she would be defiling herself by partaking in false pleasure. Then she thought about his weakened state. When he was done talking, she helped him to his feet to get a glass of water. She admitted that he was right and that there was no reason for them to sin. They sat down next to one another on the bed. As he tried to hold her hand, she proceeded to push him onto his back and sit on his chest in order to remove his pants. As she tried to flop onto his now exposed involuntary erection, he rolled over off the bed and stood up. He begged on behalf of their virtue, with his back to the corner near the window he pleaded that this isn't God's plan. When that didn't work, he tried to guilt her about the spider bite and how sick he felt. He saw the familiar expression she gave when she decided what restaurant they would go to or which house they would move into, so he threw in his whammy card and pretended to faint. Without hesitation she pounced on and started grinding. All he could do then was swing his arms side to side and call out towards the open window. She stuffed both of his socks into his mouth, and amidst fits of passion she proudly proclaimed her intentions to ride him until they had to leave for the airport as she tied his wrists together with an ugly paisley necktie*. It was at this point, when he had no course of action aside from passive acceptance, that he ceased his struggling. After a couple hours of inert staring, he clenched his jaw and trembled in such a way that spider venom doesn't cause. After a silent trip to the airport, the incident was not discussed.

They still made people endure a stodgy dinner party. Their friends and family close their eyes for a roll as they are directed to pass the veggies clockwise and the meats and starches counter-clockwise. Everything they discuss from their trip could be found in various reference material without visiting Argentina, which makes some people wonder why they go on these trips at all. Phyllis and Ellis' drinks still never get around to melting any ice as they ramble about each item from the latest trip as well as certain "classic" items, as though their dinner parties have a "Greatest Hits" compilation in the making. This year, however, everyone is dismissed earlier than usual. Somewhere in a hollowed trinket from their South America trip is a small vial of mysterious substance. Tonight it will be accessed in secret, the way it always is whenever Ellis wears his ugly paisley necktie.


*every year one of their kids gets him another hideous paisley necktie that they know he hasn't the sense of style to realize is completely at odds with the rest of his wardrobe. Phyllis can't stand them, but Ellis thinks they are funny and wears them whenever he wants people to think he has a sense of humor.