Worst Week Archive 2

Well, clearly I'm a great blogger; look at how well I stick to a set schedule. I have a show tomorrow and I don't have any liner notes. Needless to say, you guys should come (all 5 of you out there). This article wasn't the second one I wrote but it is the one I enjoyed writing the most. Plus, I might be reading it tomorrow. So here it is. Enjoy!

Out Of Hand:

It’s 3:00 AM, everyone’s asleep, and I’m in bed alone and restless. My fingers wander down to my pajama pants and slip underneath the elastic. A slight wind perks up my nipples; I remove my shirt and place it on the bedpost. My heart races, my penis stiffens, a fantasy involving scantily clad supervillains enters my head—the stage is set for an experience. Half-heartedly, I yank at my member—a mere test to see how alive it is. I settle back, close my eyes and prepare to work my auto-erotic mojo…and then I hear a thump in the other room. The fantasy world implodes, my penis shrivels in fear, and I close my eyes pretending to count sheep.

Don’t judge me, I’m not the only person this has happened to. Did you know that every twenty-five seconds a college student has a masturbatory fantasy interrupted by a person in the next room? If you don’t believe me, look it up—it’s a Wesfact. And don’t say “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I never do that!” because you’re a bad liar. Birds do it, bees do it, bonobos do it (quite often, apparently). And there shouldn’t be any shame in it—at least in theory.

Masturbation is a safe and healthy practice. Since humans first learned to walk upright, people have been spilling their love juices in an attempt to unwind and relieve some sexual tension. I’m quite positive bachelor cavemen looked forward to a jerk after successfully killing a woolly mammoth with a stone spear and a rock. And every ethnic group had its own euphemisms for the practice. I believe the Ancient Egyptians called it “stroking the asp.” Chinese philosophers referred to it as “handling the bamboo.” And even the Incas had their term—“fondling the meat maize.” Entire songs have been devoted to the subject—from Cyndi Lauper’s “She-Bop” to Divinyls’ “I Touch Myself.” And as Bill Hicks said, “It’s sex with someone I love.” Besides, it doesn’t lead to negative consequences like herpes or pregnancy.

In regards to my practices, I’m no spider monkey, but I am in my twenties and under a lot of stress. Between classes, extracurricular activities and fending off whackos, I need some time to decompress. I’m not an obsessive individual about it—I don’t have a shrine devoted to pornography. All I need is five minutes, some obscene pictures and a box of tissues. Back at home, scheduling a penis play-date was simple. My parents worked in the afternoons and went to bed early. This gave me tons of free time to lie back, relax and enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. There were some close calls but a quick duck-and-roll under the covers quashed all suspicion.

In college, the rules changed dramatically. If you think it’s bad having to worry about parents and siblings walking in on you, try masturbating next door to a resident advisor, an art freak, a video game addict and a sexaholic. Spontaneously self-love cannot happen in an environment when people are knocking on your door every five minutes or having a loud conversation about chlamydia in the hallway. And heaven forbid if you leave the door closed but unlocked—we all know it is not a deterrent. Don’t get me started on the whole window situation. I know everyone needs some natural light but what’s up with the huge windows facing the major pathways. I can barely change in my room without feeling like I’m stripteasing, let alone attempt to spank the monkey in front of a live studio audience.

And this is where performance anxiety sets in. After four years of being a wank ninja, I’ve gotten so used to aborting private sessions in media res that even when I do have ample time to fully indulge I can’t stay in the moment. It’s a sorry state to be in when you have to say to yourself, “I’m sorry I’ve been a total tease. Let’s try again another time.” It’s one thing to disappoint someone else—at least there, you can make up an excuse. But what can you tell yourself to feel better? “Look, it’s not me—it’s me.” Damn it, this isn’t fair! I shouldn’t have to work around other people’s schedules in order to sneak a couple minutes of personal time. Thus, the award of the week goes to the onanists on campus.

I do have a suggestion for the Wesleyan administration. In order to stop masturbators from continually having bad weeks, please invest in better soundproofing and smaller windows so we solo performance artists can express ourselves without fear of eavesdropping—or even worse listening to someone else’s clandestine habits. The walls here are so thin I suspect they’re made of whipped cream and rice paper. Assuming the heating pipes aren’t clanking louder than a steel drum, I can hear a person sneeze from five doors down. And while I could just play some loud music and turn up the television, walking the dog while listening to Jewel with The Weather Channel in the background just doesn’t feel right. Some of you may be into that and that’s cool (the aerial shots of hurricanes are kind of kinky), but I just want to enter a quiet fantasy realm. I can’t deal with all this paranoia crap.

C’est la vie. At 4:00 AM I can sit and rant but I’m still left high and dry—or as the case may be, sad and flaccid. Nevertheless I shall stiffen my resolve, think happy thoughts and hope that soon my fateful day will come. Until then, that orgasm will remain just beyond my grasp.