Monday, September 30, 2019

No Laughing Matter

Part 30 of 30
Self-Abuse September

It’s hard to believe we’re virtually through with Self-Abuse September! But time goes fast when we're having fun. And time, like all things that come, always have to go; at least they usually do, and when they don’t they let you know about it.

That’s not your cackling mother or grandmother, girlfriend, boyfriend, husband, or wife in the graphic. That’s your own traitorous mind talking. With a sometimes happy interplay of body parts that, I believe, shows some of the magic of life. And think of this, what rich discernment you have, to have a problem and simultaneously know the perfect solution. They can’t teach that in medical school, because it wells up from within, and that's the beauty of nature.

On the other hand, mortality’s always with you. The whole thing about sex and mortality is an interesting study. Where else can you go for such a quick lesson in biological imperatives? You think you’re independent and free, with a pure mind, all that, but it’s obvious you’re bound and held by chains of many stripes. That’s why they came up with chastity belts and other associated devices. Because life’s a burgeoning thing, and if you don’t let it burgeon it’ll bludgeon you till you do!

The focus today, though, appears to be on life and death. If you’re old, really old, a lot of the imperative is gone out of self-abuse. You could call it an erective elective, not good for anything in particular but not causing any harm. But because your eyes are no good, you need the large-print everything, or just a really vivid imagination, replete with Bette Page, Mae West, and maybe Frank N. Furter, mentioned just to cover the spread.

But do you care about death? Nah, why should you! It’ll get here when it gets here. It’s an imperative too, but not everyone follows it’s wheedling and pleas. Finally it puts its foot down and says enough’s enough, come with me. But until then, you can stare up at it and say, “I adjure you in the matchless name of Biology, stand back, fiend, and pass me that toilet paper!”

Death takes a backseat to no one, of course, but neither should you. It’s hard enough to move around the house, let alone trying to nail someone in the backseat as in days of old. Try to unholster the damned thing as in days of old, squeaking your bottom on the vinyl seats, or catching the roughness of the cloth bits, you’ll see unholstering thwarted nastily by upholstery. Which is a quandary when her moods have about a three minute lifespan.

The best way of handling mortality is with more -tality! If the tale of the tail is left untold you've done no good. You only do good when you take life by the hand and prove its worth time after time. Your fate can always wait. As it turns out, your life’s in your own hands, the morning calls — “Cock-a-doodle-do!” — and the night will come when it gets here.

Sunday, September 29, 2019

Sow Your Seed

Part 29 of 30
Self-Abuse September

Well, friends, we’re getting to the end of the month, and it's a sad one for me to end. But you know what they say, if you can stretch it out that long, you're better than most guys. But we only have today and tomorrow, pretty close to the end. So today I’m going to give you a good public service-type announcement, not to take away your happiness but to add to or sustain your happiness against girlfriends, boyfriends, strangers, bullies, those who don’t know the boundaries, enemies foreign or domestic, etc.

You see our friend there, an upstanding farmer scattering seed right in his own field. He’s our spokesmodel for appropriate boundaries and respect in our relationships. Of course I’m not overly moralistic. I say if your relationships are with inanimate objects -- sex toys and assorted things, and some people are turned out by chair legs -- go to it, dig in. Whatever you want to do within the limits of the law and what you yourself choose. “The more the merrier, ya ha, look at me frolicking in the field with my Gorgeous George Orgy Candle! I’m a free spirit, I can’t be contained!” Yah hah, I'm as free as any seed-bearing animal!

There are relationships with animate objects, however, by which I primarily mean people that can get you in trouble. If you're self-abusing in the light of their memory, ya ha! But as you no doubt know there’s a lot of dimensions to relationships, jealousies, easily hurt feelings, grudges, and misunderstandings. Most of it -- short of infecting others with deadly diseases -- can be dealt with in a reasonable way. But sometimes it turns deadly, but I don’t want to dwell on the negative. [Deleted section]. You alone know what you’ve done and whether it deserves a terrible response like that. My opinion, and I’ll keep it succinct and to the point, don’t let things get so bad. [I deleted a section there about a guy getting eaten by hogs, OK? You don't want that.]

Other than common sense limits, however, there's no limits. “Ya ha, here I am frolicking, we’re all so free and beautiful, flowers in our hair, no clothes, a couple guys dragging their pants by their ankles and tripping.” I’m not your judge, but I’m old with the experience of a lifetime behind me. I’ll be dead any minute, hear me out. And I won’t even insist on it, I’ll just put it out there and you can do with it what you want: Listen to the old farmer, “Sow your seed in your own field.” Sex -- and self-abuse that we’re focused on here -- is more fun within voluntarily established limits.

Of course there are exceptions. You’re at a major musical event, the second coming of Woodstock, flower children are in the pond, etc., join in! Buy a condom if they have them. If not, you can do a lot with a slice of willow bark and a few rubber bands. Or if you want the ultimate safe trip, of course self-abuse never goes out of style. You’re on stage, you’re getting into it, Jimi Hendrix, Jr. is up there kicking up the Purple Haze and you’re getting down, giving it your all, right in the eye of the cameraman, that’s a beautiful scene, man. Dig it?

Saturday, September 28, 2019

Illegitimate Test Tube Babies

Part 28 of 30
Self-Abuse September

When thinking of the issues of procreation -- related to the god particle -- versus the dismissive act of self-abuse -- a little messier but more easily forgotten -- you occasionally need to keep in mind what you want for your life. Because the consequences of bringing new life into the world can be dire, including family vacations, photo albums, school and having to spring for lunch tickets, plus the constant whining, crying, whimpering, and bitching that you’ll find yourself doing.

Fortunately, I’ve kept these issues in mind all my life, ever since my cousins clearly laid them out for me, and I made sure I kept them in mind every Sadie Hawkins Day when girls had the right to propose to boys. I was always conveniently sick that day. And now that I’m old I’m reaping the benefits, being all alone, not a soul in the world caring for me, with most of the girls who potentially could’ve nailed me now living in nursing homes, tripping over IV tubes and spontaneously combusting. Any one of them would've been a massive financial drag on me. But life has been good. I wouldn’t trade it for anything, not even the biggest test tube baby in the world!

And I had my shot, too. There’s all kinds of things most people don’t know about me. Because I'm so used to being completely alone of course that means I'm fairly good at bridling my tongue. You think I blab a lot on this blog? That's nothing compared to the stuff I could tell. But I’ve crossed my heart and hoped to die so many times with every evil scientist you can think of, so I’ve kept relatively quiet.

But that also means I’m stoved up in many ways that to tell it all now would take us far beyond our current theme. Did you know even evil scientists occasionally die and can only be brought back a limited number of times? True. But the last time you bring them back they look at your blankly and you see a kind of sparking -- fitz, zipz, pitz -- their legs stiffen and for a few seconds it seems like they’re pedaling a bike, there’s a fresh stain on their pants, then they die. And all the artificial pulling and yanking you might do never brings them back.

The creation (or creature) in the jar is actually an artist’s rendering of an actual test tube or jar baby one of these scientists made. I used to have the research but used it over the years to clean fish on. So, dammit, it’s gone; the fish were really biting that year. But this guy had some way of combining human seed with you-name-it, exposing it to lightning and intense pressure, and always coming out with something. Which got confusing, like mixing the crotch of a near relative with a sleepy cow; he got the sex of a cousin and half dozen of the udders, which is two more than good nature allows.

The downside of creating any living creature -- whether a standard rugrat with a woman or a test tube baby in a storm -- is always the same. The expense and explaining it to your wife. And also registering the monstrosity! Our nosy government always wants to know where things came from and who they are. But if you stick to standard self-abuse, it’s no muss, no fuss. The government merely assumes you were celibate and if you weren’t they can’t prove it without untidy and expensive mucking about in your sewage complex.

Friday, September 27, 2019

Strict Self-Abuse Timeout

Part 27 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I just recognized a problem, a flaw in our series. I didn’t give the normally expected warnings about self-abuse, but just opened the floodgates and left everyone to their own devices. And a few of you have written in, thanking me for “liberating” them, “giving me the green light,” “releasing the pent-up hounds of my loins,” and so forth. But I also heard from Semenon, the god of male self-reproductive stuff, that in a few cases I have unwittingly been a bad influence. And for that I’m sorry.

Yet, even with the vast number of male readers I have, and virtually all of them frequently opening the spigots wide and free, so far we’ve only had one who’s been penalized and exiled for a time to Gusher Island. For the offense of self-abusing 50 times in one week. Which I should have thought of. If that were evenly spread over the week, it’d be -- find my calculator here -- yes, quite a few times a day, at least 50 times in a week. Well, that’s only a little over 7 times a day, that’s not so bad. Although if I would’ve remembered the rule I would’ve put up the warning, limit it strictly to 7.

And you never know, the guy might’ve done 100 and it just took time for the powers that be to catch up with him. But now I’ve warned you I’m sure you’ll be fine. But if you are taken, look at the conditions on the island. Barren rocks, no chair, an enforcement devil, a huge skull (maybe King Dong whom mythology tells us inseminated the primal world then died), a porn magazine, and a healthy population of vultures or buzzards just waiting for you to pull it out. What do they do if you do? Well, they've got sharp beaks, their mouths are open, which might be clue.

It’s a terrible thing he had to go there. He committed spermicide and it’s partly my fault. But I vow that when he gets back, I will use some of the money I made this month from a particular planning for parenthood organization for helping lighten the load for them and a lot of guys, to go see him. Not only am I interested in Gusher Island -- I’d like to know if it’s worth the risk -- but I’d like to publicize his personal story and see if we could perhaps get him a partnership with sperm banks and maybe supplement his income by the notoriety. No, we don’t want every other child fathered by him, but 20% isn’t unreasonable. Each with strong wrists, we’d be winning the Olympic gold in lots of acrobatic categories.

But now he’s confined. Sidelined. Pulled over. Wearing one of those plastic Willy-B-Gones (cage) with a padlock -- kinky fun, guys. Adult diapers for incidental dripping. Bruises on his bottom from the rocks. Other discomforts. The enforcement devil expects certain favors and has terrible breath. Be warned.

Thursday, September 26, 2019

No Nasty Comments Allowed

Part 26 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I know you’re worked up, completely on edge, and ready to burst, And that’s partly my fault, egging you on as I have with the lascivious graphics -- raw sexuality -- all so inappropriate but designed the way you like 'em, as others have told me. None of this has been just me, except for me temporarily stooping to your level of perversion more or less to do you a favor. The good news for me is that after this month I'll get back to my normal life -- clean living, abstinence, and howling at the moon -- but you’re still going to be up to here in your perversity.

In a way -- you know something? -- that makes me happy. Because the straight and narrow doesn’t admit quite as many folks as does perversity. You have to be worthy. Whereas the randy, the brazen, the perverse, the dirty, filthy, nasty, and moist in the most unusual places abide there forever. Unhappily. Then ultimately die from judgment, and their dried out bones join the debris of their forebears who were also stuck in depravity. It saddens me that so many of my contemporaries are nothing but huge wash-outs, and now unfortunately that includes you. You made your bed and now you have to lie in it, goes the sad expression. But do you notice? No, you’re so begrizzled and wasted, mouth gaping, running after everything with two legs and a crotch -- which fortunately leaves out cattle -- you’re not even aware that’s an insult! So you don’t just lie in the muck, you repeatedly climb the heights and belly-flop into it! Disgusting.

The artwork of this gorgeous couple dancing does my heart good, to a point, before I had to add the captions. Which I had to do because I know what I’m up against. Perverts ogling everything in sight and your nasty catcalls, making insinuations that she and her dance partner -- a lifelong boy scout and she, coincidentally a lifelong girl scout -- have anything on their innocent minds but more innocence. What kind of lousy world do we have anyway, that the beautiful can’t be appreciated solely for their beauty, but instead there always has to be this lascivious innuendo, double entendres, and the taking of every innocent pose as the antecedent to something foul and disgusting?

You know it’s on your mind, and somewhere in your heart you know how disgusting it is, whether you admit it or not; we know it’s true. I can only hope that someday -- yes, in good time, you're going to get yours -- the walls will come crashing in, and as the world is literally closing in on you, pressing inexorably ever tighter and tighter, pinning you against the wall, your face smashed up against and formfitting a solid flat bulletproof pane of glass. At that point I will be outside the box and come by to poke fun at your misery, and if I can recall any of your lascivious comments over the years, yes, I will cast them back in your face.

“Wow, that's hot! How about a date tonight, sugar?” That’s to Cindy Lou of San Francisco. To Ralphie of New Orleans: “Looking for some beads by insinuating that honorable upstanding girls expose themselves to you, huh? Well, the beads on your forehead, of sweat, and your eyes bulging out from the heat of this glass case, are all the souvenirs I need. Up the thermostat, jailer!” And I have a few more cards that the various horn-dogs that infest my blog have sent in. I’ll just toss them in the bonfire on the lawn and hope even now your lives will go up in smoke for your brazen rudeness.

Some of you might not be too far gone and that's good. But you might have but one last chance. Avert your eyes from the woman’s beautiful dress. No, her butt isn’t that big, there’s ruffles under there which, no, you can’t see! If you have no respect for yourself, please show a little respect for this couple’s happiness. And zip your pants, boys. This is strictly a no nasty comments zone, as well as no public exposures!

Wednesday, September 25, 2019

Those Frolicksome Sweethearts

Part 25 of 30
Self-Abuse September

This one's for a particular group of you guys and you know who you are. Nothing’s ever for everyone, because of course kink’s a focused commodity. The market hath spoken, We’re micro-targeting this or that particular nerd nugget of reverie and merriment! So I gotta join 'em! The more the merrier, you know, but we’re disparate in our desperation. Even complete nudity isn’t the standard currency -- big duh, I know, it's so boring. But you could have someone bound head to toe in girdles and make more money (in places) than the whole boring display, splat, right in your face.

How do I know all these things? The less said the better. Mostly window peeking, coast to coast. Wyoming's particularly kinky, but the houses are all 600 miles apart. Also I’ve mastered the skills (this took two years in shaman's camp) of hypnotic bird warbling to put people in involuntary trances. (I say involuntary but they’ve never been happier.) Anyway, regardless whether you disagree or not -- and one of my kink triggers is having people disagree with me -- that’s life. A guy has his rounds, a guy makes his rounds, and that’s it. Right now I’m trying to rush-write this post because I have an appointment with a guy who likes being forced to clip his toenails. Doesn't sound like much? They're rusty clippers!

Anyway, our pink dancing girls in this ultimate beautiful circle dance of ribbons and sunshine magically appearing on bright mornings, so innocent, don’t have a clue what they’re up against. Or maybe they do, [rubbing hands] so much the better! They go by, a pink blur, although I have some focusing skills. It’s even a good mental challenge. Say you have five or six identical things, how long can you continue to isolate one particular thing. Then they think they’ve obscured your thought in their blur, in the mystery, and present themselves for the selection process. How surprised they are when you make your selection in a split second and seem to know what you’re doing. You, you, you.

Of course there’s no force here, and I’m a perfectly sweet guy, treasuring one and all (within limits) -- whether you wear bright pink or sun-like yellow. It’s charming to call each one by name, first, middle, last name initial, then manifest an intuitive knowledge discerned right there on the spot of each one’s favorite color, quotation, political party, movie, etc. Now it’s time for the first cut, which, alas, is based on political party. If she's Republican I’m so nauseated I can barely stand, but stand I do until she's safely out the door and blacklisted for the future. There’s no greater buzz kill. Hate to get political, but these days it's life and death. No bigger depressant for my normally rigid libido.

Tuesday, September 24, 2019

Test Tube Sample: It's Alive!

 Part 24 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I feel kind of nostalgic (and even a little amused) when I see this high brow scientist discovering once and for all how lively life is. I had something of a head start on at least intuiting that, because from an early age I used to swim in stagnant ponds. And my Grandma was entirely right to be aghast at that and warn us against it (me, brothers, cousins). But we did it anyway. And whether it was by immunity built up from years of dirty living or some other scientific explanation -- bacteria failing to get a foothold because of our sheer cussedness -- I yet live to tell.

Another reason for my apparent survival -- I have another theory that on your deathbed you relive in apparent real time everything in your life -- could be, you name it, trying to purge my karma, to teach me the true meaning of Christmas, or get me laid not in claim but in fact. Well, my karma’s so huge that a million yogis couldn’t atone for it, I know Christmas is a scam, and I may not be afraid of living breathing pond scum but getting laid would expose me to herpes, gonorrhea, and the flu, depending on whether she had the shot.

I feel I definitely have to stay on the same course I’ve been on. A persistently romantic personality, a deep attraction to myself, and self-abuse up the yin-yang, or the imaginary semblance of the same, maybe just yin one day and yang the next. Someone says, “How they hangin'?” Same way as always, of course looser on a scorching hot day. Are you keeping up with me? Are you down with all this? To thyself be true, OK, I shall.

Then there’s the unpleasant aliveness of it all. Which isn’t just my own personal aversion, but clearly that of the scientist and all thinking people. Forget the chicken and the egg, we have the mystery right here in our hot little hand. That’s gross, yes, I know. But the fact is, we’re never alone. We’re surrounded by life, occupied by life, in addition to ourselves being alive. It’s like we're the host, a host to a trillion colonists, giving us every right to be completely freaked out as long as we live. Then, even then, somehow, a trillion bacteria get in your coffin and-- I can’t bring myself to describe what scientists know. There are millions of micro-organisms always with the person, and each one has to eat. Google it.

Lunch break, thanks for reading this far.

OK, I’m back. A dead pig sandwich and some lightly browning lettuce, and an ordinary glass of embalming fluid, so I’m good for a couple years. In conclusion, look to the science of it all. Self-abuse is vastly preferable because you’re not manufacturing other human beings that will have to one day die.

Monday, September 23, 2019

Self-Abuse Etiquette

Part 23 of 30
Self-Abuse September

What we have here is a fairly common situation, the old clash of cultures, when inevitably they somehow get wise to the wiles of guys. But O! the innocent ways of women at first, till Aunt Bea meets Little House on the Prairie, with a male house-guest rawdoggin’ it with reckless abandon in the john, blissfully oblivious in his reverie, with an understanding bird out yonder somehow hip to it and gauging the situation at hand, its impact on the ladies, she who's wise and she who's still playing catch-up.

I’m glad I wasn't there, because I’m frankly a little embarrassed about the guy. This isn't just reverie, for the guy’s full-throated cries of unbridled ecstasy strike me as overtly uncivil and reckless. He surely knows the more demure qualities of those particular ladies by day, given as they are to the old world ways of fashion and society, obviously not the ways of the barnyard, the roosters' full-throated crowing, then grabbing a hen by the scruff of the neck. Yes, I'm all for a guy having a good time, but some of these gals deserve to be left in the dark.

True, I get it that he’s excited. But as an obviously older and more experienced man, with the stereotypical cries of climax in his stock vocabulary, he surely has more than an inkling when these cries more rightly come into play -- in the privacy of the barn with a ripe filly -- not while Aunt Bea holds forth on the stitching of doilies or some such. I’m old-fashioned like that, believing that, yes, everyone’s trying to get off any way he can, and with Tarzan swinging through the jungle holding on to swinging stalks such cries are de rigueur, but in polite society, please come quietly with your pinky out, return to your coffee and tell Bea nicely, “Thank you for the use of your nice facilities. I didn't do anything I shouldn't have done, if that's what you're thinking. Then I tidied up after myself as I once learned the routine in third grade hygiene.”

But as for the “stock vocabulary” I mentioned, isn’t it curious how simple and vulgar it is while also conveying perfectly the excitement of being at this monumental edge, knowing that you’ve reached a point of no return and what is to come -- no vulgarity intended -- both fully natural and expected and yet a crisis of sorts? In reproduction it accompanies the desire for depth, for planting, for the rich assurance that you’re wringing out all you can wring at that moment in fulfillment of the biological imperative. “I am the man of the hour. If I don’t single-handedly repopulate the earth, all bets are off concerning our survival as a species.” Of course his leisurely reenactment doesn’t repopulate squat, but it’s pleasurable, akin to the saying, “It’s the thought that counts.”

But is he appropriately thoughtful? How completely immersed would you have to be to be totally oblivious to the very recent memory that you were just a guest in this lady’s home and have only moments before excused yourself -- without any explanation as to what you were going to do? If they had wondered, and when I’m in social situations I for one am always watching and wondering who’s sneaking off to do what, they would’ve assumed he was going to pee. Because the biological imperative is rarely part of a neighborly get-together for tea, beyond dispute. Yes, anytime an orgy breaks out, whip it out, what else can you do? Clearly that wasn't the case here.

Sunday, September 22, 2019

Great Granddad Had A Blast

Part 22 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I would be a lot more interested in the past if the records were only there to consult. Who wouldn’t be? Just to know what was going on with Grandma and Grandpa and their parents and their parents -- humpa humpa -- all the way back to Sir Lancelot and the Seven Dwarfs, that’d be a great study.

But, alas, we’re not doing much better for those who come after us. It’s not like we’re making a spreadsheet of our own lives and passing it on to succeeding generations who themselves will be spread out over the sheets. I wish I would've done it, documented everything I've put out since my formative teen years. Instead, for most of us -- Grandpa included -- secretions were very secretive, and few tales are told of Grandpa in the field, Grandpa in the shed, Grandpa in the barn, Grandpa all over.

In a way we feel like "preseeding" generations had it over us. They lived in a world still in the grip of nature. Bulls in the field, rabbits in the pen, ducks laying eggs, cocks crowing in the morning, afternoon, and evening, their beaks grabbing and pulling the back of the hens’ heads -- humpa humpa -- nature at its craziest. It was a free-for-all but somehow every one of them was faithful to the task.

It’s probably normal that we try to see our forebears as basically gods in the flesh. With an all-seeing eye for the challenges they had to face, the Great Depression, Prohibition, then later the War, and best of all, the Sexual Revolution. They acted shocked, of course, but humpa humpa. Which is where they really bloomed and blossomed. They were so stoved up from bad times that when the Sexual Revolution launched it was all-out enthusiasm, even doing it in the road as the Beatles said. By then they had all the kids they'd ever have, so they were going at it for pleasure. Together, of course, but for an equally satisfying experience, alone. Self-abuse through the years. Mental humpa humpa.

They had the “need to breed” -- and it was crazy -- with mealtime often degenerating into a free-for-all of hands and relevant body parts, all without missing a bite, the potatoes being passed and consumed before they were cold, etc. You think synchronized swimming’s a talent, I wish I could describe my grandparents', aunts' and uncles', and even cousins' wanton behavior. The turkey wasn’t the same when they got through with it, strictly white meat, humpa humpa.

The first known libertine in the family was Great-Grandpa, whose reported fantasies of showgirls single-handedly kept the family fields fertile in the midst of the world’s worst drought. See picture.

Saturday, September 21, 2019

Whip The Bastards Out

Part 21 of 30
Self-Abuse September

Here’s an story of a fairly illicit relationship -- the school manuals forbid it -- Old Mr. (teacher) and two young students, both close to 21, so old because years before they'd been held back to repeat Kindergarten, 1st, and 2nd grades. (There's a blurb about them and their dubious achievement in the world record books.) Old Mr. walked into a semi-private dark section of the hall and caught them both in the act of self-abuse, in flagrante delicto, as the Latin calls it, which means something like “with each other’s business flagrantly in hand and diddling with delight, possibly involving the tongue.”

Of course he scolded them mercilessly -- cussing them up one side and down the front -- with a lot of strenuousness, really all the scorn he could muster, because, let’s face it, this is huge shocking stuff. Anyone would be disappointed and even perplexed, and in this case he had enough righteous anger to pour it on at some length, laying it on thick and with fully justified condescension.

Well, Old Mr. couldn’t be everywhere at once, so he assigned them to the buddy system, to monitor each other and keep each other accountable. Which went great for a while, but I'd say it was predictable (like moths making out over a candle) that since the act they engaged in was the desire of each, what was to hold them back from an ongoing alliance? There were certainly tails told out of class. Meaning nothing could hold them back, so they were right back at it yet again, laying it on thick with each other, then thicker yet.

But the guilt -- such brutal overpowering guilt -- got the best of them and they decided, "Being equally guilty we should go tell Old Mr. even the randiest details of our sins and seek undeserved absolution." When, what do they find, but Old Mr. himself so completely oblivious to his surroundings that without interruption they were able to witness a full program of sexual wantonness. Another case of up one side and down the other. He had both a Mademoiselle and Lady’s Day magazine and was simultaneously going through them while self-abusing first atop the piano, then by the fireplace, then sprawled on the table in the teachers' lounge, then in the teachers' kitchenette while juggling knives yet never missing even one sooooooothing, sennnnnsuous stroke.

Suddenly, then, a good half hour into his raging act for the ages -- the choreography was impeccable -- he noticed the students standing there. Oops! His rather daunting full-length doodad quickly shriveled to nearly nothing. And he knew he’d been had, that old hypocrite and reprobate. But in the spirit of making it up to them -- not as commendable as it sounds under the circumstances -- and wanting to make the most of any hard feelings, he said to the guys, “OK, boys, you caught me, and I know what you’re thinking...” Then he waved and looked at his watch and in the spirit of the moment said, “You’re now both officially 21. Whip the bastards out, let’s make amends.”

Friday, September 20, 2019

Pulling For Stubby

 Part 20 of 30
Self-Abuse September

It’d be great to have a lot of camaraderie with a group of friends, I’m convinced of that. But it’s still not for everyone, like me, who’s so into privacy, I’d hate to be searched with eye contact for when I’m lying. Since once you start fidgeting, the jig’s up, you’ve been found out, you’ve been had. Then the group -- little more than savages -- passes you person to person for whatever depravity they have in mind, everything from stealing your chewing gun to depantsing you and throwing you in the river.

Whoa, depantsing, I haven’t thought of that as a real thing for years. But I still have it in my vocabulary, because that was a real thing when I was a kid. You get enough guys mad at you and they’d literally depants you on the playground (or worse). And of course you hate it on the playground for obvious reasons, since everyone’s in on it everyone has an equal chance to deny it and escape punishment. Of course you’re not going to name names or the penalty after school would might be depantsing and maybe burning your books. They might even stick your pants on the bull in the field, and in his fury and desire to escape he’s rubbing his horns up and down the bark of a tree, trying to depants his horn. Leaving, once you retrieve them -- going through a field, incidentally, littered with thorns -- you showing up at home with a pant leg on one side and your bare ass on the other! Bittersweet memories.

Still, if you could set the guidelines liberally with this one conservative rule, No Depantsing, it’d be great to have a club of boys/men, the Old Boys’ Club let’s call it, to cheerlead you on to greater and greater conquests. Shooting The Moon, Laying It On Thick, Gentlemen’s Stroll, You’re In The Army Now, and other techniques of quality self-abuse. I actually had a hand in formulating the various moves in You’re In The Army Now, so when I’m at patriotic events and they ask the veterans to stand, even though I never served conventionally, I’m still well-known as the Soldier’s Friend and feel no embarrassment standing and even cheering my own Division, being its only member. Let me reenact it briefly: Attenhut! O soldier, let me massage your neck. Umm, you're coming to attention, big boy. And so forth, I hate to show off...

Stubby here, even though he’s been sidelined a while from his group of friends -- we're sick too, just in a better way. But he'll soon mend and leave the hospital behind. Until then, he knows everyone's pulling for him. One further note, perhaps when the doctor comes in -- say it’s a guy and therefore understanding of such things -- he might bring up his nickname, Stubby, and see what can be done about that. But it’s not necessary. Stubby is still a pro, nothing's every that bad. You still have a lot of friends. Those more gifted feel better when you’re around. And those less gifted also feel better around you, because what you have is attainable by them as well and not as tricky to achieve as what the first guys have, who only feel bad when they’re around male farm animals.

Stubby, if you're reading this, I think there's a few nurses up on the latest moves -- wink wink -- know what I mean? Something for your thoughts when you're alone!

Get well soon, spring to life, whatever's standing against you, we know you're gonna beat this thing.

Thursday, September 19, 2019

You Gotta Hold On

Part 19 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I seriously don’t think we have any newbies here. Raise your hands, if they’re not already occupied, if you’re a newbie. Seeing none, I'm assuming two things: they're otherwise occupied and so not newbies.

OK, then, since we’ve all been around the block enough times to map out the entire city, the lessons of this post might not be the lessons you need to learn. However, if you’ve been around the block that many times, that could also be said for everything else here. You’re merely reading to be able to say such things as, “Amen,” “Yes, I’ve been there,” and “Riding a horse like that is bad for all living creatures and their crotches.” Why cowboys do it, no one knows. The best guess is it has to do with attracting partners, but if there’s an injury there’s only nostalgia to take the place of actual practice. Once I was a stallion, once I was a bull, now I’m retired, waiting for the cure to foolish rodeo injuries.”

As worthless as rodeos are in fact, they do serve as an educational tool for teaching what not to do in life. And for that we salute those brave foolhardy souls who take part in those cow-infested displays, tipping a hat to them for what they teach. One of the big lessons you see here immediately. If you strap a leather belt around a horse’s sac it’s going to jump with all the craziness and force of a horse with a leather belt around its sac. Which comes first, it’s no mystery. The sac’s there, the belt's a foreign addition, the jumping’s a violent anguished reaction. Anytime anyone tells you the bull likes it, that’s a guy to depants and let him try it. If he doesn’t literally kick you to death, we’ll refund your money.

The interesting thing about rodeo cowboys (based on confidential interviews made when they’re drunk and missing their mothers) is that they don’t really enjoy the whole racket. I might be working on a rodeo series so I don’t want to empty the entire portfolio, but they have feelings like the rest of us. To me that was a “Who knew?” moment. The less said, the better, I know, but we went out in a field for a cleansing ritual of self-abuse and were virtually stampeded by angry bulls. This is no joke. Once we were safely back to the fence, those bulls circled slowly the spot of our reverie as if in some cleaning ritual, then built up speed, around and around, until they literally turned into melted butter right on the spot. It was like a mystical moment and I spent the next hour throwing butter over my head and hooting and hollering. A prophet appeared and said not to tell a living soul, an injunction I’ve diligently kept.

That cowboy and I became friends for life. I’ve even dedicated some episodes of self-abuse to him, the more meaningful times -- Christmas, Easter, etc. -- and he’s been blessed by that. Whether he’s ever dedicated any to me, he hasn’t said. Cowboys like warriors don’t always talk about their experiences, defeats or conquests. And that’s why they always die young, they're too stoved up with pride and/or sorrow to let go. They feel the end coming on, but instead of breaking the spell, like Jimi Hendrix* they ride the alpha jerk field into oblivion.

*In a 1970s film about Hendrix, some guys speculating what his death was like.

Wednesday, September 18, 2019

A Guy You Shouldn't Oughta Be

Part 18 of 30
Self-Abuse September

We’re always talking about the glories of a life of rich self-abuse, and it’s truly a life that can’t be beat, but we’re not always talking about the alternative, forbearance, celibacy, the penalty booth, cold showers, holding out on yourself, potholder gloves, being a good boy, etc.

Of course, being a good boy is what they try to instill in you, to the point of making rules, constructing the mental fence, to confine you forever. But how well I remember real freedom, the glories of wearing suit pants to school with no underpants. No obstruction between you and your leg. It’s not like it’s going to hang out the bottom. 

Naturally, now that we’re grown up and it’s truly considered normal to make a playground out of your body -- there’s a whole industry, sex toys, trapezes, belts, stimulant cream, celibacy cream, cages, traps, enlargers, weights and measures, molds for duplication, and dirty joke books -- you really never have to leave home! The critical consideration is how much you want these things present in your house. It means new shelving, nasty things on the coffee table, on your nightstand, or maybe hidden away, which is probably preferable so others not so lucky won’t feel jealous.

I can see how there’s some guys -- not morons but as smart as us -- who would forebear. At first you hear about them and you’re suspicious. But I say, “Give me 10 minutes in their house and I guarantee I’ll find their stash, hidden floorboards, wall safes behind pictures, etc., and I don’t care how tricky they are, hidden in fresh Jello or on the roof or down the chimney, it’s gotta be somewhere!" Then you come to realize, Yes, it might be rare, but there's guys out there, pent-up, out of their mind, their spirits a bit out of kilter, who truly do forbear.

Take this guy for example. Dick head, standing erect, acting out his condition, wearing his diagnosis on his sleeve. Look how sad he is. This is a guy that somebody led down the primrose path toward destruction. Not only did he take that path, he now embodies it. He’s sad, forlorn, stifled, depleted, and prickly, not in a good way. He’s dangerous. Like TNT (This No Touch), with a short fuse, even though he didn’t start out so depleted. But someone got to him, some hypocritical do-gooder going door to door talking about “sin,” then going back to their own home to a trapeze, where they hang upside down watching porn on an upside down TV, until eventually they blow it so hard it’s no trick to hit a floor target every time. Stupid pride.

Our main lesson for today is Don’t Fall For It. Yes, it sometimes helps you to reset if you take a break for a day, half a day, an hour, 3 minutes if you can manage it, just so you don’t make the break a way of life. Look at the guy again, standing erect but every inch of him depleted and dead to the world, his life and person a prison of his own making. With the testimony of his life now being, Abandon All Hope You Who Approach. If my warning is a lesson that you’ll heed, strip now and give me the equivalent of a four minute mile! Go for it! Faster, faster!

Tuesday, September 17, 2019

Another Day, Pace Yourself

Part 17 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I guess most of us would agree, this looks like our usual 2 o'clock slump, the afternoon downer. 6 o'clock was a long time ago, top of the morning, leaving our system enough time to take on enough baggage to father an island. Where, by the way, every native dancing girl is happy to give her instinctual all in sync with the coconut trees waving seductively in the tropical breeze.

There’s not much you can do, if you can’t beat 'em, join 'em. But if they’re not here to join in, as in this sad struggle to walk through even the simplest of halls, then you have to beat 'em.

And what a look! From the looks of things, that’s one sad sack dude and a half. I hate to think that's how I'd look to others. Good for nothing, a painful halting gate, vastly bowlegged, maybe he’s been in a long meeting, everything's definitely crunched together in a sweaty morass that’s just crying out for attention: Feed me, a huge serving of stroganoff, anything but an empty plate.

Just like Superman ducking into an alley, our guy eyes a nearby bathroom. And with this kind of load -- his hips are dislocated from what started as a swagger -- he can be in and out in three shakes. There’s no line, no hint of turn-off bathroom smells wafting in the air, it’s truly a great place to clear your head, and definitely keeps him from being muscle bound; this won't take much exertion. A thing of beauty as it is, it’s the gift that keeps on giving. And it never asks much.

The "before" picture, though, looking at it closer is kind of painful. That guy’s old before his years. He’s bulky, square, and his suit no doubt stinks. He's a guy who’s forgotten the first imperative, take care of yourself, or he's put it off too long. And, naturally, there aren't any ladies lined up to do it, or guys for that matter, because let’s face it, the world’s a selfish bastard. And he's as good as anyone. It’s all basic equipment. They should be lined up to do the things that are socially called for. But the spirit of volunteerism isn’t what it used to be, back when people had families of 10. Now it’s every man for himself. And this restroom's as good as any.

I can happily report that when he emerges five minutes later, he’s a new man. With a new sheen and healthy glow about him, and all the confidence in the world. He’ll show the world! He thinks, “For the next few hours, I’ve got what it takes! I got a lot done here, and later I'll see what happens at home.”

Monday, September 16, 2019

Semenon Comes In White

Part 16 of 30
Self-Abuse September

Well, here he is, the man himself, a god really, Semenon. I’m just going to trot him out for all the world to see. At this point, what’s the mystery? We’ve all been around the block, we know how it goes. So let's just get right down to the real nitty-gritty and not stand on ceremony. This is he, the antecedent, the seed itself, the impetus, the power to engines, turbines to speed that roars into the cave at night but is ready to leave on a minute’s notice.

Among the forces of nature -- the bubbling waves meet the beach, the knuckling under of roaring cascades, the purple headed majesty of mounting peaks -- against all of that, even the ocean comes in a distant second. For there’s power, power, wonder-working power in the flood of the limb, although it's something you’d never guess if you confronted him off hours, say, when his force sleeps, with nothing more on his (or his tool’s) mind than a midnight plea, “This really is abuse, let me sleep.” But there’s more to come.

No one has the final answer on the denouement except, naturally, Semenon himself. Whether our guesses shed true light, or whether it’s hidden from our grasp, without an independent, objective place to stand, we may never really know. My own belief is that the world is split into two essential divisions, the front side and the back. When there’s light on the front side, the back side’s in the dark. Then when the back side’s in the light, the front side rests. Of course none of this is final and definitive, because you might find you’re perfectly capable of going full force with the front side, a little self-abuse, only to learn -- dammit -- the backside suddenly needs to go. “Excuse me, dear, this won’t take a minute,” lick your finger, mark your place, and you’re off.

Do not doubt for a minute that Semenon -- “In so white, in so bright” -- can keep all the biology square. He knows your needs before you do! But he wants you to wisely coordinate your mind with his, to know the signals, when the time’s right and when you should wait. Who among us hasn’t jumped the gun and revealed Semenon’s glory before his time? You were excited, the inner man babbling such foolishness as “Sexiest dom in the world! Humpa humpa!” Semenon says, “You have one chance to get this right or get it wrong. There’s no second act. Think of gardening. Not planting, but the drudgery of turning the soil, carrying the buckets, yeah, that’s it, terrible evil work. Enjoy yourself, of course, but not to the point of desperation. Coordinate yourself with her moods, read the signals, and if she’s filing her nails you've been hitting it too much. But I believe in you, and when it feels right, I’ll let you know, and that’s when you’ll really go to town, roar down the straightaway, hit the game-winning home run, and shoot the moon!”

Then, of course, there’s solo flights, and that’s really what we’re here for this month. But in the end it all flows together as one, the same principles with company or just some bare assed knuckledragging schlub on his lonesome. It’s all in the synchronization, with the knowledge of when it’s right to set down the landing gear. Look to the master: Semenon is occasionally late but often early. When he comes he doesn’t retreat. Put everything you got into it, screaming, thrashing about, arching up, and of course that very dramatic moment of silence when you’re gathering your euphoria and making sure there’s not a piece missing -- in heaven that’s equivalent to a half hour’s silence -- just before everything is revealed in its full foaming, boiling over, glory glory hallelujah, yes, yes, eternal peace, eternal bliss ... eternal till tomorrow, (checking my watch) about this time, maybe a little earlier depending on game time.

My testimony, given by personal prerogative: Semenon made my teen years worth living.

Sunday, September 15, 2019

The Beguiling Love Theme

Part 15 of 30
Self-Abuse September

Rather than focusing on particular porn stars and their work -- and this is the same tact I’d take with great composers, famous politicians, amateur night strippers, and men of God who have been lured away by the flesh and having knuckled under have found themselves pulled deeper in the morass where that and the other fleeting allures of life have hooked them and left them floundering on the beaches of wasteland -- I’m taking a whole different approach. Bunching them together in the aggregate, and going as deeply as we can before our time and space is spent, should pay good dividends in the end. We will cover the territory, but lay bare the understandings that are their actual claim to fame, important and lasting legacies up the yin yang.

Of course I’m prone to conceal my own association with the industry, insofar as it exists -- I learned the facts of life from these flicks -- and ask with vulnerable supplication that no one pries any deeper than that to relieve your curiosity. (I believe all amateur films of my exploits -- which were messier than I'd like -- have been burnt.) Any appearances I may have made in any of the major films were literally no big deal, usually being incidental to the main action, one of the sidemen shunted aside in favor of the star.

But follow the bucks, that's often the main focus, the central approach in films of this magnitude. The sidemen are important and get important action, if it amounts to nothing more than to serve as a contrast to the more endowed star. The same happens in nature, an giant erupting volcano gets center stage, putting to apparent shame the smaller hills in their repose. But wait a few years and it's they who alone abide in majesty while the volcanic action, exciting for a brief moment, is gone, its glory cratered out, now a hole. The real life's now on the slopes. As to the stars, I won’t even guess what dysfunction they have when they find an actual significant other and have to limp along, the shaft a shadow of its former self. A crotch is a terrible thing to waste.

If you see it differently, let’s agree to disagree, but as for me I will keep things free and clear to perform their natural function alone, promising a better life. Think of how great it is to live and whatever you're doing, don’t do it again. Yes, with lust things can be bumpy depending on what’s going around. They say tomorrow never comes, yet we know the facts, it always arrives, and there awaits the pain. Playing the piano may be fine to a certain extent, your fingers lightly tinkling it, true for either black or white, but what may be fine for a concerto will not go well in the annals to be told.

Most music has its fans, whether it is "Seka Does Dallas" or "Kitty Does Earp." But once kitty does enough earping, that’s when you need figs to cover it, because that’s nasty business, not fit for man and we shall leave out beasts. Such an outcome renders complete disease in my members, from the brain down.

Saturday, September 14, 2019

Chugga-Chugga Motion

Part 14 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I’ve had a few newbies-to-the-nasty reading my posts this month, which I hadn’t expected, and a few of them made inquiries about basic techniques. I thought nature covered most of that, but then remembered, yes, a little initiation goes a long way toward one’s outcome. And not everyone has first cousins close at hand or near them.

So let's get down! I’ve always said it’s in the grip. But how many ways can you insist it’s all in the grip while avoiding the gripes of those who needlessly insist on details? I’ll just repeat what I heard long ago: If you’re right-handed, hold your hand in front of your face. Make an O with your thumb and first finger. Hold that up like you’re a pirate looking through a telescope. Survey your immediate surroundings, be on the lookout for landlubbers, hornswogglers, sightings of booty and cutlasses. In other words, parents and responsible adults who don’t approve of sex. OK, that’s good. If you’re left-handed, I have no idea, but I would suggest the opposite.

OK, maties, the coast is definitely clear, and you’re very sure, so drop your five finger discount to One Tree Island -- the happy native awaits his coming -- and embrace him in camaraderie -- less daintily and more insistent than if adults are near -- and see that he comes to life before he dies. And think, you’ve been a handful all your life, you just never knew that night after night you were tucking in a monster that at long last would manifest himself and his evil ways. This is nothing to rue, for good fortune is now at hand and before you know it you’ll be celebrating skyrockets in flight.

Shh, I thought I heard someone pull in the driveway. Gotta check, just the mailman turning around. You have to look out for everyone, certainly anyone who'd blabber everything in addition to censorious adults, who think it’s their life's mission to be killjoys. So I can’t run over everything in detail now. You have to feel your way through this.

But we do have time to review: 1) Grab a handful; 2) Be familiar with the different names of the apparatus, dick, etc. 3) Picture something that’s especially pleasurable to you. This doesn’t have to be body parts and actions of others, dirty words, etc., but you’ll completely fail if it’s not. 4) Go to town. 5) Be prepared for a distinguished aftermath, the arching fireworks of life. Tissue is preferable, although if you’re planning test tube babies now or in the future, any standard test tubes -- not recycled -- will do. Any other details you’re not certain of, again, just feel your way.

Friday, September 13, 2019

Meat Monster Strikes Again

Part 13 of 30
Self-Abuse September

First, my hat's off to this wonderful counselor on staff at the police department. Very few men would do what this good man did in empathizing with a man both down on his luck and feeling the bitter remorse any man feels when his libido and love-making prowess has been not only been criticized but attacked. If I were younger I would love to snag a counseling job like this, except with the bad luck I've been going through there would probably never be a case involving a Meat Monster and her brutal proclivities raging in a murderous hormone-crazed spree. Rotten luck.

The police counselor, seeing Dan’s arm injured and in a cast and godawful sling, literally and admirably dislocated his own arm from the socket and sat there while sadistic attendants pulled it completely out of place. Think of the pain he suppressed while remaining so easy going just to be a comfort to his fellow man. I’ll tell you right upfront I’d never be able to do that, but one time I was similarly generous when another kid didn’t get a May basket and I gave him one of mine. So I hope I can still be proud?

OK, the Meat Monster woman killed the other guy yesterday because his lovemaking skills didn't rise to match those of a ham loaf. Then the very next day she challenges this other guy with the same terms. Right away I would’ve said he had the advantage. The meat loaf by then was certainly worn and disheveled from its prior exertions. But whether Dan was afraid when he found himself in the pinch or assumed the ham loaf had its full manhood still (I didn't pry beyond the preliminaries to avoid embarrassment), it didn’t go well.

Part of it must have been the Meat Monster’s expectations were high. She knew the loaf was strung out, two days in a row being a real challenge for that grade of loaf. Plus, having killed Glen, she had a rush of progesterone and testosterone giving a greater natural sense of beauty and desirability. And I probably shouldn’t say it, but that type of chick's always horny. Dan saw the problem and was immediately limp as a noodle, as most guys would be. The guys who would naturally be most attracted to her would be mostly bodybuilders hopped up on body- and mind-altering chemicals. The hat freaks us out.

It’s funny, though, about Dan’s focus, his spirits being low, etc., so bad that even the police detective had to counsel him. "I mean, it’s stupid. You escaped the Meat Monster with no more than a broken arm and your ego's still bruised!? Give me a break." The detective spelled it out nicely, "'It was you against a ham loaf and you lost. Stick to your fantasies, Dan. It’s not such a disgrace to be a worse lover than a ham loaf." Since then Dan has regained his self-confidence through well-measured self-abuse. Hope his arm doesn't hurt too much.

As for me, I'm halfway tempted to look for a woman and see if I’m better than a ham loaf. But I better not.

Thursday, September 12, 2019

Two Lovers Tonight

Part 12 of 30
Self-Abuse September

The story of this meat monster lady was covered locally but as far as I know was not picked up by news sources outside the county. Why that is, I can only guess. I suspect it has to do with the meatpacking industry and their “in” with journalists, always giving them meat to kill negative stories. And it's true, if you’ve ever visited journalists at home, the first thing you notice is the stand-alone freezer and plenty of meat. Which doesn’t just happen.

So I’ll sketch it out and hope you believe it, because every word is true and easily found in reputable dictionaries. OK, the meat monster was a mentally disturbed lady -- as generally understood --  with a side issue of being overly abusive to innocent ham loaves. With a prejudice. And say what you will about these conditions not being her fault, something she would've never brought on herself, that tired excuse only goes so far. She knows the value of a decent ham loaf, so she's fully capable of discerning right from wrong when it comes to killing lovers. The only mental issue I see definitely is the incongruity of thinking a lover's performance can be judged by the same standards we use to evaluate ham loaves. On that point I won't budge.

Our first victim (the other guy tomorrow) is this guy Glen with the penis nose, who actually should be head over heels the front runner in love-a-thons. If his downstairs is anything like upstairs, he's got an immediate advantage in any romantic standoff. Yes, he's of small build, but if he plays his body right, he could take care of her from both ends, depending on how her midsection fits on the mattress when spread-eagle. And were he to throw his voice, and with a nose like that he probably could, she’d think it was a menage a trois, which, if my French holds, means he’d be nailing her once but equivalent to the skills of three men.

Obviously, though, he had concerns, a downer most guys get, whether or not their nose is hung, when confronted with a woman as tough as Barbarossa and built like the proverbial shithouse. Part of her menace is the hat, with the word MEAT stitched in gold, again similar to Barbarossa, his crown.

Glen started back with a fear so real that had he fled in terror no one would’ve blamed him. But as she set out the terms, he froze. Whichever lover of the two -- Glen vs. Ham Loaf -- prevailed would see tomorrow! Glen went first, which wasn't too great but, frankly, a normal person would’ve given him a passing grade while not desiring sloppy seconds. The ham loaf went next -- it’s always best to go second in these kind of standoffs -- and it took full advantage of Glen’s blood, sweat, and tears in paving the way. With the ham loaf winning. Fully nude except for the hat, the monster woman strode over to Glen, and ... I'll just say his outfit's at the thrift store if anyone wants it.

We mourn Glen, of course, but sincere congratulations to the ham loaf.

Self-Abuse Challenge: Mentally put yourself in Glen's place.

Wednesday, September 11, 2019

Family Nagging, Badgering

Part 11 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I’ve always treasured the love and understanding of grandparents. They’re different from your parents, not quite as strict, but strict enough to give you plausible deniability in spite of their various indiscretions of leniency. You’re staying with them, you get home late, and they pretend to be asleep as you crawl through the window, huffing and puffing from someone’s father chasing you across town, then honking his horn for an hour challenging you to come out for a duel.

The next morning at the breakfast table there’s not a word about it. Just Grandpa demurely saying he has a few bullet holes on the house to patch up, no big deal. They pass the eggs and give you nothing but the look of love and pride as you stuff your mouth and stow the rest in your jacket pocket before dashing out of the house to god knows where. “That’s my boy,” I imagine them saying, “he’s going to sire a lot of babies and make sure our family name lives forever.”

Not a chance in hell, of course. He could never find anyone to answer the question appropriately, “Who gives this woman to be this man’s bride?” And even if he did there’s always the question about someone with a reason why they should not be joined together. And if no one else speaks up he has enough ventriloquist talents to fake an objection from somewhere in the room. "She got me that close just to be unceremoniously dumped at the altar..."

The wise and restless spirit of man knows he can’t be tied down to any one person for more than a day or hour. Hence the constant cheating that goes on everyday, making a sad mockery of the vows wedding guests think are sincere and meaningful. And if partners to cheat with are absent -- the sad aftermath of nuclear wars and pesky attacks -- there’s always self-abuse, forever one’s truest devotion in the face of ever-present enemies and family hangers-on and their whole selfish approach to family, the nagging attachment that has a tight grip.

This grandpa’s certainly the wisest most lenient grandpa I’ve heard of, even in the face of knowing that their grandson Jim can hardly wait to get out of their sight to spill his seed somewhere else, who cares where? Indeed, Jim thinks, "I'm a man of the world. I can't stand to be tied down. I could spring into action at any moment. These guys are cramping my style, the old folks of home." He's dying for a wild session of self-abuse but somewhere else is preferable. On an infestation of thistles, on broken glass, somewhere like that where he'd be alone in nature. “Get me out of here,” he whispers to himself, even as Grandpa offers the solitude and freedom of the bathroom, presumably for as long as it takes, which would mean the rest of the family sitting all day in the living room, stoved up, turning blue with backup, while he idled his way through the underwear section of an old Sears catalog.

Yes, we’re all blessed with family. Whether they themselves were an accident or actually wanted, no one remembers the full story. Those secrets were taken to the grave long ago. But if we had to guess, they would've been just as content if we’d never been born.

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Linda Lovelace For President

Part 10 of 30
Self-Abuse September

I hope the Linda Lovelace advertisement doesn’t stir up anything. I mean of a negative vibe, that kind of thing. As for stirring anything else, in a series on gratifying self-abuse, I suppose it could, although the taller you are the more farfetched it’d be. I’ll go first and say it doesn’t stir anything in me except my memories of seeing the film in a theater during its short run. And at this distance in time I needed Wikipedia to remind me what it was even about. My biggest memories of it were 1) Micky Dolenz was the bus driver; and, 2) There was a bus.

In my moments of research I made note as well that Ms. Lovelace has since passed away. I probably heard about when she died -- it’s vaguely familiar -- but my retention of who’s alive and who’s dead, unless it involves traumatic assassinations or loved ones in their last throes (Grandma or my various dogs), is faulty. Be that as it may, I didn’t mean to bring everyone down. This month, more than any month in history, September being Self-Abuse Month, I want everyone to be flying sky-high! Like in the Tom Jones album, “The Lead and How to Swing It.”

If you’d like to get off here, I would understand. Anywhere a guy can get off -- say something hits your funny bone just right -- that’s something to treasure. Here’s an assignment. Take the titles of the songs from that Tom Jones album and think of something lascivious about each one. Ready? 1) If I Only Knew; 2) A Girl Like You; 3) I Wanna Get Back With You; 4) Situation; 5) Something for Your Head; 6) Fly Away; 7) Love Is On Our Side; 8) I Don’t Think So; 9) Lift Me Up; 10) Show Me; and, 11) Changes. I think “Changes” makes a good last title, if you’re thinking of changing the sheets. And “Lift Me Up” more naturally fits either before or after “Something for Your Head.”

The lasciviousness of it writes itself. "If I Only Knew" I was going to blow out the bedroom wall I would have gone to the bathroom. "A Girl Like You" needs to find how how Grandpa used to start his car, with a crank. "I Wanna Get Back With You," that is, as soon as I doublecheck if I have a better offer. "Situation..." A situation's what we're gonna have if your dad walks in. But I'm packing heat. And it's not a gun.  "Something for Your Head," but I'll aim lower. "Fly Away" but don't mess up your landing strip. "Love Is On Our Side," rightside up, upside down... "I Don't Think So," but a couple more minutes and I'll be done. "Lift Me Up," hope it's not too heavy, I've never had complaints before. "Show Me," but don't show me up. And, "Changes," because occasionally the sheet's ... as aforementioned. 

Then examine the hand: Quality, Variety, Service, Comfort, Saving. Just to be brief, on quality at this point, personally, anything will do. As for variety, let's touch on the basics first. Service, it's that time of day. Comfort, I'll make myself at home. And Saving, pretend the world's ending tonight, let's go for the moonshot!

Going back to Linda Lovelace, the point of mentioning her is only because she was one of the more famous porn stars. Porn is one of those weird things that you don’t really need or want a long drawn out story, or even that much length to the film. Unless you plan to watch it in installments. But then the bus scenes and Micky Dolenz would be an unwelcome distraction. Certainly it’s good to have a scenario, but beyond that ... who cares? "Get down, humpa humpa, slurp slurp, eeee-yaaa, shit shit, The End."

Monday, September 9, 2019

Dreaming Of A Bigger Cannon

Part 9 of 30
Self-Abuse September

Every guy has his own feelings about what he’s packin', and knows how those feelings factor into his contentment or lack of contentment. I think they’ve gone as far as they can in terms of supplementing length, but honestly that's never been an interest of mine. So of course surgical augmentation would be a hard sell for me; I'm just not going to do it. If you're like me, it’s time to be content. Restore contentment! If there's any way we can add length to our contentment, in regards to this or any other subject, that's more welcome.

That said, naturally each of us is in our own place about applying the available methods for greater length, either way out in front of others or lagging behind. If it's your thing, it's also your decision. You alone know your circumstances and how much you can stand, and the pros and cons. I would counsel, however, that unless you're involved in tribal dances around bonfires and think the tribe might be about to name you their king, it doesn’t matter. What about impressing others in dressing rooms? It's so much easier to duck behind some lockers to dress, or do what I do, get your exercise riding a bike. Where greater length is actually a hindrance. I've seen big guys swerve into cement walls and die.

But in the end, if you’re really so sensitive, there's truly no law that says you have to refrain from supplements, medicines, and every ancillary thing that hints at or promises relief. Read up on the subject, talk with non-judgmental friends, and of course run it by your priest and friends who are nuns, and search your own heart. And let it be a matter between you and your partner. If your partner is a woman, you can fairly well gauge her feelings in the ordinary course of time. Is she raising the roof with cries of delight, pounding her head on the headboard without injury? Or is she doing her best work knitting or working crossword puzzles and speaking in a dull monotone? Were her fingernails long before you started and nicely trimmed when you’re done? It’s time for help. If your partner is a man, ask him point blank, "Do you like me for my smile or what?"

But augmentation? There’s always trade-offs. You need to be mindful about drugs and their side effects. I'm not a health professional so anything I say about it is for entertainment purposes only. If my words depress you and don't entertain you, remember, they were entertaining when they left my mouth so there’s probably something wrong with your ears. And if there is something wrong with your ears, your wife’s probably been trying to clue you in to your inadequacies for years. Look into ear enlargement drugs and/or surgery. Once they’re the size of elephant ears, then you’re on to something. You’ll be able to hear what everyone’s saying about you, and, once that happens, you might need a middle-finger enlargement.

I truly think, though, concerning what we're dealing with down there, that seeking contentment apart from drugs and unnecessary surgery is the way to go. For those of us who have been content and weren’t getting a lot of action anyway all this might've made us feel inadequate, but we’ve adjusted, we're fine with slim pickin’s. Take me, for example, I’ve aged nicely. I have the usual bruises, but nothing that has any long-term danger as long as I take it easy on off days. In addition, there are chastity devices for men who have trouble forbearing, but -- and this is a weird part of the conundrum -- it might be such an enticing kink that you’ll end up with even more bruises! In which cases, if your doctor prescribes them for you, sleeping pills might be the cure.

Again, if at the end of all these conundrums your doctor is still speaking to you, and your budget allows for all your rather trite nitpicky complaints, please continue to seek further professional help. Until when? Until you've exhausted all the options and no one wants to deal with you ever again.

Sunday, September 8, 2019

Girly Pix Purrfect for Lust

Part 8 of 30
Self-Abuse September

What a hot day. Isn't September supposed to be halfway warm? I've been scouring the Big City for aluminum cans for money to email copies of today’s graphic to servicemen and prisoners for their personal use. I definitely have a humanitarian side, something I'm proud of. Because I honestly believe no matter what servicemen and prisoners have done, they still deserve to "get off" as much as the next guy. And I have to tell you, today's graphic is one of the best I’ve ever worked on, both for the simple utility of the thing and the long lasting psychological benefits of quality sexual objects of lust. I appreciate the photos some of you have sent in, your sweaty foreheads, mussed hair, and of course your upturned eyes rolled back.

I immediately saw the graphic's potential, and you have to believe as soon as I did I rushed it into service, and have found that it’s the perfect combination of lusty imagery and words of adoration, meant to send you over the edge time after time. Caution, trust me, you must never view this image while driving unless you've picked up a hitchhiker to help you steer. I ran it through testing and even an hour after test crashes, when you’re in a loaner car, it’s still hard to drive responsibly, the images even then coming to your mind in a picture perfect clarity, memories you can’t forget. I myself believe I’m a guy “who’s seen it all,” but even I stood tall through three straight hours of Mr. Pillow commercials, zero diminishing through even that. But attempting to drive, it was hard to find the stick shift, and only after a series of nine accidents, and several warnings from law enforcement -- picky picky picky -- did I finally get home

At the risk of embarrassing myself -- I’m not temperamentally given to public displays of lust -- let me touch on each lascivious presentation. “Do ya love me? I love U!” OK, that’s it for that one. “What a slice!” Looking at the cake and agreeing, indeed it is! Then there’s the satiny wedding gown and an absolute knockout’s sensuous purr to the reverend, making even a holy man reach for a hankie to daub his forehead, “I do! I do!” As for the little doll saying, “Yes, this is she!,” she knows she’s playing with fire. But that’s nothing like my favorite girl with props, a life sized clock and a serious grip on an erect pointer. “Guys, ohhhh guys, Is this how little ole me’s supposed to hold it? Does that feel … about right?” She ad libbed some of that. Then we’re back to adult supervisor Dr. Killjoy with a pointless statement (that I actually agree with), “Guys, words fail me.” Still, too bad they didn’t fail him three minutes ago, enough time for him to vamoose and let someone of a sexier persuasion to take his place, perhaps a purring Catwoman.

It’s funny how it works with captions. Captions are labels that set the tone, and long after the picture has faded from memory, you can still remember them, and the time she was reaching down to scratch your thigh -- persistent itch in mosquito season -- and accidentally veered somewhat off course and asked, possibly without irony, “Did I get it?” Oh, baby, baby you got it!

It's a hot day, off to take a quick bath. And this time in the nude!

Saturday, September 7, 2019

Ted's Trying To Unwind

Part 7 of 30
Self-Abuse September

Some marriages are very open. Not that I would know personally, being the world’s oldest bachelor and at this point not looking. But I’ve known a lot of guys, and since they know I have a listening ear and discrete mouth -- keeping their secrets, not to the grave yet but it could be anytime -- they tell me what’s going on.

And what is going on? you’re wondering. Well, pull up a chair -- quick! -- and promise me you won’t tell another living soul. Tug your thingie and hope to lose it? Join pinkies, brother to brother swear? Screw karma and all future prospects for a full and meaningful life if you squeal? Now point to your elimination system. Butter butter blister, yeah, I’ll take a fist there. ‘Cos that’s what’s gonna happen to you if... -- Swear it on a stack of Adam magazines -- ...if you so much as breathe a single, solitary, licentious, lascivious, objectively horny word of what I’m about to tell you... OK, I took the vow, too, but I have a special dispensation to squeal, by which I mean reveal for academic purposes related to the medical or psychiatric field. One-time privilege.

Well, you know Ted up the street? Past the Butler's place. Other side of the road, the guy with the bad fence, not overly protective of his place, the vandals always getting the best of him. That guy. Well, since he heard that I’m one of the world’s biggest experts in male sexuality, he’s been over here asking my advice what he can do about his old lady continually finding him, discovering him, catching him, and at times even tripping over him when going about his necessary (his opinion) fits and feats of self-abuse. This is a guy I just naturally take under my wing, the meek, the clueless, the easily trodden on, the hopeless, a guy with few gifts up here, or down here for that matter. I'm the Statue of Liberty on this stuff, "Give me your tired, poor, easily caught..."

I told him, Ted, The Good Lord gave you two heads, choose one and think with it. He pointed to his skull. I shook my head no. He pointed the other direction and I nodded, overlapping my lips like Grandma used to do when the answer was “Duh.” Then we dove into the full slate of lessons like I used to teach them in the clubhouse: Knowing Your Needs, Knowing Your Options, Being Tricky, and of course the biggie, Reading the Clock. Yes, it’s still true if you have wives or parents bugging you, 3 A.M. Is Still Your Best Friend.

Unfortunately, Ted was still somewhat hopeless, but by some miracle it all worked out. His wife came home from church early to give it one last shot toward his conversion, when, let’s say Ted was tied up in knots, so wound up and uptight that he literally screwed himself all the way to the basement. (In fairness, the floorboards were rotten.) The wife of course waddled down the stairs as fast as she could, a weird twisting gait. Bending down, she felt around in the darkness. And it was probably a miracle, but in trying to uncoil Ted’s legs she and he both became entwined, which jump-started their relationship right there on the wet floor. She went immediately from apoplectic to a'priapic. And somehow seemed like she had the equivalent of a master’s degree in foreplay!

I regret to say self-abuse for Ted is no longer Number One ... can't win 'em all. But for such an unexpected and rare thing, he's in the Book of World Records and Mrs. Ted also reigns as a top finisher. Hornier than I would've thought.

Friday, September 6, 2019

Yes, Master, I've Been Bad

Part 6 of 30
Self-Abuse September

This one is mostly for other people into this kind of thing. I don’t have much experience with being mistreated physically (or during play). I’ve suffered mentally more than anything, which I covered a few months ago in my guidance counselor series. Of course it's all ancient history and he’s dead. My only recourse against him now, and associated therapy, are monthly road trips to the cemetery. It’s about a five hour drive one way for a good long piss. Which seems like a long way to go -- and on top of that it’s only his cremains! -- but it keeps me sane.

On the bright side, the farther the trip the more coffee I can drink, so it’s more worthwhile than might appear on the surface. My real hope is that Medicare will start covering private plane flights, since I haven’t found a direct commercial flight to that particular cemetery. They wouldn’t even have to turn it off. I’d run in, tinkle, and be back home in no time.

The graphic of the guy kicking the crap out of his partner has some interesting sexual aspects. The more interesting aspects of any graphic are psychological and you have to feel for the guy. Having to tell the supposed dom that he’s in charge and what to do. “I deserve worse, Sir,” that sort of thing. The Pink Vested One putting his foot to the unruly bottom under his command stands for the underling hinting around, “Uh, you’re not doing it right, I deserve worse, sir.” Yes, he probably does deserve worse, but if it takes telling him, maybe the other shoe should be on the other bottom. Putting pink wuss in his place!

Then comes another hint, hoping not to disturb whatever understanding they may have had before -- and to me it looks tentative and more wished for than a reality -- “But of course you know better.” Does he know better? Maybe, but our kicked friend’s calling the shots, not the other way around. You can objectively tell how lenient he is, it rates only 2 stars on a 5/6 star scale. Which, I don’t know, I’m not that into pain, doesn’t sound terrifically brutal. Worthy, I guess, of hinting around. “Do you mean business with my business or are you just pussyfooting around? Do I need to send you out to pasture, blacklist your name in the community? Exactly what do I have to do for you to take damned control here and give me the kicking of my life like I deserve?" The guy, not me.

But who knows? Maybe violence is out these days in sex play. I can see how it’d just be a relationship thing, a few slight taps and that’ll hold you. But there’s plenty of people -- I believe -- who want a lot better, meaning a lot worse. If that’s your fantasy today, picture me, a stern look on my face, mopping my brow as if to say this is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me -- the things I have to put up with, you very bad boys, very bad girls. Despicable. I’m so disappointed in all of you. If I want something done, I have to do it my damned self! You're worthless! And I don’t wanna hear a peep out of you, got that? Shut up!

Self-abusing yet?