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Self Service

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Self Service

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Last weekend after a long night of drinking, I found myself in the usual spot: smashed into a booth at a diner discussing inappropriate things. Eventually, what started as a peaceful meal among friends was contorted into a discussion about masturbation.

My friend Shannon was the headliner. She told a story about how she was so nervous that her dad kept calling her and telling he was finding contents in boxes in the garage that belonged to her.

“Shannon, I found another box of yours. There were some CDs and a hairdryer. You really need to get this stuff out of here.”

After setting up the conflict, like any good storyteller, Shannon revealed what led to the climax: “I really wish he’d stap (stop) snew-ping (snooping) through tho-wooze (those) baxes (boxes). My viibrator’s in one of tho-wooze baxes”.

The usual reaction for this story occurred—my two male friends who did not get to hear it as often as I did sat in silence, mouths agape and heads full of mental pictures. Every few minutes, like school children, they’d beg Shannon to tell the story again.

After establishing every detail about the vibrator we could: color, size, frequency of use, we turned to more familiar discussion—male masturbation.

The guys decided to reminisce the good old days: our first times.

My friend Andrew discussed his with a glimmer in his eye: “I mean the first time I did it, I really didn’t know what had happened…but I knew I liked it.”

We asked what his material was. He told us nothing. No magazines, no videos, no nothing—just the power of the mind. Not bad.

I realized it had been years since I used my imagination, or a magazine. I explained that my first masturbation experience was to a 1978 Playboy. I remembered where I was and how I felt; it was a magical experience. From there I moved on to erotic thrillers on late night Cinemax through my early years.

I compared notes with my kindred spirits.

“I like it better when Shannon Tweed is the aggressive psycho who is seducing man after man after woman after man.”

“I like when she plays the sex psychologist.”

“Bored housewife works for me.”

“Did you know Andrew Stevens directs the movies and acts in them?”

For some reason, guys love talking masturbation more than girls do. Perhaps it’s just the general disgusting nature of males, but I believe that we just love the fact that we can have an orgasm any time, anywhere (within reason).

I remembered traveling to a wedding in Denver with my friend Jeff. We shared a room and vowed neither of us would sleep there. Of course, I returned home to find him passed out on the couch, even though he had left the reception with a girl and I had attended a party after. Apparently he had been “cock-teased” by a “cougar” (cougar: a single woman in her early to mid thirties who is attractive enough to sleep with, and displays aggressive behavior towards younger males because she’s confident and knows what she wants). I had struck out after following the groom’s little sister, a dancer for the Colorado Buffaloes football team, around like a puppy dog. Jeff was writhing around on the couch.

“Dude, can I just have five minutes in the bedroom alone,” he asked.

I was used to this. My college roommate and I often asked one another the same question and, gentlemen we were, we always obliged.

After Jeff emerged from the bedroom, he looked rejuvenated. I asked him what he had thought about when he was masturbating.

“Oh my god! I got it all out,” he said. “I thought about the cougar, the girl at our table, the girl I danced with, this one girl I saw at a party later.”

“Did you think about the Colorado dancer,” I asked.

Jeff put his hands on his head as if he had just gotten an unexpectedly high quote on a car repair.

“OH MY GOD I FORGOT,” he cried.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure that’s not the last time you ever do that.”

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