Masturbation is the comedian of the Hollywood of life. No matter how much pleasure it brings, it will still be seen as lacking something, lurking in the shadow of intercourse, its overachieving older brother. A good wack off session is looked at like an enjoyable Jim Carrey vehicle – great fun yes, but you’re going to have to do more than that if you want the true respect. Sex is then, of course, the dramas that become omnipresent during awards season, an eternally serious and adult affair, seen as the pinnacle of what can be achieved in this medium.
Lately I’ve been doing my best to wipe the daydreamy, childish fantasies from my eyes and look at girls more realistically than I ever have before. The general consensus of these self-imposed studies was magnified and driven home when my mom came to stay with us for two weeks during this past Christmas season. I’d forgotten how jarring female energy can be to a bachelor pad.
As someone who not only lives but indulges in the single life (in a ‘teenager home alone’ kind of way, not a ‘bitches all the time’ kind of way), I was rudely awakened to the realities awaiting anyone who attaches a female to themselves as my mom constantly, endlessly fretted over the different things that were wrong with our apartment and/or lifestyle.
I love my mom to death and mean no disrespect, but the constant ‘Those dishes are still sitting in the sink’ commentary did make me realize how much this life I’m living is for me, and how, after so much ranting revolving around an attempt to find out a definitive reason for my exhaustive celibacy, I may just (ready for this one?) not be right for girls at all.
What I would assume to be the automatic response to the above sentence (Well, you know, you have to work at it) indicates what is at the heart of my illusion popping: the fact that interacting with the opposite sex, from casual hook ups all the way up to walking to the altar, is a job. It requires work, practice, skill, dedication, patience, learning. Those of you who’ve gotten down and dirty in the world of dating for years may find that a laughably obvious statement, and yet it took forever for the twinkle-eyed, naive bitch that resides inside of me to truly grasp and figure it out.
In a discussion about my lack of ability to do, um, anything, in life, I mentioned how easy it was for me to commit to going to the gym most days. My buddy Matteo’s response was quite illuminating. He pointed out how I could go by myself, didn’t have to speak to or interact with anyone, and was involved in completely solo activities while there. Indeed, many of my interests (smoking a blunt and going to the mall, smoking a blunt and listening to music, smoking a blunt and…you get the idea) hover around a sense of being detached and not having to interact that much, whereas stepping into the arena of dating requires the antithesis of that mentality.
My dream girl, the one who probably would’ve been my wife had my career path (and yes, complete lack of romantic competence) been different, came to stay with me out here in California for an entire summer so we could see what the next step was like. Turns out ‘annoying’ was the answer to that question. I watched the girl that made my heart smash violently against my sternum and made me feel overcome to the point of nausea with lust, love and other terrifying emotions, turn gradually into a nagging mother staying in the apartment (the sync up of my mom coming to visit while she was here led to a hysterical yet heartbreaking incident of them both asking me to clean up my room while I wanted to scream, ‘TWO of them bitching?! Are you fucking KIDDING ME?!’ at the top of my lungs).
There was never a girl I wanted more and she turned into a thorn in my (admittedly immature and unready for love) side. It took years of hurt and retrospect for it to fully kick in how badly my distance made me treat her. Now, with that internalized into my kid brain, I’m looking at every girl differently. I keep asking, ‘What is it that you really want?’ OK, so a girl looks hot. Do you want to fuck her? Are you even capable of having the traditional American one night stand or do the hypersensitive emotions make that impossible? What happens when you knock her off that pedestal you so adore putting girls on and bring her down into the ‘She needs a ride from you today’ world of dating?
All I can see is the reality. No more lustful teenage fantasies buoyed by the perceived fact that girls are nothing but toys to give pleasure through playing with them. No more cornball, hand-holding, department store-shopping daydreams that indicate a seriously disturbing lack of manhood. Just me picturing the girl I’m drooling over in my house yelling at me for something I didn’t do, or telling me I should want more out of life, or to not forget we’re going out with her friends next Thursday.
Yup, all I see is that and a guy who fell in love with Charles Bukowski and wants to be alone in a room dumping the roaring, unrelenting inner monologue down into a word file and loves the bachelor life more than he even realized being drowned in realizations at the age of 30, and wondering, desperately wondering why, why, anyone hasn’t figured out life’s great secret and simply given up the game entirely?
Everywhere I look I see emotional chaos spewing forth from the tiniest interactions. The assembly line of insecurity and doubt that comes from texting someone you just met and waiting for a response back. The angst-ridden wondering of if the person you fucked last night has any interest in seeing you again. The one month anniversary making ‘Where is this going?’ thoughts leak out. The one year anniversary making ‘Where is this going?’ thoughts leak out. Any goddamn aspect of the whole entire stratosphere of romantic and sexual interaction. It all seemed to so quickly water slide into internal agony that could be easily avoided!
So as this deceptively simple, unbelievable-even-to-me conclusion (the whole thing’s just not for me) barrels towards me, I’m forced to return to where this article started – the timeless art of self-induced orgasms.
As I mentioned, ever since high school masturbation has been a double edged sword. On one hand, it was the perfect loophole to get out of having to go through the terror of interacting with girls, and on the other, it was to be forever looked at as the mark of the loser, the virgin, the hopeless in love.
But why? Speaking in over-simplified, comedic terms, isn’t the only reason a guy ever puts himself through the roller coaster of female interaction because he wants assisted orgasms? And wasn’t that based in the one pounding, completely natural urge to get that semen the fuck out of you once the irrepressible boner once again reared its mushroom head? And wasn’t the end result always the same? I mean, I’d much rather shit in my own, comfy, magazine-stocked bathroom than have to deal with a cold, piss-soaked, germ-ridden gas station bathroom, sure, but no matter which restroom you walk out of, the relief is still exactly the same.
Minus, of course, the nugget of confidence that automatically comes to a male after he’s gotten his genitals wet, and that, I believe, is all that gets our species hung up on it, because masturbation is awesome.
How else could I be stimulated by hundreds, thousands, of different kinds of females without ever having to worry about their feelings on the matter? How else could I actually use these girls, stripping them down to the one component I need at the moment, sexual arousal, and then completely dismissing them with the click of a button? How else could I focus on nothing but my own pleasure without feeling guilty? How else could I get the kind of screaming orgasms that are the sole motivation for males to enter a night club all on my own and pass out immediately afterwards, with no other living being to even give a second’s thought to? Most importantly, what other activity could ever so fully illuminate the terrifying habit that sexual desires had of evacuating the premises the second the semen was released?
For example, I love thick and curvy women. Something about that body type inspires endless, dog-like lust in me. I can pull up a picture of an abnormally curvy girl, have it make me go dog shit crazy and, ahem, release, and then go about my day without ever bothering that girl. Let’s say I notice her in real life, feel that same urge rocket up in me, spit some quick game, do the actual deed (so much more respectable than wacking it to her, right?), and then, once I’m finished, feel the same immediate disinterest I would after rubbing one out, but now with this poor female in my bedroom. Now I couldn’t care less about her, but need to get her out, and possibly deal with her feelings afterward of wanting it to be more (or surprising myself with my own). Now that one little urge means that if I run into this girl again, I’ve got to make small talk or come across as a ‘hit it and quit it’ douche.
Suddenly the pointless pain and madness of the dating scene makes perfect sense. This article was written by my brain. People who bravely enter the world of interaction are mostly guided by their hearts or genitals, both wildly selfish and unreliable organs. As my ‘just leave me alone‘, solace-worshipping, man-child personality really sinks in, I’m suddenly starting to wonder if masturbation isn’t actually the greatest thing available to a calm-lifestyle-loving human.
Oh, sure, our species is gonna be quick to tell you that the tumultuous, unpredictable waves of the dating sea are everything that makes life worth living, that the pain and doubt and wondering and joy and lust and ecstasy are the very back and forth that let you know you’re alive, the very emotional tsunamis that have birthed our greatest art, our addiction to such one of the main things that keeps our species going. They’re probably right. It’s just that human interaction is so messy, leaving slime trails of sentiment all over everything, and as I think back to the annoyance of my mom’s nagging, I realize the one thing that has my misanthropic ass so hung up on masturbation:
It only ever leaves a physical mess.