Getting To Third Base With Your Bad Self

By BOB FINDLE

I was first introduced to Rosy Palm when I was a geeky 13-year-old dweb with a bad haircut and glasses. She sure has been sweet to me all these years. In all honesty, in my 40-plus passing calendars my clenched paw is my longest lasting relationship. Rosy has seen me through the onset of crotch and ass hair; Clearasil-coated acne; drunken disco cruising; Marky Mark in Calvins; trashy Internet hookups; and now crow’s feet and male pattern baldness. Fuck buds, boyfriends and partners may come and go like the Redline #3 Subway, but Rosy stays constant.

My friend Keith first told me about this masturbation thing. He was also 13 at the time and had found a copy of Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Sex * But Were Afraid To Ask in his parents’ chest of drawers. He called me pronto with the astounding news. Not about finding the book itself, but the info it imparted on his young mind and hard, pubescent cock. Sure, we’d both been getting boners for a few years and while we thought them a funny trick of the dick we had no idea their purpose.

This was the ’70s after all. The last era of childhood innocence. Keith, now having drunk from the steaming chalice of libidinous knowledge, was an innocent no more. He had the answers as to why our little soldiers stood proudly at attention every morning and at random times throughout the day. He was ready to share all. The word was: Rub your dick and it feels good. Rub it long enough and hard enough and it feels really good. White stuff comes out, he said. In spurts. I was not convinced. He claimed first-hand authority. Had already done it several times to great success and encouraged me to do the same. He warned me though not to get caught.

So began my prehensile affair with myself. Like most teenage boys, once I experienced the pleasures flesh does hold, no cease-and-desist order from the U.S. Supreme Court itself would halt me from working my meat tender. I turned Japanese, yes, I really think so, several times a day, every day. It mattered not a dink I had no real privacy or that I sometimes sported a rubbed-raw rod or that I had to contend with an ill-tempered older sister threatening to rat me out anytime she wanted to get in the bathroom while I was behind the locked door panting down the payload homestretch with a quivering fist full of me.

And fuck the priests and nuns at Catholic school who took the boys aside and tried to intimidate us into submissive chastity with ominous warnings of eternal damnation for giving in to wanton lust and self-pollution. Sorry, it didn’t work. Sister Mary of Perpetual Severity lectured that pulling on my pecker was a sin, that Jesus died to pay for my sins and “you just think about that, young man.”

I did think about it, Sister, and reasoned every DNA-laden deposit I made in a tissue or in the bathroom sink or in the shower or in the woods behind the house or in a sandwich baggie taken to bed to catch the fragrant evidence of my regular morning before-school wank was just giving J.H.C. his well-deserved money’s worth.

Years later, I am still at it. Not as much now that I have honed my skills for ass fucking, but jacking it off is still a nice choice on the loosen-a-load menu. Think of it -- what if we could only have orgasms with another person’s help? There sure would be a hella lot less picky people out there.

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