Mind Of Man: Why Men Fly Solo
Recently, it has come to my attention that there are women out there curious about the self-love habits of the male species. (Specifically, a Frisky staffer who will probably get angry if I give her a shout-out in this post.) Since I have opined about female masturbation, it seems only fair that I pontificate on the mysteries of men self-pleasuring. As The Frisky’s houseboy/wizard/testosterone consultant, I feel it is my responsibility to explain such things. But first things first: your boyfriend or husband masturbates. No, this doesn’t mean you’re not satisfying him in bed. Tsk-tsk, it’s not always about you. This just means he has a penis, and some time to kill. Remember, female orgasms are tiny little atomic blasts. Male orgasms are more like Roman candles. Which we buy in bulk.
It’s a scientific fact that if men don’t masturbate, they die. But that’s not the sole reason we do it. I remember when I first discovered the sublime glory of onanism. I must have been 13, my body a coffee pot percolating with hormones. What a magical time for a boy, the world one giant, jiggling breast. Angry boners constantly making themselves known, standing at attention while watching Cheetara somersault on “Thundercats,” or observing the matronly curves of a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth, or just sitting in the middle of Mass (I couldn’t help myself; I was literally surrounded by Catholic school girls). The first nude picture I ever saw was in a magazine, which is like an iPad you can sit on and it’s no big deal. Am I the only person who’s ever imagined what our distant ancestors’ faces looked like when they beheld fire for the first time? Their simian faces twisted with awe and fear, unable to fully comprehend the significance of what they were witnessing, and yet, vaguely aware that this thing, this fire, was good? That was my exact expression as my eyeballs rolled up and down the page. Right now, there are thousands of 13-year-olds making that exact same face.
After growing bored desperately dry-humping my pillow, I instinctively decided to defile myself. There was an initial period of trial and error. Does one clutch and tug? Twist? Slap? Stroke? Two hands? Palms open? A fist? Are the testicles purely decorative? I was a knight on a quest, albeit a sticky one. But wouldn’t you know, I figured it out. And for a few days, I felt like I had just unlocked the secrets of the universe. Was I a genius? A superhero? Was my mutant power the ability to make myself pass out after making a mess? The Ejaculator! Kaptain Kleenex! The Amazing Hard-On! Thus, a lifelong love affair was born. There was a while there when religious guilt descended over my one-man bathroom parties, but after intense theological meditation,
As I mentioned earlier, your man masturbates. How many times does he do it? Probably once a day. Or twice. Three times if he’s lucky, and/or 19 years old. One of the sad truths of the male condition is that our precious bodily fluids are finite in supply, which keeps us from locking ourselves in a room and yanking it until we starve to death. There are dudes who do it in the morning, with a coffee chaser; others do it right before bed, as the very act produces all-natural, Ambien-like chemicals. If pressed for an average, though, I’d have to say that there are probably few men who go three days without toggling. Why not? I mean, it feels great. It’s refreshing. Opens the pores, smoothes out wrinkles, stimulates the four humors. In fact, I’m masturbating right now as I write this column.
Men have many names for self-pleasure. “Jerking off,” “choking the chicken,” and “rubbing one out” are a few of the most popular … and most cliché terms. There are others, like “shucking the man corn,” “milking the uni-udder,” or “performing the ‘top kill’ maneuver.” I’ve always been partial to “teatime for winky,” “reading The Economist,” or “ringing the sperm bells.” Since the weekend, I have “released the Kraken,” “made the trains run on time,” and “made balloon animals” at least twice.
Now, there are two types of cranking it, two opposing philosophies on how to do it correctly. Think Catholic versus Protestant, Sunni versus Shia, or Jedi versus Sith. There are those who believe in lube and those who do not. I do not use lube. Sure, when I was younger, I experimented with various lubricants. Canola oil. Vasoline. Shampoo. Peanut butter (not crunchy!). But, basically, I do it raw, as there’s more friction. Those are the two main ideological masturbation differences. The rest is just details.
There are guys who do it in the shower, but my knees buckle. I do it sitting down, or reclining. I had a roommate once in college who kept what he called a “masturbation station” near his bed. It was a tidy little table with tissues, lube, and Gatorade. He might or might not be a serial killer now. Also, in college, the frat boys down the hall would sometimes brag about jerking off together. I truly hope at least one of them is currently running a nice antique shop in Vermont.
One question I know you ladies probably want to know the answer to: what exactly we are thinking about while we’re cleaning our pipes? I would think that most guys fantasize about ex-girlfriends and hot sexual trysts from their pasts. Or they watch erotic short cinema on the internet. The full spectrum of potential, imaginary sex partners is fair game. The receptionist. Your best friend. Your sister. A clown. Michelle Obama, Zooey Deschanel, or Nancy Grace. Personally, I fantasize about my girlfriend, whom I love very much. My number one fantasy is the two of us heavy petting during a rose petal monsoon. Of course, when she’s out of town, I close the curtains and fantasize about two twinkling space dolphins making love in a pink, swirling nebula.
So, that’s male masturbation in a nutshell. Hey, you asked.
Follow John DeVore’s preening narcissism on Twitter.