A Week of Masturbation MarathonPosted: April 29, 2011
On April 3rd a great undertaking was taken under our under garments . Michael Mckinney and I challenged ourselves to a duel only the greatest hedonist would comprehend. After some casual chatting and a little light bragging, we discovered we were quite the self heavy petters. That’s right we smacked the salami, we chocked the lizard, we nuzzled the wet nose, we crocheted the caboodle, we danced around the may pole, we percolated the beans, we popped the popcorn, we buttered the biscuits, we jerked the cajun chicken, we olly olly oxen freed ourselves, and somewhere in there we masturbated a little. But who could shoot to the stars the most by the end of 7 days?
Here is an installment of our “week in masturbations”. Most accounts of the journey were painstakingly and tenderly written (with a hand that did a lot of touching) by Michael Mckinney.
Sunday, April 3
In light of recent discussions we’d been having about the subject, Caitlin Enwright and I have decided to keep track of and log, in some detail, every time we masturbate for the next week. One part contest (to see who touches themselves most), and one part sociological experiment. Today is the beginning. The few friends I’ve told about this, just look at me with the ever incredulous eye. Let the unbelievers die. I’ll jizz on their graves….
My day in masturbations, following in the style of Gertrude Stein, more specifically, Tender Buttons.
It is a thing, like seasons, to do. To do it at 11:30 am, it is a wiser aim. And quicker, Sometimes a chicken broth and a grapefruit and the tip of a limb. The shadow climbs then you see another. It’s not a vanity, not an institution, a heat wave is a soft one. It is. It is. Like a mosquito, 3 o’clock comes around and I did it twice now! Splay the pennies, smell the eucalyptus, drain the sky, murder the rat. It is a truth. I did it twice! It is a thing, much like a bucket or a haircut.
Monday, April 4
1:45 pm –
Woke up in shambles at half past noon today on a Chilean co-workers couch in West Seattle. There was a Mexican in the kitchen shuffling around, making coffee I think. I got up, acknowledged him with a nod and left. My eyes hurt and there was a dull pain in the back of my head. My mouth was dry and unwashed, my throat was soar from too many Marlboros. Last nights debauchery left me withered. Really not a good day to continue a masturbation marathon. After arriving home from a miserable bus ride I went straight to my room and shut the door. I removed my jeans and contemplated whether I should just hop in bed and go back to sleep or get this masturbation-fest on the road. Being the competitor I am, I began browsing the web for some pornographic motivation. I settled on a plain-faced blonde who was apparently fucking her boyfriend. I swear to god the shit that came out of this girls mouth was meant to make you last longer because every time that shrill, long island accent uttered a retarded, incomplete sentence, my boner died. I quickly switched off the volume not wanting to waste more time. Now silent, I could finish in peace, right? Wrong. Masturbating when battling a hangover is borderline torture. I would equate it to manual labor. But I beat and I beat and beat through it until that sweet release finally set me free. Thank god.
In conclusion, I totally chore-fucked my hand and feel it imperative to say that, for the sake of this contest/sociological experiment, I felt very unsatisfied afterward.
Returned home after resting and then running some errands in slightly better spirits. Unzipped and masturbated with ease and pleasure to a black and white photo of Anna Karina, circa 1962. It felt romantic. She makes me swoon. Wiped the semen from my hand with a couple squares of toilet paper and tossed it in the wastebasket. Done and done. Now I will slumber, hopefully conjuring dreams of the lovely Anna Karina.
This is the first installment, of which there will be more to cum.