Almost a year ago Michael Mckinney and Caitlin Enwright subjected themselves to a grueling sociological experiment. This is the long lost, final installment of that project.
Thursday, april 7
I did it three times today. Choked the chicken, buffed the banana, spanked the monkey. The first one, upon waking, was the best. The other two were forgettable, a mix of slight boredom and feeling like I needed to do it just so I wouldn’t fall behind Caitlin. I probably could have got one more in, but I didn’t feel like forcing another and I spent my energy instead, on dancing. When I arrived home, I fell asleep immediately. I did manage, during the day, to write a little poem inspired by this string of masturbations. It follows:
Walking the One-Eyed Dog
for Caitlin Enwright – “I’m all dried up.”
Masturbation is gratitude
Masturbation is perfect
Masturbation is hiccups
Masturbation is dead
Masturbation is insurance payoff
Masturbation is worship
Masturbation is libation
Masturbation is God
Masturbation is A Very Pretty Girl
Masturbation is dressing up like the mailman
Masturbation is putting mayo on the knuckle sandwich
Masturbation is a dog we picked up
From the pound. A pure-bred Greyhound
With bulging ribs and a broken leg and
99 problems t’boot. He even had a poked out
Eye from a teenage fight. But we
Took him in and fed him all our scraps
Until he wasn’t a pitiful runt no more. Now,
Masturbation is one of us. Some even say
Masturbation saved our family.
Masturbation gave us something to want.
Masturbation brought us closer together.
Masturbation was sent from above.
Masturbation made us new…..
*masturbation is walking the one-eyed dog.
Friday, April 8
Woke up and immediately engaged myself in the act. Around 8:00 am, I believe. Thought about things I shouldn’t have, but I don’t feel guilty. Had no urge whatsoever for the rest of the day. This marathon is exhausting me. It has become more grueling than I ever would have thought. It’s taking more concentration with every stroke. The volume of sperm that comes out upon ejaculation has gone down drastically. I’m practically shooting blanks. I did manage to squeeze out one more load before going to bed, but it was forced and felt like a chore. One more day… One more day…
Saturday, April 9
Well, it done. I beat the meat once today around 2pm. Had no urge whatsoever to masturbate for the rest of the day. At one point at Franks house, I went into the bathroom and Rose guarded the door because it doesn’t stay shut. I stood by the toilet and unzipped. I stared at my dick for a while trying to conjure up anything that might get me hard. I couldn’t. My body was telling me “no way man, uh-uh”. I didn’t fight it and zipped up my pants and left. I suspect I won’t be masturbating for a few days. I feel like my body needs some time to make more sperm. I’m happy I did this but I’m glad to be done.
On the night of April 9th 2011, after meeting in a bar and realizing they were toe to toe in this competition with just a few hours left, they each left with a dwindling amount of enthusiasm to win. On April 10th they tied. 14 to 14. Finally it was over and the city went into rest.
Another installment of masturbation madness:
Tuesday, April 5
8:30 am –
I woke with morning wood. How convenient! I rolled completely onto my back, closed my eyes, or rather kept them closed, and began my stroking. I imagined a cute girl with her hair in a bob and her bangs brushing against her eyebrows. Her eyes were big and green and gazing up at me as she, on all fours, sucked me off. I imagined her mouth with dull red lipstick, smudged on her small curly lips; two pale flames stretched across her morning face, two pale flames dancing back and forth and around my cock….. I finished in her mouth.
This was an ideal masturbatory experience. Everything was natural, my imagination got put to use, and all from the comforts of my warm little bed. A nice way to start the day.
Over breakfast I was pondering the Savage Detective by Roberto Bolano, in particular, the scene where young poet Juan Garcia Madero masturbates to a poem he’s just discovered by Efren Rebolledo (1877-1929). Feeling intrigued, I pulled the book from the bookshelf and read over this section a few times. I brought the book down to my room thinking that I would try and masturbate to this poem sometime in the future and see what results would yield. At around noon, after catching up on some correspondence, I crawled into bed and began touching myself. I started thinking about my friend ————, who has been mostly platonic, although we have a had a few quite nice exceptions. While thinking about her on top of me, bouncing softly in half light, I flipped open to the poem by Rebolledo and began reciting. I think I made it through the poem 3 or 4 times before ejaculation.
The poem is very good but I’m not sure if it helped me cum quicker. Also, I can’t help but feel a little bit like an angsty, teenage bitch. Here is the poem in full:
Whirling your deep and gloomy tresses pour
over your candid body like a torrent,
and on the shadowy and curling flood
I strew the fiery roses of my kisses.
As I unlock the tight rings
I feel the light chill chafing of your hand,
and a great shudder courses over me
and penetrates me to the very bone.
Your chaotic and disdainful eyes
glitter like stars when they hear the sigh
that from my vitals issues rendingly,
and you, thirsting, as I agonize,
assume the form of an implacable
black vampire battening on my burning blood.
~Documented by Michael Mckinney
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.
These photos were taken by my friend Alex Thomas. She recently moved to Tokyo and about three weeks later the life altering earthquake shook Japan. She was safe…but the mounting difficulties with the nuclear radioactivity forced them to come back to the U.S. Below are some images she captured in Japan of subtle everyday moments. She has a blog as well (Babo Bunny ) where she’s written an account, along with images, of the day the earthquake hit.