If my life were a movie, it would start with a Spelling Bee. The camera would fade from black to a close up, on a pair of lips.
"Please spell the word..." our lips say "VAGINA"
Notice the lanky kid on stage? Six feet tall. Short brown hair. Brown eyes. Hootie and The Blowfish T-shirt. This goofy piece of shit, he is me.
"VAJINA..." I say "V-A-J-I-N-A, VAJINA.
This close up of lips, tell me it's incorrect.
Some kid from behind the stage yells "What a pussy!"
I don't even think he meant the pun.
I walk off stage with my head down. A tear trickles down my left cheek. How was I supposed to know how to spell Vagina? I've never seen one. Not even read about one.
I'm a disgrace to pubescent boys everywhere. I'm even a disgrace to Hootie and The Blowfish . I don't even deserve to wear this T-shirt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my friend Hagen at the podium. I exit stage left as I hear his word.
"Please spell the word "CLITORIS." The Judge says
"I hate the Cock Suckin' word!" he says
Hagen tends to fail miserably when he's nervous. He also uses the words "Cock" and "Suckin" quite frequently. Even at Thirteen.
"Fine. I'll spell the Mother Fuckin' Word." he says
Also Note- The use of "Mother" and "Fucker" are used fairly common as well.
If my life were a movie, right now, at this moment in my life, eighty percent would hit the cutting room floor. Unless the camera wants to shoot me masturbating.
Please spell the word TABOO. T-A-B-O-O, TABOO
Read all the books and Dr. Joyce books you want. There are two kinds of liars in this world.
Those who say they don't masturbate
Those who say they've quit.
Unless you're the poor bastard who had both his arms ripped off from his tractor. He's the exception to the rule. I'm sure he still thinks about it.
Go ahead. Read your books, your facts. I dare you to find something different.
January 11th will make it eight months. Eight months since my wife left me.
The five stages of Grief after you've lost someone are:
If you don't believe me, ask my friend Stacy. Go ahead. He has a bachelors is Psychology. A real one.
To the above five stages, I'd like to make an amendment. It's actually more of an addition.
The six stages of grief after you've lost someone are:
Add- Masturbation Contemplation.
There are three kinds of liars in this world:
Those who don't think about masturbating.
Those who say they don't masturbate.
Those who say they've quit.
After sleeping in the same bed as your spouse for six years it gets kind of lonely when you don't, sleep in the same bed that is.
Tonight I lay on my back motionless. I can't sleep. The slightest noise is keeping me awake. The refrigerator runs. It sounds like a fucking jackhammer. A garage door from the neighborhood opens. It sounds like nails against a fucking chalkboard. Even the thoughts in, my own fucking head sound as if the volume is turn up to 50 on my television. I can't sleep. I am so so very tired but I can't sleep. It’s been so long since I’ve had a warm body lying next to mine you’d think I’d be used to it by now. I’m not. I probably never will, be used to it that is.
So I think about it.
Tell me I’m sick. Tell me I’m a fucking pervert for thinking about it. Tell me I’m a fucking weirdo for writing about it.
I’ll probably agree.
Tell me it’s wrong. Tell me most men and women don’t do it. Tell me once you’re past a certain age you shouldn’t even think about it.
I’ll call you a fucking liar.
There are four kinds of liars in this world:
Those who say they don’t masturbate
Those who say they’ve quit
Those who say they don’t think about masturbating
Those who say they’re too old to masturbate.
Sometime last week I had a conversation with Anonymous de New York. He told me he was masturbating at his computer when he noticed someone looking through his blinds. He forgot the cardinal rule to the pre-game warm up. Always make sure all binds are shut and drapes are pulled closed. Anonymous de New York told me he bolted up, ran to his door, opened the door and saw the perp running towards his car. He never mentioned if he had time to pull up his pants.
PLEASE SPELL THE WORD “VOYUER’
Here, on my couch, it’s been so long, even the highlight reel won’t work. I spent the last six years with someone. Here, on my couch I lay here and try to picture the faces from my past but they’re all a little fuzzy. I can’t even remember the names of some of them. If I had internet access, this would be easy. So fucking easy.
PLEASE SPELL THE WORD “DEMENTIA”
It seemed like only minutes later. I open my eyes and see the sunlight streaming through my blinds. I’ve heard stories about guys who fall asleep in the middle of intercourse. Most of them involve a lot of alcohol and ambien. I’ve never heard a story about someone falling asleep in the middle of masturbation. I don’t even think I started.
The judge tells Hagen that he is correct.
Even Hagen knows his sexual anatomy. And he doesn't even masturbate.
Veronica from the internet desk stops by every so often to see if her patrons need any additional time on the computer. As I finish typing the above paragraph, a whisper in my ear asks me if I need more time. Her eyes are fixated on my computer screen. The font is set at 12 but looks like 30. In front of her line of sight are the letters C-L-I-T-O-R-I-S
She gives me a look
PLEASE SPELL THE WORD “PERVERT”
I would like to finish my story but can’t. Veronica’s looks tells me to leave. Maybe I’m just paranoid.
Also Note: I never had a Hootie and the Blowfish T-shirt. Honestly. Ask my friend Luke. He will tell you. You should also ask him about his closet and Thanksgiving dinner.