By the age of twelve I was masturbating frequently and surreptitiously. Every Saturday after baseball I would search the West Australian for the TV Guide, whereupon I’d read through the week’s movie listing searching for anything bearing a bracketed ‘N’ (nudity) or ‘S’ (sex scenes). The system was inherently flawed, as ‘S’ could also mean ‘sexual references’ and no gender distinction was assigned to the ‘N’ and, many times after staying up well into the next morning I’d be greeted with a naked Swede discussing his childhood molestation and have to settle for a Fossey’s catalogue.
The act itself was simple – sneak into the lounge room whilst the rest of the family slept, slide the volume bar on the TV down to a volume low enough not to wake anyone but loud enough to conceal audible fapping and use an empty VHS box as cover should anyone come in. All the armchairs in the room squeaked – especially under the strain of furious masturbation – so I would squat on the floor in front of the TV like a catcher flashing signs to his own crotch and throw myself a few knuckleballs. As I was never certain when the lascivious parts of a movie were due, I would have to gain and hold an erection and keep myself near the point of ejaculation for as long as it took for the movie to reach said scenes. Back then even the slightest tectonic movement a thousand kilometres below the earth’s crust could’ve made me ruin my doona, and this was not a problem. I spent the night of my thirteenth birthday that way as my Anglican nun Great Aunt slept two bedrooms away, thinking I was watching the tape on Flamingos that had been her present. Should she stumble upon this blog, I’d like to tell Aunt Peg that I had a wonderful evening regardless.
This routine carried on until the lounge room TV broke when I was fourteen or so. I suspect subterfuge on the part of my parents, who were constantly suspicious of my dark-rimmed eyes and the sudden spike in our toilet paper usage, which I attributed to ‘stress’ and my love of nectarines. Needing a new source of inspiration, I turned to buying magazines from the deli at the top of my street. The Vietnamese girl who worked there would’ve been about my age, and responded as diffidently to my buying Hustler as she would were I buying jubes and a bottle of Pantene. Then, as now, I was innately self-loathing and dissatisfied and wished she would at least deign to call the police or chase me from the store with a katana, but instead she would smile, count out my change and place my purchase in a paper bag which she then taped shut. I love her to this day.
For whatever reason, every time I masturbated to those magazines – laid out across the length of my single bed – I’d play Limp Bizkit’s ‘Significant Other.’ Dropping my shorts and grabbing hold of junior, the stroke was always accompanied by:
“I CAME INTO THIS WORLD AS A REJECT, LOOK INTO THESE EYES….”
and I was usually done by the turntable solo. I’d switched to tissues by this time, which, like a maladjusted masturbatory bowerbird, I stored in my top drawer once used. They disappeared when mum cleaned my room unannounced one afternoon and I’ve still never once heard her use the word ‘semen.’
It would’ve been about 2001 when I got familiar with pornography on the internet. Early attempts to access www.pussy.net and sex@yahoo.com had been fruitless, but one afternoon on mum’s work laptop I came to discover preview sites. This, to my knowledge, was before the days of free streaming movies and the best I could manage were jpeg galleries and 30 second clips of Russians with undercuts ploughing their sisters but, aged fifteen, it was more than enough. To date, my relationship with internet porn has been the most stable and enduring of my sexually mature life.
Which brings me to my present routine. These days I utilize one of the aforementioned streaming sites (usually xvideos.com) and will load up three or four movies at a time, then cycle between them at my leisure, running a gauntlet of fetishes and film quality. Ashlynn Brooke is a particular favourite of mine, owing to her striking resemblance to my friend’s sister, who kissed me once – unprepared – in the car park of The Flying Scotsman. I was all teeth, and the furtiveness of her embrace left me with unsated loins and a chipped incisor. Toilet paper is presently experiencing a renaissance as my receptacle of choice, specifically Sorbent’s marine life range. Something about ejaculating on a pastiche of conch shells and dolphins really does it for me, though I am occasionally dogged by the image of Paul Hogan looking on disapprovingly as I drown Flipper. Having learnt from the mistakes of my youth, all paper is flushed immediately after serving its purpose.
Such regimented monkey spanking has served me well, and my half dozen or so conquests will attest that I am a selfless and enterprising lover with an appendage like the oar of a Roman galleon and intent dark as an Abyssinian’s elbow. I went to an old friend’s house for the first time in a week to say as much only to notice two glasses of water on the commode. I thought it best to leave and she went to bed alone and well-hydrated whilst I went home to Ashlynn Brooke and my housemate had to wipe on a shoebox.
Loneliness could wait til the morning, and I was content.
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Alasdair Beer is a three-time university dropout, a comedian, a welcher, a jaded boys' school toff, prematurely balding, adequate as a lover, inadequate as a man and afraid of his own blood. He's also a brilliant son-of-a-gun who uses the written word like a surgical saw, chopping themes off at the knees.
He also says you can have his couch. 
The flying Scotsman – jesus christ. I think I saw someone having sex up against the bins there once.
thanks for making us all feel normal
I think the Vietnamese chick would be insulted by your insensitive Katana generalisation.
Vietnamese people enjoy Katana generalisations, it’s scientific.
“The message of my books is very simple. Niggers, Jews, Homo-sexuals, Mexican, A-rabs, and all different sorts of Chinks stink, and I hate em.”