porn chronicles vol 2.

i’ve never been in a fistfight in my entire life. the closest i came was in 7th grade when my best friend and i were masturbating next to each other and got into an argument over which porn to jerk off to together. one hand on our dicks and driven to rage by a cocktail of softcore Cinemax porn and mid-pubescent hormones, we attempted to deliver blows with our non-dominant fists. it’s the only time i’ve ever been angry enough to hit someone. as if some primal instinct overcame me – an urge to biologically brawl over sexual resources. we imagine ourselves so evolved and yet our hardwiring can be ‘magically’ hijacked by a digital mirage of tits. did some part of our psyches imagine we could impregnate the women on screen by ejaculating into the VCR slot? it would have made for an even better story, had i tried. 

looking back on my middle school years, there was a sweet window of time where my friends and i used to shamelessly masturbate in the same room together. there was no dick measuring. there was no discussion of stamina or prowess. for the most part, it was all innocent self-discovery. the only thing i remember feeling embarrassed about was that most of my friends were already ejaculating and i had yet to ‘blossom’ into a full-blown crusty cum rag. one time, right after i orgasmed, i snuck into the kitchen and chewed up some Cap’n Crunch and spit it into a towel to make it look like i had cum. clearly, i had no idea what semen looked like and if i had actually shown the towel to my friends they would have been seriously concerned for my health considering the yellow flecks of mashed corn cereal in my cum.  “It stays crunchy, even in milk!”

in reflection, it’s compelling to me that even at the age of 12, there were some inherited feelings of inadequacy in my sexual understanding. i don’t think any of my friends actually gave a shit whether or not i was cumming into a towel at the end of our close-but-not-quite circle jerks. but the fear of not being man enough had already gotten a hold of me. don’t get me wrong, i love cum. next to period blood and ovulatory fluid, it forms the holy trinity of bodily elixirs. but certainly, it was convenient in those early days of orgasm not to have any clean-up work. i was streamlined, baby… efficient. zero-emissions. carbon neutral. also, something undeniably shifts when a body starts to produce semen. not only do some of those aforementioned militaristic impulses to impregnate seem to sink in, but the body also begins to expend energy in expelling and regenerating its most precious resource. in the pre-cum days, i was the multi-orgasmic wonder boy. no semen retention necessary for me, Grandmaster Mantak Chia.

what strikes me about this period of my life is how both sexual and asexual it feels inside me from this present vantage point looking back. there’s a potent tension in this dynamic that i feel compelled to unpack. i am tempted to sing a song of my budding queerness – as in, “look how gay i was but didn’t yet know it.” but that feels a bit cheap in post. as the adage goes, two boys masturbating in a bed together does not a homo make. as far as i know, every single boy i jerked it with in middle school went on to identify as straight man. and so did i, for many many years. what’s more interesting to me than attempting to solidify a sexual identity, is the simple observation that there was never any question of sexuality amongst us in those masturbatory trysts. not once did any of us pause to ask ourselves or each other, “does this make us…?” perhaps, if one of us had suggested we watch other dudes make love while we touched each other, there would have been more inquiry into the matter. and yet, as the adulterated nature of adulthood set in, no longer could any of us masturbate in the same room together without it having to mean something more about who we were. this is the ‘nonsexual’ component i’m attempting to pry free here. the act of masturbating was sexual but the mutuality, the shared sexual expression, was playful, was platonic, was gleefully conspiratorial. 

as i reflect on this tension, as it derives from my own psyche, i am drawn toward a certain weight that sexuality holds that this other energy does not. why is one playful and innocent, while the other carries an intangible gravitas? what am i overlaying onto my sexual expression and identity that mucks it with a severity that wasn’t present in those moments of pioneering new sexual frontiers? i can’t help but feel an urge of equalization between these two energies – to marry the maturity of my sexual understanding and experience, with the whimsy of a pre-teen cumless orgiastic ecstasy. to feel light about it all again, to laugh about the awkward mashing of flesh and elementary chemistry experiment of fluids. to feel at the same time both reverent and irreverent. in awe of the beauty, the sacredness, the consecrated slurping of Eden’s most nectarous fruits while holding everything else in a waggish contempt. 

i’m not one for proselytizing. if you’ve read anything i’ve written in this space over the last few years, you know that i tend to flicker like a hummingbird, impishly testing tainted waters for freshness. but i feel the fire in my loins on this one. dare i say, some conviction? if there was a church for me, its ruins seem buried somewhere beneath the sheets, with my cock in my hand and an unsoiled cum towel lying eagerly in wait. in this moment, i am part archaeologist, part priest, when i say, if to no one but myself… please, for the love of God, go masturbate with your friends.

 

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