Saturday, June 18, 2011
In a few short years I’ll be turning 50. Fifty! Where has the time gone? Seems like just only the other day I was in my twenties—slim, full of energy, a thick-flowing mane, my mental faculties honed to a keen razor’s edge, waking up every morning with a boner. Not a single one of those things could be said of me now. Ah, the ravages of time. But there is one thing that hasn’t changed, which I had thought would: masturbation. This is the one constant that has remained with me lo these many years.
I can still remember when I first discovered the joys of self-gratification. I don’t know how old I was at the time, couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8. We had one of those cheap metal swing-sets in our backyard. One of the eye-bolts extended a few inches through the top, and I liked to hang my dad’s old duffle bag from when he was in the army on it. It was filled with rags, blankets, and what not, and and I would jump on it and swing back and forth.
One time, as I had my little legs wrapped around it, and it was pressing against just the right area, the friction caused a strange, new, wonderful sensation to shudder through me. I didn’t understand what had just happened, but I knew one thing: it felt good. Really good.
After that initial discovery, I couldn’t wait to get home from school to ride her, and I eventually wore that bitch out. After she finally started ripping and coming apart, I begged my mom to patch her up.
“Why can’t you just play on your swing the normal way, like other little boys?” she asked. She didn’t understand. I’m probably the only person in the world right now whose first love interest was a WWII U.S. Army issued duffle bag.
It wasn’t until much later, when I started pleasuring myself in a more traditional manner, when I figured out what had been happening with me and Duffie.
Those days are now long since gone, and Duffie is no more. I think the moths finally took her. But I still miss her, and think of her fondly. I can still see her, hanging from the bar, swaying gently, provocatively in the summer breeze. Beckoning me for another ride.