Friday, September 9, 2011

The Evolution of Wank

I nearly called my mother after my first one.

No...not because I'm some kind of sick weirdo. It was more down to the fact that I was convinced that I had broken it.

Put yourself in my shoes: I was a naive 12-year old kid who had been innocently flicking through WWF magazine (lower that eyebrow...it wasn't over oiled up, muscular wrestlers...) and I happened across a photoshoot with the WWF Divas. Tori was there. She was always lovely. Strange eyes though, but even at 12 I understood subconsciously that they were the eyes of a gamey bitch (what can I say? I've always had a talent for spotting them). And Ivory had her hand rested tantalisingly on the thigh of one Jacqueline (pictured below).

One of the few pics I can find of Jacqueline that remotely explains what was going through my head


DON'T FUCKING JUDGE ME! Yes, she has a hint of crackwhore about her but it was the context that did it for me. The whole friendly, faux-lesbian thing she appeared to have going on with her fellow Diva.

Either way, it made me need to piss. Or something that felt somewhat similar to that. For whatever reason, my willy decided that now was the time to stand up and make himself noticed. And, though I'd no idea why, the only reasonable conclusion in my head was to vociferously pull on him until he didn't need to piddle anymore. Usually I'd just go to the jacks and be done with it, but no, this time I felt that it needed to be contained, quarantined within my fist, to have all of this unexplained hardness strangled out of it until...something...happened.




And a few minutes later? I'd wet the bed. Brilliant. That hadn't happened to me since I was 11...I mean 4...Why the fuck, I thought to myself in my now somewhat depleted state, was my reaction to Tori, Ivory and Jacqueline standing beside each other in bikinis to urinate all over these freshly-changed bedsheets? And, now that I think of it, why the fuck was the piss all white and chunky?!

I'm not joking when I said my gut reaction was to call my mother, by the way. But I was put off the idea by this sinking shame that had now enveloped my stomach. Was what just happened some kind of depravity? Was this my body's way of telling me that I was a freak? Would I soon be compelled to run away from home, live in a forest, eating slugs and choking my willy until it spat out this alternative urine, then howl into a full moon before going hunting for more slugs to satiate my sick, willy-choking appetite?

Things were made clearer to me when I went back to school. One day, one of the lads was obviously equally curious about this burning desire he had developed over the summer, and brought up about how he'd heard about this thing called 'wanking' that some weird lads do to themselves. Obviously, he was at himself every night, like myself, but he was testing the waters to see if any of us reacted so he could 'fess up himself sooner. However, I didn't possess the social cop-on to realise that, back then. "Fuck!" I thought. "That's what I do! Quick...lie! Act like you've never heard of it! Or they'll tell teacher and you'll be expelled, then Ma will find out and send you to live in the forest to eat slugs! OH MY GOD THIS IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING!!!"

So I turned and said, "That's sick man...what the fuck? How do YOU even know about this?"

For weeks, the whispers about this 'wanking' activity spread and it soon became a game in our year to try trick people into admitting they wanked. Then everyone would call them a wanker and, everywhere they went, they'd be plagued by the famous hand-shake-wank gesture.

I'm gonna start using this as an insult again

To be honest, part of it was shame and part of it was just an excuse to say the word wanker. It's a fun word to say, still. For any American readers, or those of a country who don't use the term, feel free to say it aloud now. For maximum effect, do what we do in Dublin and put a really hateful emphasis on the 'W'...so it sounds like you're saying "wwwwanker". See? Fun!

Eventually, one day all the lads in our group confessed that, for months, we had all been wanking our brains out. Well, except for one (who'll remain nameless). I'll never forget it. He came out and overheard the conversation, then got a sad/hurt look on his face, and said "So...you guys have all been wanking for ages now?" We nodded. "And it's good???" We nodded again as it dawned on him how much he'd missed out on. "FUCK!" he said and, not a word of a lie, ran straight home to have his very first wank.

Then the girls we hung around with came out and asked what we'd been up to for the day. "Oh, we all wank now!" someone answered. I think we expected them to be impressed. They just gave us that disappointed look that yelled 'I can't believe THIS is the group of lads we have our pick from...' and said "We're going to the shop." It was good that they got used to that sinking feeling of disappointment from men at an early age.

All of a sudden, there was a complete U-turn in the attitude towards wanking in our year. It became a source of pride to boast about our masturbation prowess. A typical conversation would go like this:

"Lads, remember I didn't come out all day Sunday? WELL...seven times. It was fucking painful by the end and it stung when I came but I had to play through the pain to beat my old record. Boom!"

And we'd all make a silent pledge to stay in over the weekend and do it eight times, just to prove to ourselves we're a better man than that bastard.

Wanking stories were another part of this shared experience. You got popularity points for having the most daring or embarrassing.

My own most embarrassing moment came when looking up, again, WWF Divas. This time, I had good reason though. It wasn't for no muscular, black, crackwhore-looking amazon like Jacqueline...OH NO...it was because one of the lads in school had caught wind that Trish Stratus' secret, pre-wrestling, porno lifestyle had been unveiled online for all to see.

The picture my inside source had particularly tipped me off on was one of her and...another female...in a shower together, no less!

So I spent my half hour, allotted time on the Internet that night (it was the days of dial-up when the Internet was slow and cost more by the minute) to make sure I found those pictures and put them on the 3 1/2" floppy that would ensure I would never have another 6" floppy in my life.

Trish Stratus...make sense now?

Sure enough, I found them. And, though they were clearly fakes, whoever had photoshopped it had done a good enough job that all of my raging teenage desires were now before my very eyes.

I should have just right-clicked, saved to file and saved it for a beautiful evening where I could print it out, put it under the bed and have it there forever to ensure I would never feel the pangs of loneliness again. But not making love to myself now would be like winning the lotto and immediately investing all of my winnings in a 20-year gradual bond scheme without so much as even buying a car or doing a shitload of cocaine with many, many prostitutes. It'd be a waste! So I went for it...

...however, just before reaching climax...yep you've guessed it:

"So are you going to be having dinne...WHAT ARE YOU DOING???"

It was my Dad.

And he was in the room. And, yes, my hands were down my pants. And, I'm not gonna lie, not that I continued but when you're in the middle of a wank like this it's not as if you can just slam on the brakes and stop...you can only ease your way out of it!

I had made the schoolboy error of not even closing the computer room door. That's how impatient I had been upon seeing these pictures. And it had come back to haunt me in the worst way possible.

What made it worse, though, was that while it was now blatantly obvious what I had been doing, as I stumbled to try and remedy the situation, well put it this way...remember why looking at porn was such a pain in the arse?

Because the minute you closed down one window, a THOUSAND more, more explicit pages popped up on your screen and you had to try and close each one down individually.

Right hand frantically trying to close down every new gee flap that now polluted my screen with my father watching, left hand still down my shorts as I'd forgotten to remove it in the panic of it all, suffice to say that Dad had seen enough. He just walked out. And we've never talked about it since. I pray to GOD he doesn't read this blog...

You could be forgiven for, at this stage, asking the obvious question "Em...why are you telling us all of this?"

The simple answer is that I read a discussion online where someone pointed out how much better teens have it these days with oodles of free Internet porn and wireless broadband at their fingertips. As a man who, the older I get, the more regular the phrase "BACK IN MY DAY..." sneaks into everyday conversation, even I found it a very strange thing to ponder. Even in my heyday, I can't recall ever regretting a good missed wanking opportunity. (How does that work anyway? Do you think to yourself "Man, I had ten minutes alone in the kitchen earlier and I chose to make a fucking SANDWICH? What is wrong with me?!?!")

Not only that, but I feel that the kids today are missing out on a valuable experience. Yes they all have their YouPorn and RedTube and StickItUpMyHairyGee.ie and whatnot, and yes they have laptops in their rooms giving them unlimited access to the world of MILF lesbian orgies, but I would go as far as to say that (here it comes) back in my day good wanking was an art form! Are kids these days so spoiled that they've lost out on valuable LIFE skills such as:
  • Concealing a hidden boner in school: Simply walk with your school bag in front of your crotch. If anyone calls you out on it and tries to inform the rest of the group...point out that he only notices because it's happened to him before.
  • Destroying the evidence: if you couldn't grab a tissue in time or woke up after a wet dream, be sure to throw those dirty bedsheets in a boiled wash. And don't throw them in on their own or mother will start to ask awkward questions. Convince her that you've turned over a new leaf and want to start washing your own clothes. The bad side is that you'll have to actually follow through with this for a couple days.
  • Timing: can you crack one out on time and have cleaned up the mess while your folks nip down to the shops? It's like a race...that you cum at the end of!
  • Unsticking Pages (pictured below): Everyone knows the best girls are the one's on the pages that are stuck together. Can you unstick it gently enough that there's not that white rip covering Sandy (22) from Bournemouth's beautiful, hairless vagina? If you can, then you have officially become a man.
  • The Stash: honest to god, I'm more sad that the Internet has brought an end to this than HMV. It's like the dirty version of Cadbury's Cream Egg: "Where do you hide yours??" I only recently cleared away my old stash when I moved out. It was under the mattress. I hadn't left it there because I was just too lazy, it was more 'just in case'. I don't know what the 'just in case' circumstances would be that would lead me to needing 'Emergency Porn', but who knows, maybe in the event of a nuclear war the only thing that would remain are cockroaches...and my stash of old Playboy mags and News of the World celebrity exposé cut-outs...
Unsticking pages: wankology at its finest

Kids today don't have it lucky. They missed out. Playboy is a quality magazine. Does YouPorn have a joke section or allow you to get to know the women behind the boobs as an interesting aside once you're finished? You would feel close to those women, like you knew them, you could grow to fall in love with and cherish those freakishly attractive sticks of plastic. It wasn't just about committing filthy acts to them. There was that shred of intimacy afterwards. Maybe it was just me, but you'd finish a wank and think to yourself "Maybe one day I'll have a girl like that who I can do incredibly sordid things...and other stuff...with." And that 'other stuff' matters too! That 'other stuff' is what relationships are born out of!

You can't respect or love a woman who's just eaten another girl's feces out of a cup.

Even I'm feeling the brunt of being spoiled for choice, wank-wise, nowadays. My dick and I have developed a relationship much like a loveless husband and wife. Every night, I'll roll over and try to get some kip, only to be rudely interrupted by this irritating muscle that I once cherished. This muscle that I bought gifts like rings and condoms for. We used to make a big deal out of self-sex, there used to be romance and passion involved, I even whipped the Marvin Gaye, candles and lubrication out on special ocassions.

These days? It's rumbling down below, nudging me for attention.

"Are we going to do this then?" I grumble at it, spitefully.

"Suppose we better," I imagine it replying.

And we'll flick on YouPorn while I look at attractive women ridin' the bejaysus out of men whose ridiculous length and girth just make me somehow resent my dick that bit more...if that's even possible.

Then I turn out the lights, roll over, and finally get some peace. Long gone are the days of confusion and excitement of that innocent pubescent thinking he's after wetting the bed again. I might have the world at my fingertips, now, but the adventure has long since ended.

Rick Nash is a DJ, hosts 'The Weekly Ranto' on iTunes, and now, evidently, a blogger. He is also a former professional wrestler. So he can kick the shit out of you if you slag him for being a blogger. Or at least pretend to.

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