I recently saw an article about a guy living in a senior facility outside Philadelphia who was caught with a prostitute (very much alive) under his bed. He was in his 70’s and selling booze to other seniors who paid—so he could play.
My kind of guy.
Although I developed crushes on girls all through grammar school, I didn’t discover masturbation until turning 13.
But it was wrong. So wrong, according to the Catholic belief system. I had, of course, been long aware that there was no Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny and no Tooth Fairy, but some old folk tales did persist. I still thought playing with my pecker was wrong, wrong, wrong. After all, somebody who lived in the clouds was judging me. When I got up the gumption to confess those sins, the priest ordered five Rosaries as a penance. You Catholics know how long that takes. Fuck! I had things to do, for Christ’s sake.
Well, I did it. I did the penance. Not long after that, I stopped going to church. I figured that the harmless, benevolent act in which I was indulging with my own body, in my own bed, with nobody else to know… was nothing to feel guilty about.
For what it’s worth, here’s the Catholic catechism answer to “What constitutes a mortal sin?”
First, the sin must be a ‘grievous offence’. (Hmmm… no grievance there.)
Second, you must know it is wrong. (I don’t think so, not so much.)
Third, you must do it anyway, knowing it’s wrong. (In the words of Tweety Bird: “If I dood it, I get a whippin’! … I dood it.”)
It was obvious by the heavy penance that the priest considered masturbation a serious sin. What business did he have informing me that what I did was a grievous offence? He, in a sense, was attempting to create that sin for me in my own mind. And happy to do it.
I wanted no part of a god who saw such an innocent pleasure as evil. Or a clergy who decided what was my sin. Especially from some turkey who’d embraced a life of abstinence.
So I embraced masturbation in a big way. I’m talking blisters, open sores. Was I oversexed? Were the turkeys right after all? I pleasured myself every single day, every night, sometimes six, seven or eight sessions a day. When I learned that most boys my age wanked a lot, I felt more comfortable with my strong libido, but in talking candidly with friends, it seems either that I did it a whole lot more than they, or the others were too embarrassed.
And fuck if I was going to waste any jerkoff time reciting rosaries!
In retrospect, what the experience did accomplish was to jump-start a proclivity for critical thinking. Was all I’d been taught just plain incorrect? Everything I learned in Catholic school? Where the accepted intelligence was that you got a better education than in the secular system.
When the kids from public school were dragged in for religion classes, they seemed so stupid to us, not having memorized the basic catechism, fumbling for answers to questions with no context in experience. Baloney. It was years later when I realized that much of what I had been taught in parochial school was patently wrong. Just plain bad information: Evolution didn’t exist. God lived in the sky. It was a mortal sin to eat meat (in those days) on Friday or fail to go to mass on Sunday. (Ever wonder what happened to all the poor fucks burning in hell for eating a meatball before Vatican II?) Hell was under us. How would that be possible on a round earth? How many non-Catholics who've lived since the dawn of mankind were stuffed down there?
If a kid questioned these tenets, they were told “That’s one of God’s mysteries,” by the more reasonable teachers. Or we were punished by the zealous kind. Beaten up.
Those seeds of rebellion set me up for a life of guiltless sex. I have always seen sex as a positive, and have not (to my knowledge) made enemies with my dick. After all those fuck-happy years, I began writing erotica at 64 years old. I’m now 70 and still like to play, whether on the page or in the sack (although these days my mental appetite tends to be larger than my genital stomach). Guess that appreciation is still working, at least on some level.
Wow. This post went sideways. I was going to write about a guy I knew who once told me he wanted to bed 100 women within a year.
I don’t have that many words yet, so I will tell the story:
First, I should say that the guy was absolutely gorgeous. Tall and of good physical proportion. His face came off somewhere between James Caan and a young Marlon Brando.
I worked with him at a restaurant where we were both lowly line cooks, so it wasn’t a matter of sexual harassment of underlings. He screwed a waitress after his first shift. He wound up sleeping with the majority of them. A new girl would be hired, and he’d bed her within a few days. Saw it happen time and again (not literally).
I turned him on to an apartment for rent, located in a building where I knew three sisters who lived in two other apartments. He screwed all three of them the week he moved in. One time I covered for him while he and a coworker dallied in the walk-in.
What this guy had was charisma. As far as I knew, none of the women wound up hating him—despite his indiscriminate carousing. He was a fuck toy, happy with the fat ones, skinny ones, uglies who’d never fucked before. Beautiful ones threw themselves at him with abandon.
I didn’t know him long enough to learn if he ever hit his goal, but I did (and do) wish him well.
Again, my kind of guy.