In the beginning was the Word.
And the boy believed the Word.
Then the boy listened to his friends’ words. And their words became stories. Real stories. Gleaned from real experience.
That if one fooled with it enough—that a spurt would rise.
That an accompanying sense of exquisite wellbeing would overcome the senses, engulf the spirit and afford a new satisfaction.
But Keepers of the Word harbored other thoughts. That the boy would learn shame.
And the boy came.
And it was good.
But Keepers of the Word told the boy that he would go blind.
That he would grow hair on the palm of his hand.
That his eyes would cross. (Before or after he went blind?)
That the boy would not enjoy a worthwhile life. That he would learn to satisfy only his base desires, which would surely produce a wasted mass of protoplasm unfulfilled by any normal relationship.
That the boy would render himself queer, attracted only to the male appendage of which he’d grown so fond.
So the boy told his sin to the confessor. “I have committed adultery, father. I have pleasured myself.”
And of course the holy man, full of fate and ire, a man who’d taken a vow of celibacy would be the most obvious choice to offer clarity for the boy’s sexual conundrums.
Ignorance of a subject would have no bearing on the Word.
So the lad would not be told the difference between masturbation and adultery. T’was all the same to a Man of the Word.
The boy was told no matter the form, youthful sex always ends up a disaster. That if this sort of thing progressed … the boy would have no regard for the church or its teachings.
That he just had to stop jerking off.
Said a man who insulated himself against the very world of experience to which the boy deserved answers.
That the boy would burn in hell forever for some sordid thrill.
That the boy would say a penance of five rosaries.
And the boy went on his way, duly convinced that he didn’t want to burn for eternity.
That he’d better damn well say his five fucking rosaries.
When the boy finished his penance, he realized the confessor was correct on one score:
That the boy would lose his religion.
That his punishment was not only a foolish waste of fleeting time, but heaped upon young shoulders, it made for a capricious and senseless burden.
And the boy would realize what a fraud it all was.
Within his soul, he found faith that no benevolent God would have issue with any earthly pleasure the boy accomplished alone with his own body.
That the Word had the value of the excrement of a bull. That he should trust his own instincts.
The boy had encountered critical thinking.
And the boy questioned not only the Keepers, but the very vacuity of foundation the Word rested upon.
He learned to question aspects of what he was told by teachers, by adults and by the media.
And the boy discovered obvious answers to subjects not provided by the Word’s limitations.
Without the Word’s influence, he would learn the positivity of an evolution of all living things. None of the Keepers had ever told him that. In fact, the Word declared evolution not a fact.
And so the boy learned that he, more than others, went through life satisfied with his lot in life. Well-balanced.
That he had his head screwed on where others lost theirs to guilt, confusion, contradiction and despair. Unhappy with their own desires.
He found that he can jack-off, jerk-off, stroke it or wank.
He can polish wood, choke the chicken, spank the monkey, pound Sam, wax the cucumber or stoke the dragon. He’d be sure to whack Willie to experience the full spectrum.
It all comes back to one thing:
Having faith in one’s own sense of cause and effect, rather than relying on willful ignorance to determine the value of any phenomenon.