Thursday, October 17, 2002.
Sun Su is: 5
months
exactly!
Number
of words my spellchecker didn't recognize: 15+
Saying Hello (with my free hand) to: Sun
Ee (Esther Kay)
and Sue
and Baby Enzo (who is 5 months +/- a day).
M-BATION EMBARGO
Two weekends ago, I sat with Shakespearean concentration, contemplating whether to delete or not to delete my lust-filled "eros" file. Who needs self-help books when you've got self-serve self-love movies featuring every position acrobatically and anatomically possible. Step aside Dr. Phil, or at the very least don't stand in front of me when I'm m-… meditating. Not without protective eye-gear at least 8-).
Yes, I'm talking about P to izzO, R to the izzuN (sorry, I won't sPell it Out moRe thaN that).
I had two reasons to erase all that carnal data from my hard drive. One, I was about to take my computer in to get fixed. Specifically, so that my CD burner would actually open and actually record. I figured leaving all that "stuff" on my drive would delay repairs for another two weeks as the tech guys sorted through all of it.
The second reason was because of that movie "40 Days and 40 Nights." Amy rented it recently.
ME: "Forty days without sex? Big deal. I went for twenty-four years before having sex. But then again, I'm no Josh Hartnett. I can't even remember the last time we had sex." (WE as in Amy and me, not Josh and me.)
AMY: "Yeah, but they're talking about no masturbating too."
ME: "Ooh. Hmm … I've gone forty hours before."
AMY: "You couldn't go for two weeks. No way."
ME: "I could. If I wanted to. I think."
So I purged myself and my computer of all that sinful perverse flesh filmage. I even watched fifteen k-pop videos on my computer just to bump those very adult movie names from the Start --> Documents registry. I figured "Hard Corean Al" probably wouldn't be the first thing the tech boys would think of seeing a movie title like hardcoreanal.avi in that list.
No pr0n in the house would mean no hand in my pants. Easy. Amy hasn't been in the mood anyways since the baby. Breastfeeding takes a lot out of you - especially lubrication.
It was time to stay away from the internet for a while anyways.
LEARNING TO LOVE YOURSELF
I had read that the less you masturbate, the less you want to masturbate. It sort of feeds onto itself like a snake eating its own tail. Or a dog licking his sack … because he can of course.
On the other hand, sexual repression can make people crazy, even dangerous. And I've been unrepressing myself since that first time I rubbed myself to completion in the shower when I was eleven or twelve. Holy water, Batman, what just shot out of me? I was shocked the first time, but exhilarated. And thus began years of 60-minute showers and goodnight mattress humping for this teenaged boy wonder.
"Why does your underwear have these stains on the front?" my mom would ask.
"Maybe I peed myself," I'd suggest. 'Tis far better to let your mother think you are a bedwetter than a masturbater, I thought. Whoever decided to make the official color of boy's underwear white was one cruel asshole, in my opinion. I should've had me a few of those Spiderman underoos. No wonder all those repressed superheroes wore their undies on the outside.
I remember fantasizing about kissing a real girl, feeling real boobies, wondering what mine would feel like in hers. And thinking, "Man, when I get a real girlfriend/wife, I'll never have to masturbate ever again." (Roll eyes with me here, people.)
Whatever. I'd probably end up in a monastery before that happened, I figured.
THE LAST X-FILE
Flash to the present ….
My internetless period as an abstinent monk last week was well spent (while I remained 'unspent' of course). I used my pent up energy to keep busy. Instead of random net surfing, I drew more. I spent more time upstairs with Amy, probably to the point of being annoying. Instead of downloading film clips and playing PC games, I basically spent more of my free time in the really "real world," doing things like … watching vampire movies and, um, playing more of my X-box games.
At night, instead of wacking myself to sleep, I wondered about things more. About Sun Su growing up. About what I'm doing, what I want to do, what I most likely will never be doing. Sigh.
After a week, the tech guy called me. He came up with a solution on how to "fix" my CD burner. Reformatting and erasing my hard drive.
ME: "But I've got data on my hard drive that I can't lose."
TECH: "Don't you have backups?"
ME: "No. That's why I need my CD burner fixed. So I can back everything up."
TECH: "Sigh. Well, you're really tying my hands here if you won't let me reformat the hard drive."Tying his hands? This guy sits on my computer for seven days, and the best he can come up with is erasing everything and charging me for 3 gigabytes of attitude? I really wanted to tie him to a chair and do the Mr. Blonde version of "Stuck In The Middle With You," but instead I just took my computer back and came up with my own solution.
The "important data" was my "medea" file. The one with all of my entries on it. I'm not sure why I wanted to save it. I will never reread 99% of it, if any. Even printing it out seems like a very bad idea (this entry being a prime example). I'm just not comfortable with the idea of losing something I've spent so much time on. Even if it's completely useless, I guess. This journal is basically just mental masturbation.
UM, THAT'S NOT MELTED ICE CREAM
So after buying a portable CD burner and getting online again, I started to download things I had no business downloading if I really planned on holding out for forty days, much less another week. But I had to make sure it was still out there. That the backbone of the internet was still that carnal visual manifestation of the most primal of life instinct since binary fission.
Yeah, the porn was still out there. I started wondering why I was on this stupid m-bation embargo in the first place. I wasn't getting some prize. I felt like my kidneys were backing up. I could feel those lonely sperm cells actually dying off in my testicles. And my secondary stegosaurian brain (a.k.a. the penile one) convinced me that just looking at the naked pictures might relax me, as if it would be something to look forward to when this embargo was over with. Yeah, like this would be the ONE time that thinking with your dick would actually be a good idea. (Roll eyes with me here, people.)
I realized I was in trouble when I was eating ice cream in the kitchen and rubbing my jock on the kitchen counter. I was never going to hold out at this rate. I even told Amy about my blue ball blues, and got the usual unsympathetic "can you scratch my back," of course.
So I took a cue from the movies, and went to the refrigerator. I grabbed a handful of ice cubes and literally stuck them down my shorts. I am not making this up. It actually felt good, at first. I think it was melting as I was um … rubbing it in. After a few moments, I took the ice cubes out though. I was quite fearful of getting freezer burn down there.
Then, the perfect solution came to me. I turned on my X-box and stuck in a video game. Definitely not the buxom femme-laden game, Dead or Alive 3, but my first-person shooter savior, Halo. I was blasting and splatting those pesky aliens all over the place, low-riding in my Warthog jeep like one mofo space pimp. My stegosaurian penile brain was finally put to sleep, and without the mess this time. I was no longer aroused. Halo saved me from myself.
SO THE SERPENT SAYS TO ADAM,
"HOW'D YOU LIKE 'DEM APPLES?"Then Amy called down from upstairs. Maybe she was feeling sorry for me and my desperate (pathetic) groin-icing tactics. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten her bothered talking about all those things we could do in bed other than intercourse. Maybe it was that spooning earlier where I tried to assuage the snake with the calmness of just curling up next to her. But now it was time to die another tiny death in my favorite Valley of Death. My original sin was calling me.
And of course, I came. We both did. Just not at the same time or in the usual manner.
I've never seen someone giving a back massage using their erection in any of those movies I deleted, but it worked for us. (Didn't wake up the baby either.)
So what's the point of this entry? Nothing of course. Just mental masturbation.
After the eighth day of repression I was able to rest.
(Being a boy is not all it's cracked up to be, Sun Su. That's the lesson for today.
And stay away from kitchen counters and ice cubes.)
