Five Things That Aren't Funny About Masturbation

by K W Schroeder on October 16, 2007

Sure, it's all well and good to laugh about honking the rubber chicken, but are you really sure you know what you're laughing about? How can you know for certain that what makes you chuckle about masturbating isn't going to lead to some poor chump's suicide later that day?

Some subjects are just too sensitive to be readily laughed at. Abortion, suicide, rape, child pornography- these are widely accepted as fair game for whatever Wildean quips you have at your disposal. However, only the most heartless of assholes would ridicule one of Man's most beloved pastimes.

Masturbation isn't all butterflies and rainbows. Unlike genocide and abuse of the elderly, there is a dark side to it. How many of you out there know the real truth about self-love? To avoid an unpleasant altercation with a man who takes his jerking off seriously, here are five things that really are not funny about masturbation.

·Chafing. For a man who may have gone a little too Bobby Brown with his John Thomas, there is nothing worse than waking up covered in cocoa butter, feathers, and someone else’s vomit, only to discover a painful scab on his penis. Not only is it excruciating, it's unsightly. What guy wants to walk around with a thumbnail-shaped bleeding wound on his dick?

And, on the off chance he can convince a person of the opposite sex to willingly get near his member, it's not exactly the easiest thing to explain. "No, it's not herpes. It's… My dog… No, I mean, well…" Realistically, what can he say? He beat himself so hard he actually broke the skin on his Johnson?

·Where to Aim. While this may seem like an odd problem, if you think about it, you'll understand. It's not called "cleaning the pipes" because it sounds funny; there's actually a reason. Preparation beforehand is often the key to a successful session, but even then, it's inconvenient at best. Like real sex with a real woman, slapping the cold cuts requires a certain mood.

And, like real sex with a real woman, hunting around for certain necessary implements (roommate’s shirt, towels, a spatula) is a sure-fire way to kill that mood. You can't just pinch off the floodgates when it's time to unleash the squishy fury; that hurts like a bastard. So what do you do? You either a) just try to catch it in your hand like some sort of third-world sperm bank employee, or b) let fly wherever you think a stain won't be noticed. Oh, and there will be a stain.

·Stains. There's nothing worse than popping off that necessary, stress-relieving Roman candle and rushing out the door, only to realize with growing horror than your nice black slacks have been streaked with some mysteriously shiny slime.No matter how far ahead you plan, there will always be a streak somewhere on your pants after an impromptu rubout. Additionally, there's little in this world more humiliating than having a woman visit your apartment for the first time and ask innocently, "Say, what are these brownish-yellow streaks all over this portrait of Gore Vidal?”

·Being Caught. This natural fear dates back as far as the very first time a man discovers his penis: someone walking in while he's taking care of business. Movies make light of this aspect, but it's not funny at all when, because of some rude asshole, you give yourself a case of blue balls. The intruder's identity is equally fearsome: mom, grandma, lady whose house you've broken into.

Even for a man living alone, the fear never entirely goes away. Even if you've moved away to a new city, taken a brand new identity, and changed everything about your appearance, you'll still lock the bathroom door when you yank it. Unless you happen to be a certain popular Canadian humoristwho just enjoys jerking off in front of gay construction workers, you'll always think about this first.

·Unpleasant Thoughts. Few men will ever discuss this topic in public. Only slightly more will discuss it with their friends. It's the horrifying invasion of your private thoughts by what I call the Faces of Guilt. It happens to everyone at least once in their masturbatorially-active lives.

There you are, you've got Carmen Electra or that chick from Mythbusters firmly planted in your mind. You're doing things to her in your imagination that you're neither equipped or flexible enough to do in real life, when suddenly, apropos of absolutely nothing, in pops that girl's gym teacher from junior high, the one with the hairy lip and funny eye. "Holy shit!" you scream out in your head. "I didn't just do that on purpose!" And, while that may be true, the fact remains that, if only for a few seconds of your life, you were yanking it to Miss Holstrom. Or worse, Grandma.

Not so funny now, is it?