No. I can’t masturbate. It isn’t something that “inspirational” cripples publicly announce when they’re expected to act a certain way, while fearing women might think them asexual. Then again, I never gave a damn about what anyone thought.
Sometimes I catch myself staring blankly into the ceiling, wondering when the erection will go away. I wonder if I’m still a man when I can’t find the strength make it leave. How embarrassing it is to have your own father wipe off your ejaculatory in the morning? I’m too young to have others clean after me.
Last Monday, I was at a cardiology appointment and the doctor informed me of some disheartening news. He explained his concern over my recent low heart rate and that I could die at any moment from a heart attack. I’ve heard so many physically disabled folks say that they want to experience sex before their lives are through. Admittedly, I’ve considered prostitution as a younger man, though mother would probably cut it off! I remember one guy who wrote that intercourse was nothing more than a distant dream, but that just isn’t me. I don’t think about sharing myself with someone in such a manner.
People tell me all the time that some aren’t meant to be with another as an attempt of comfort… not! I tire of all the endurance because not one thing is easy these days, but being true to myself is something I refuse to compromise. Escort services, the trade, and industry are too connected with rape and child molestation, among other heinous crimes. I don’t have the heart to take that risk, and for cheap pleasure? I’m too old for that shit…
All I ever wanted was a little normalcy and to fall asleep for once, for real. Is it too much to ask for someone to love me? I can’t stand the thought of being alone for the rest of my life. I’m not one of them. Yet I’m only able to laugh at myself for this ineptitude, and be proud that I am more, in that I possess the capacity for sanity, despite the agony, despite living without her romance, whoever she may be.
When I first learned of masturbation, I was eighteen years old, but by then, I had already lost the use of my hands. I never really learned about the birds and bees. Dad popped in the Woodstock DVD and that was pretty much it. Often, I awake in the middle of the night, hard as a rock and stuck between my thighs from sleeping on the side. I’m drenched in a hot, steamy cauldron of my own relentless cum. My loins ache so badly, being submerged within the intense action of imaginary thrusting. I nearly died once when it happened thrice in a row, with each emission lasting for a whole minute. I have backed up semen since 1995!
While there is no dignity, going through puberty all over again, I’m not looking to be in a relationship that revolves around the bedroom. I want someone to talk and hold hands with, a best friend to write love letters to, and someone to fall madly in adore for.
What the hell is wrong with me? Am I too much of a romantic in the daytime that my penis has compensated my mojo and I’m reduced into a sexual beast, nocturnally? But then the knife comes down, cutting the dichotomy in half with a melt like butter, of complete and utter splendour, and rainbows and unicorns. I want so much to make love with someone’s heart, only I also need to screw her brains out ‘til forevermore supersedes eternity. I feel so basic. I ponder what I can do when no girl wants me and I desire all of them.
Hey, I’ve been planning my wedding since I was a six year old boy! What did you expect?