The following is a PIC experiment in group dynamics. Basically, we opened a shared document that anyone on the PIC staff could edit, and then just let ‘er rip. Anyone could contribute, edit anyone else's contributions, etc. No preset topics or guidelines, just an empty page and a bunch of weirdos with sexually active imaginations. This is what happened…
Masturbation in the shower is always bittersweet because you go from feeling great right after climaxing, to downright frustrated from spending the next ten minutes trying to figure out how to make your results go down the drain. It really is a cruel irony that something designed to swim for its life refuses to go with the flow in a current.
In reality, the reason that stuff doesn't move in the shower is because denatured DNA from the hot shower is really quite sticky. So that means if you masturbated during a cold shower everything would go smoothly, but then who the fuck can get off while taking a cold shower? The whole point of taking a cold shower is to bring yourself down from sexual excitement, not make it easier on the cleanup.
Speaking of masturbation, you know what gets me going? When I get an email from Court in the morning saying, "I had this idea in the shower just now," then goes on to use the phrase "group piece." I'm starting to feel as if I'm not one person, but a collective of penises swordfighting over a joke.
Which reminds me, the first CD I ever heard with cussing was Adam Sandler's "They're All Gonna Laugh At You." It was at a particularly "cool" party back in in middle school, when just getting invited brought with it the long-shot chance of making out. Unfortunately, this amazing musical discovery may have actually prolonged the time in which it took me to really catch on to masturbating with regularity.
I don't know about y'all, but the phrase "They're All Gonna Laugh at You," coupled with the word "shower," makes me think of Carrie. Which makes me think of Sissy Spacek. Which is not endemic of a particularly rewarding session of self-abuse in my opinion. Of course the real problem with masturbating in the shower is that it's hard to do it with the rest of the football team watching. And then you try and break the ice and offer to do one of them with your free hand, and all of a sudden you're a pervert. I said we didn't HAVE to use the outdoor shower, didn't I?
Could be worse, I suppose—at least we're not in Sydney, Australia. Having a tub-tug over there is risky because of the male Sydney funnel-web spiders getting their wanderlust on in search of female spiders. This is thirsty work, and the lethally venomous males often wander into bathrooms looking for moisture. You think it's hard trying to get your semen down the drain at the best of times? Try doing it when there's an irate funnel-web spider going for your throat because you shot your load into his face without giving him a spidey reach-around first.
But back to music. The second CD I ever heard with cussing was Eminem's "The Eminem Show." My friend brought it over and we began listening to it while playing video games when these enchanting lyrics tarnished my innocent youth:
"Fuck that shit, bitch, eat a motherfuckin' dick
Chew on a prick, and lick a million motherfuckin' cocks per second
I'd rather put out a motherfucking gospel record
I'd rather be a pussy-whipped bitch, eat pussy
And have pussy-lips glued to my face with a clit ring in my nose."
Sure, there were a lot of CDs in between Sandler and Mathers, but when your entire music collection is sourced from Wal-Mart, there aren't a lot of four-letter words to go around besides "BEEP."
Soundtracks aren't of course generally necessary when you're indulging in some self-abuse (unless you count the demented "boom chikka chikka" kinky porno elevator musak as a soundtrack), but if you were looking to jerk off to an acoustic accompaniment, I'd recommend something with a real thudding, pulsing back-beat, or repeated pounding rhythm that you could tug along to. Something like The Prodigy's "Breathe," Pearl Jam's "Lukin," or "A Whole New World" from Disney's Aladdin (word of experience: don't whip it out and start pulling away in the cinema, no matter how hot Jasmine—or Aladdin—looks in that turban). Of course, the ultimate staccato beat can be found in the screeching violin instrumental playing during the shower scene from Hitchcock's Psycho, but jerking off to that drags up a whole lot of Freudian subtext that I'm really not comfortable discussing in front of mother.