"The first time I had a wet dream I thought I peed my pants in bed. I was terrified," I said to my friend during college.
"How long do you think you'd have to go without wacking it to get a wet dream?" my friend asked.
"Why the fuck would you want a wet dream?"
"I don't know, to feel 16 again."
"Why would you want to feel 16 again?"
"My high school buddies and I did this thing called the ‘Gandhi Streak.' First, there was a story about how Mahatma Gandhi used to lie in bed with a bunch of naked girls to test his willpower. So we tried to do this with any sexual contact—from others or ourselves."
"Oh yeah, there's also that pretty boy movie 40 Days and 40 Nights."
"KC, I dare you to try it."
"You're the only one without a girlfriend. And, I double-dog dare you to do it."
"Fine, if you're going to double-dog dare me, I can't say no."
So that's how I started my Gandhi Streak. Honestly, I kind of hoped a girl would hear of my attempt and try to break my streak. That didn't happen though.
Not having sex wasn't too hard, because it just wasn't happening anyway. But not beating one down from time to time was really difficult.
And pretty soon after about two weeks, every couple of round objects I saw together looked like a pair of luscious boobs or an amazing ass. Every time I took a whiz I felt the need. I took every shower cold.
I nearly walked in front of a few cars because I stared at underwear model billboards too long. My balls start hurting from not getting emptied or, um, exercised. To avoid all the sex on TV I could only watch Nickelodeon, but even then, Spongebob started to look pretty good.
Internet, forget it. That's like putting a brick of cocaine with a sign saying "Snort As Much of Me as YOU Want!" inside the Celebrity Rehab House.
Going to class was equally difficult and productive. Difficult because of all the girls sitting in class, productive because I worked my ass off since I wasn't watching porn, downloading porn, talking to girls, or looking for relationships—just thinking about sex.
My goal was 41 days, because I wasn't going to let Josh Hartnett beat me. Finally, I couldn't take it. My roommate popped out for class. I spent an afternoon by myself. I ripped open my computer and typed the first porn site I could think of. As I slid down my pants my roommate and his girlfriend opened the door.
"KC! No! You've only got a few days left! Don't do it!" my roommate's girlfriend screamed.
"Well, I'm not going to do it now. Fuck. Time to ice pack my nuts again. Enjoy the room to yourselves. Assholes."
I crossed off day after day on my calendar. I started organizing my streak-breaking jacking. I planned this medley of masturbation better than I've ever planned a date, anniversary, or breakup. I found some flowers. I checked and re-checked my roommate's class schedule. I spent a few seconds at a "magazine shop" picking out what I wanted: Hustler, Penthouse or Gallery. I bought all three. I could barely contain myself. Luckily, I was in college and could barely afford the mags, because this was the closest I'd ever come to getting a prostitute. Had I gotten a prostitute, it probably would've been the most expensive five seconds of my life.
Finally, the moment of truth came. I don't need to go into the gory or gooey details. It wasn't the biggest or best orgasm ever. But my Gandhi Streak ended. I didn't hate Gandhi or my friends anymore.
My friends asked me about the result of the end of my ban on self-loving. I shrugged and said it was pretty awesome, but glad that it was all over.
"Yo KC. At my high school we used to try and do this thing called ‘Hitting for the Cycle.' It's like in baseball, a guy hits a single, double, triple, and a homerun in the same game. So basically, you try and beat one down four times in a day."
"Yup. Already finished that one today. Now shut the hell up."