March 23, 2011
From The Tokyo-Montana Express by Richard Brautigan
…what is missing here is much more important than what follows because what is absent is the ending of a Japanese erotic movie called Castle of the Snow Bride. It was a fantastically sensual film. After watching just a few scenes I had an erection that was like that of a teenage boy. It was hot and unstable, shimmering like heat in the desert.
The actresses in the movie were the ultimate in beauty, grace and pleasure. They were doing things that became gradually more and more complicated and more and more imaginative.
The pressure of my erection had reached the point of almost throwing me backwards, right out of my seat into the lap of the person sitting behind me.
My body was dizzy with sex like a maelstrom in a tropical sea and my mind came and went like the continuous slamming of a hot door.
The movie progressed deeper and deeper into more complicated and phantasmagorical sex, travelling toward the most sensual experience I had ever seen or imagined. It was going to make all my previous sexual experience seem as if I had spent my life working as a bookkeeper for a small brick and mousetrap company in a town so bleak and boring that it didn’t even have a name. The people who lived there had kept putting off naming the town for over a hundred years.
“We’ll have to name this town next year,” was the way they kept handling it and that’s exactly how my sex life would compare to the way the movie was going to end.
There were nine minutes left before the picture ended. I remembered that from the program in the box office window. The movie was going to end at 7:09 and the clock on the theater wall said 7:00. In less than ten minutes my sex life was going to be totally obsolete, a thing of the past.
The female erotic goings on in front of me were now starting to turn the seats in the theater into steam. It was an interesting experience and pleasurable feeling my seat being vaporized by sensuality.
Then something happened that caused me to get up and go out into the lobby. It was an errand of incredible importance. It had to be done. It could not be avoided. There things got kind of complicated because they are not clear.
I may have gotten up to get a drink of cold pop because I thought I had enough time to buy one and get back into the theater before the final sexual scene or it may have been something different that drew me out of the theater.
Perhaps I had to go to the toilet or maybe I had to give somebody a very important letter and we had agreed to meet in the lobby of the theater and I had no idea when the movie started that it was going to reveal the most fantastic sexual scene of all time.
Anyway, I did what I was supposed to do in the lobby, whatever that was, and rushed back into the theater to see the curtain close on the end of the movie that was a long shot of a castle at sunset with crows circling it.
The lights went on for the intermission and the theater was filled with unconscious men. Some of them were lying in the aisles. All the men had expressions of bliss on their faces as if the Angel of Pleasure had touched them while I was doing whatever I was doing.
It was the last showing of the movie that night, but fortunately the film would be shown for one more day. I went home in a state of frustrated hell on earth. The night passed like ice-cold water dripping a drop at a time on a burning erection that lasted all through my sleep, trapping me in a state of considerable pain.
The program said that the firsdt showing of Castle of the Snow Bride was at 12:01 p.m. The morning passed like a monkey trying to dance in a block of ice.
When I went to the theater at a quarter of twelve, it had disappeared. There was no trace of it. In its place was a small park with children playing and old people sitting on benches reading.
I tried to ask people about the theater but nobody spoke English. When I finally found somebody who could speak English, he told me apologetically that he was just a tourist from Osaka, visiting Tokyo for the first time and he knew nothing about the theater, but the park was beautiful. He liked the way it looked because it had so many trees.
Later I met some people who had a good knowledge of Japanese movies. I asked them about Castle of the Snow Bride. They had never heard of it and was I certain that was the right title?
Yes, I was certain. There could only be one Castle of the Snow Bride. They were sorry that they could not help me. So there you have it: Everything is here except that which is missing.
Transcribers note: Thank you Mr. Brautigan.
March 15, 2011
That is why I am going to England.
March 11, 2011
March 9, 2011
Three Christmases ago I got caught masturbating on an airplane.
I was coming back from a week-long vacation in Maui, which would have been the most blessed, restful, and non-masturbation-inducing trip of my life had it not been for one thing: I was with my family. Sisters, parents, all of them, cooped up so tight in a hotel suite that if I even so much as breathed on my genitals someone would overhear and smother me with guilt. At least that’s what it felt like. Plus, we all used the same bathroom, so the thought of defiling the communal shower with a half ounce of pleasure soon to be stepped on by the feet of my sisters eroded any boner faster than a game of Tetris played backwards on expert mode. This reality alone would foster the festering of frustration, but the pain and anxiety of my perturbed protuberance was compounded by the fact that I was in Hawaii, scantily clad capital of the United States. No matter where I was or what I looked at, spandex-wrapped mounds of flesh burst through and bounced into every cone of vision, tugging along behind them the reminder that I was alone on this island, and that the only available option for the cord of wood I carried between my legs was to build myself a funeral pyre. For six sleepless nights and seven sweaty days this was my Island. It was not a good place to be.
On the plane back home, sandwiched between my mother and an armrest, a commercial came on the inflight movie service starring Charlize Theron. It was for a perfume, and in the commercial Charlize walks towards the camera, stripping away her clothing one item at a time until all that is shown are her bare shoulders up and a vial of this scent potion. For less than a second there is maybe a whisper of cleavage on the screen. But that’s all I needed. The pressures of the past week hit like a fist, and I am as rigid and shaking as a tuning form for an orgasm. There is no time to reconsider. I know what I have to do. I turn to my mother. “I don’t feel so well,” I croak, holding my stomach, “I’m going to go use the bathroom.” Minutes later I have secured my crime scene, the chrome toilet before me shining like a robotic halo of hope. I squeeze the fragment of Ms. Theron’s breasts between my shut eyelids, lower my pants, and get to work.
I am six pumps in when the door swings open. There is a flood of shock, fear, embarrassment, and confusion, the expected garnish of a strange man interrupting an even stranger man’s solitary ascent to the Mile High Club. In the syrupy seconds between meeting this stranger’s eyes—hand secured, shaft in the full upright position—and having him slam the door closed, the only thought that exists is turned up to the light shining over us, this light that had gone on when I closed the bathroom door, this light that had led me to believe I was safe, this light that had lied. “Oh,” I stammer, but before any more sound can escape the man is a memory. With the door closed and light on and silence returning, I stand still for a minute and collect myself. I wait. There are no shouts, no calls to action. No gunshots. This dirty bomb can go off. So I let it. It is a ticker tape parade for a home coming, a thunder of horns for the hero’s gallant return. I clean off the toilet and flush, all sins washed away by the cleansing blue blood of the savior. I open the door and standing in front of me is the man, the final obstacle, spattered sweat on his brow and his eyes on his shoes, defeated. For a moment I consider shaking his hand, an added congratulations to me, but I dismiss the idea and make for my seat, 30,000 feet above the earth, drifting away from Hawaii, and free.
March 4, 2011
Bicycles are a wonderful invention. The day one learns to ride a bicycle without training wheels is a day not soon forgotten, like the day I discovered a new sensation while idly coasting over some gravel. Unwittingly I had begun a new journey, one that would land me on a tired blue couch in the guidance counselor’s office of my elementary school.
At the tender age of six I was completely wrapped in the white cloak of innocence. I hadn’t the slightest clue that what I had felt was just a small part of something much, much bigger and best done in private. And, now I would learn the hard way about the importance of being discrete. I was infatuated with this new sensation. Soon after its discovery I abandoned the bike for the arm of the couch, and then for the corner of my miniature plastic classroom chair, where my classroom teacher quickly smudged out the light of that type of learning. After a brief scolding I was sentenced to the guidance counselor, which is rather light punishment considering I was attending a Catholic School. I shudder to think how a nun would have responded to this situation, she definitely would not have sent me out of the room during class time to play games with a woman whose catch phrase was, “and how does that make you feel?” Ironically, the counselor didn’t ask me that question this time. Instead she talked in that delicate, labored tone, adults use when forced to explain to a child a topic closely related to sex. There was no birds and bees talk. But in that all-too careful tone she explained that I was not to indulge myself in this new discovery, but instead I was to go to an imaginary place inside my mind when I felt tempted. I spent many afternoons sitting on that couch listening to her describe a place that closely resembled the Garden of Eden. Although I never thought of this place outside of her office, in the way she intended, the experience was successful in one aspect: I learned discretion. Never again would I engage in this activity in a room full of people, and be so obvious about it.
My Catholic education did eventually quell this behavior. Sometime after I had discovered the real meaning of the sensation, I learned that I was committing a sin. It was the time of the year where the students are ushered into the church, not for mass, but to confess our sins. And, like the author of our first Marchsturbation post, I was handed a pamphlet which laid out every possible sin there was to commit. That’s where my eyes discovered that what I had been doing for years was a sin. Not ready yet to see the flaws of my religion, I faced a moral dilemma: Do I confess this to a total stranger, especially one who is male? Or, do I not confess, have mortal sin on my soul and risk the fires of hell should I get hit by a bus and die on my way home from school that afternoon? I chose the second option. Thankfully, I was not hit by a bus. I did, however, struggle with whether or not I should abstain from the act for years afterwards.
This story does have a happy ending, though (not exactly that kind). In the end I chose to think of it as self-love, not sinning. And, with the help of my new friend discretion, I have been able to practice this self-love without drawing unwanted attention.
From Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal. BAM!
March 2, 2011
Yes, I’m listening to the Foreigner song while I write this. No, I did not listen to the Foreigner song the first time I masturbated. I took the most obvious title for our month of masturbatory writing and it isn’t really even that fair of me because this isn’t exactly about my first time. It is actually about something that happened a little while after.
The first time I ever masturbated was probably a Monday or Tuesday because I always had my Religion Classes on Wednesday nights. Coming from a family of Catholics, but seeing as I was in a Public School, and seeing as how we went to church at most every other week I was condemned to attend RELIGIOUS EDUCATION PROGRAM classes every Wednesday night from Kindergarten to Junior year in High School. Every year, one of these classes was set aside for you to attend confession. What a horrible experience. The worst part of which was that I actually did feel better after confessing my sins and being absolved of them. I felt so good that I didn’t even feel like I had to do my penance half the time.
Back to the matter in my hand. Now that I think of it, this is probably the Xth anniversary of the first time I ever masturbated because those yearly confessions were in March so that all the little boys and girls had souls whiter than freshly laundered non-cum stained sheets. This fateful year I came into the church feeling pretty good about myself. I hadn’t killed anyone, hadn’t lied about anything big, and nothing had been stolen by these hands of mine. This particular year we got a fancy new confession accessory; as we entered the church to await our time in the confession room we received a small pamphlet to help us search our souls. (Just a note, we never got a booth. We always just sat in a room at a table facing the priest. I have never been allowed the cloak of anonymity when I confessed. Just brutal, honest eye contact. So brutal in fact that I would make up sins to confess, lest my actual list of sins seem too small.) I scanned the pamphlet, which had each of the 10 commandments listed and the major sin it corresponded to. Underneath each sin was another list of related, but lesser sins. I was cruising through the list when I decided to peruse the list of sins related to adultery to see if there was any titillating material. I thought I could skip the sixth commandment (it is the 6th for us Catholics) because I was acutely aware of the fact that I hadn’t had sex. I was so aware of this fact that I knew it more fully than even the omnipotent God could. I was flying through the list, rather disappointed at the lack of titillating material when I came to an entry that put me into deep freeze. The horror started in my eyeballs and quickly spread throughout my body in a shame aneurysm.
Have you ever masturbated?
YES! I just figured it out! I was so proud of myself! I thought I had discovered a new country of ecstasy! Described a new species of pleasure! Other people knew about this?!?! Other people hated me for it?!?! GOD hated me for it!?!? Oh Holy shit. I was so thrown off balance I didn’t confess anything that year. Just slunk into a pew and hoped I would be overlooked.
When I got home I hid the little pamphlet that had sheparded me into a new world of shame in the same place that I had the adult catalogue that had ushered me into my short lived glory. This hot gooey world of nerve explosions was being drowned out by a world rife with terms like “self-abuse” and “using one’s self as a mere means.” What a bunch of stuffy bull shit. I wasn’t using myself. I loved myself and always took myself out for dinner and dancing first.
What a strange tableau those printed materials made. The pleasures of exploration and the pain of shame wrapped together. The juxtaposition of these discoveries has put me into a strange place. Ever since then I run hot or cold. Either I have to make the choice to go whole hog into an expansive masturbatory lifestyle so chock full of half hour wank sessions that there is no room for second guessing and guilt or I live a life of masturbatory chastity. There is no middle ground. This might not seem terrible, but I think it is. That little pamphlet has made it hard for me to get to know myself sexually. I haven’t been able to explore or screw up in front of myself. Masturbation is important for that. It is important for allowing you to figure out just what the fuck is going on and how you go on about it. All my screw ups have been while I was screwing and thank god for those excruciating eye to eye confession sessions because the practice of pulling out my sin guts has made it easier to look my partner in the eye and let her know just why I am the way I am. In these cases I always make sure to do my penance with a vim and veracity that would astonish my former priests or maybe make those old, child touching bastards weak in the knees (that isn’t hyperbole, my parish was commonly used as a hide out for way ward touchers).
You know, it has taken years and years, but currently I am drowning my second guessing and guilt in a sea of self abuse. I think my guilt has started in with the cartoony three count and I don’t see the sea getting shallower anytime soon. So maybe my title is apt. I’m slowly making my way back to that very first moment of discovery. I’ve got a map and I’ve got a compass (or is sextant a more loaded metaphor?).
Courtesy of KDaya
March 1, 2011
A Very-Second-Annual Merry Marchsturbation, Everyone!
Ah yes, Marchsturbation, the month-long celebration of genital manipulation. In honor of this joyous occasion, the majority of March will be dedicated to art, anecdotes, current events, premises, and poems all focused on and centered around everyone’s favorite pastime.
And I do mean everyone. As in, for the entirety of Marchsturbation, A Million Inches Delicious is officially open forum. That’s right. I want your masturbation jokes, memories, and meditations. Remember the first time you masturbated? Put it on the blog. Ever been caught masturbating? Put it on the blog. Hate the very idea of masturbation and find the existence of Marchsturbation sickening and abhorrent? Put it on the blog. Then go fuck yourself. I want this month’s AMID to be a throbbing communal conversation about the most literal and beautiful expressions of self-love. For what better way to make a proclamation of adoration for self-stimulation than with a good old fashioned scripted circle jerk?
Here’s what to do:
1. Go to wordpress.com
2. Username: amillioninches
3. Password: masturbate
4. Click on “New Post” on that gray bar at the top
5. Title your masturbatory post
6. Write your masturbatory post
7. Save your masturbatory draft
8. Under “Status” (upper right corner) select “Pending Review” and click “OK”
9. Click “Save as Pending”
10. Give me a minute to read and enjoy it
11. Hurray! You’re a published* contributor to A Million Inches Delicious!
And the best part? Each published piece is automatically masked with the “by KDaya” byline, so all contributions are entirely anonymous. Not even I will know who you are. So get out there and get Marchsturbating, Marchsturbators!
*Publishing relies on two things: One, that you are not a jerk. This means that you’re not messing with anyone else’s posts and that you’re not deliberately hurting anyone else’s feelings in your piece. Two, that your post is honest. And that’s it. If you satisfy both requirements, I’ll slap your work up like you wouldn’t believe. Welcome back, and Merry Marchsturbating!