Saturday, January 10, 2015

My Scrotal Sputum is Excrement

Have you heard?  "Rubbing one off" is the new "pinching a loaf."

                Piles and piles of wads of cotton, latex, and spent spermatozoa lie dormant in landfills across the Western World.  Sometimes, they freeze amongst the shattered glass, construction debris, and assorted neglected plastic items.  Other times, the rain melts the cotton, washes away the seed, discolors the latex.  When the summer comes, it is all left to fester in the heat.

                The innovation and mass production of  disposable phallus sheaths, female contraceptives and abortifacients, coupled with  various government rulings demanding the availability of these innovations produced some awkward distance between fucking and family. 

                Nowadays, to even say words like “erection” and “family” in the same sentence sounds deviant and even a little disturbing.  We've come a long way from our primitive village farmer roots.

                To further demonstrate what I’m talking about, I’ll display another group of verbal associations to fit together.  Try mixing the words “Father” and “Mother” with the phrase “blew a huge load inside.”  Sort of a weird combination of words to fit a sentence around in our modern minds, but the truth is, for thousands of years, families have quite literally come from cumming.  

                The best kept secret of our day and age is that familes still come from cumming.

                If you’re reading this right now, chances are about seven to nine months before you were born your Dad gave your Mom a big gooey cream pie.

                It is also possible that your faceless father opened his trench coat and shot his flesh cannon into a sterile vial for eighty bucks, and a few weeks to a few months later, your Mom thawed out the snake yogurt in the microwave and studiously poured it into the harry gash of your other Mom.   Perhaps she used a turkey baster to squirt it in.  Now that’s Robert Heinlein space age post-family fuck fantasy right there.

                The 20th Century was a time of industrial innovation in the field of pregnancy free fucking.  But the creation of this technology has changed the way we get to know carnal knowledge.  And the way we handle our baby gravy, too. 

                Don't get me wrong, the hedonistic element of busting a nut has always been closely intertwined with the whole babymaking side.  But now that it's not about babies at all for many people, it seems to be moving beyond the hedonistic phase and into the realm of bodily urges, like urination and defecation.  At least, that's how it is for me.

               These days, I don’t even get horny.  I just get this physical urge.  It’s not to ravish and fornicate.  It’s simply this bodily need to release tension.  It feels more like I have to take a shit, except the gigantic turd isn’t in my colon.  It’s in my scrotum.

                 Strangely, this is not an urge I get so much when I see an attractive woman as when I say something awkward in public and everybody subsequently ignores my poorly expressed comment.

                The times I want to free the royal oats the most are when I get letters from my landlord.  Unlike many other occasions, such as when my boss sends me an urgent email or when I am questioned by law enforcement personnel about something, I’m alone in my apartment, so I don’t feel inhibited.  When I see these letters  in my mailbox—which are invariably benign bullshit sent to me by the rental association—I get that full feeling in my balls, like I need to empty them.

At the same time, I climb the ladder of associations and begin to imagine what terrible news could await inside.  I think about what it would be like to live in my van when it is below freezing, how I would need to steal to survive and probably turn to hard drugs to deal with the shame of being homeless.  But I mostly just want to splatter my batter.

                I used to get the urge to urinate when I was in terror.  Now I just want to jack off.   I don’t know about you, but that’s what I call progress.

1 comment: