Monday, August 20, 2007

The Blue Blanket of Sin

When I was fourteen my dad installed a satellite dish on the roof of our garage. This new NASA-sized antennae brought in exotic shows and channels from all over the globe. From Australian Rules Football to fiery sessions of Russian Parliament, our basement, where the receiver was housed, instantly became the de facto after-school bunker for every teenage boy in the neighborhood. At first, we gorged ourselves on unlimited viewings of "Hawk the Slayer," and "My Bodyguard." But it wasn't long before we discovered the stations in the 8000 range. Porn. Hard-core, butt-thumping, ball-banging porn. We were disgusted, revolted, and utterly hooked. If a time-lapse film of my adolescence was covertly shot, no one watching it would believe I ever left this room. My friends and I instantly traded in football scores for dirty whores. We spent what felt like weeks on end in that basement, with pillows and blankets draped nonchalantly across our laps to cover our dignity and soak up our discharge.

Late at night, sooner or later, everyone would have to leave, and I would be alone, blue blanket on my lap. Threadbare, this piling and faded powder-blue relic had been in our household as long as I could remember (had mother once swaddled me in it?). Left to my own devices, and making sure the coast was clear, I pleasured myself to no end, always leaving the traces of my love directly into this decaying heirloom. Day after day, I pummeled my blue buddy with the imaginary love of a thousand women. If the super sleuths from CSI ever descended upon my basement with their blue lights, the evidence would have been insurmountable. I would have been arrested for loving too much. Fortunately, thanks to the thoughtful installation of a dehumidifier, the basement was never overly humid and the blanket would always be dry by the next day. On occasion, I would not get to its familar folds first. Some days I would wander into the basement and find one of my friends hiding his bulge in it until it was time to leave. Chad, blissfully unaware he was covering himself with the crusty remnants of my desire, or Brian, falling asleep with his head nestled on top of my glazed and dried boy glue. "Male Bonding" at its best...

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