Horatio writes: Back in action in the wake of a holiday period in which we at True Beat were grateful recipients of a number of remarkable gifts from readers around the country which we will be posting in the coming weeks. A veritable treasure trove of that which once aroused us, all of which were as close to pornography as pleather is to leather.
But to get us back into the swing of things, we present a festive story sent in by Mike of Long Island who asked us the following riddle: what says Yuletide even more than Santa in the grotto, and Barbara Streisand's Christmas Album? The annual pilgrimage to visit grandparents in the sun belt of course. Mike tells the tale of a trip in 1986 when he was fifteen. The apex of his years as a frantic and passionate advocate of self-love. Mike put it slightly less delicately:
"Back then, I lived and breathed masturbation. We are talking five or six times a day, every day. If there would have been an X-Games back then, and endurance masturbation was a sport, I would have been on Sports Center. So the notion of traveling en famille for four days and sharing a room in a Howard Johnson right outside of Tucson was the equivalent for me of giving up heroin cold turkey.
On the flight there, I listened to the Beastie Boys Licensed To Ill on my Aiwa. This was an album which normally cracked me up no matter how many times I played it. Even more than the Diceman. But this time, it was as if I was listening to songs of the partisans of the Holocaust. I felt alone. Desperate. And borderline suicidal.
After check in to the HoJo, things became bleaker. The room was the size of a ping pong table, the bathroom had no door, and my parents introduced me to the collapsible cot that was to be my bed, squeezed parallel between their queen and the window. Desperately working the angles, I knew immediately that there was no kill zone in which I could work my crotch magic in room 216. My body ached, I had chills, cold sweats. So when my Mom suggested I cool myself down with a visit to the courtyard pool, I slapped on my JAMS, and ran downstairs lickety split.
The pool area was quiet. The fact that it was 120 degrees meant that there was only one other person there, hanging out in the deep end. After diving in and surfacing, my senses were alive. The cold water felt so good on my crotch and I momentarily started to evaluate the possibility of not leaving the pool area at all for the next four days, Man from Atlantis style. I sashayed my way up to the deep end and that all changed. The sole occupant of the pool was not just another person. Lying against the hand rail in the deep end, she was the stuff that wet dreams are made of. This was the kind of woman who had fallen off the Poison tour bus. Dyed blond hair poofed up to the highest level. Way too tan. And Inflata-boobs popped into a neon body glove one piece swimsuit. Remember I had not shot one off in over twelve hours here. At this point, me so horny, I was not sure if she was real or a mirage, a figment of my imagination, a composite of all of my magazine fantasies come to life. I swam a couple of pretend laps under water, trying desperately to get a look at her submerged crotch and see if there was a trace of any foliage as in the Sports Illustrated swim suit edition. But with my manhood projecting from my Jams like a rudder, my mind soon moved to the problem that was literally at hand. Where was I going to go to get some relief?
My parents were in my bedroom. The bathroom would leave me vulnerable and exposed. HoJo did swimming pools but changing rooms, not so much... what was I to do? The frozen water started to make my nipples ache. I knew my pool time was limited. Desperate times. Desperate measures. I slid out of the pool, made a bee line for my towel and casually hung it over the pole in my pants as I boogied out of the pool area and stumbled through the reception like a member of the Pogues, my mind focussed only on the fact that I was an adolescent boy with needs and I would not be denied. I was now on the second floor, approaching the long corridor that led to my parents room. It was now or never. I pulled my weapon out over the top of my shorts and oblivious now other human beings, staggered forward, like a masturbating zombie, pounding away frantically and without shame. Did I mention I had not pleasured myself in forever? It was all over in a matter of seconds. Without breaking stride, I exploded all over the cheap fibers of the hotel carpet, and in one slick move, slipped my sword back into its holster and knocked on my parents door. With no pre-planning, I had executed the much discussed, but rare-to-achieve hotel corridor wank -- driven by my insatiable needs to perform the whole task in broad day light, out. And now you know why every hotel carpet feels crusty people.