Greasing My Pole

especial from NYC writes:

One of the joys of being raised in a strict Catholic household is that no one talks about anything. So it goes without saying that on matters of sexuality, I grew up retarded. Especially when it came to masturbation. I was so ignorant of the wonders of hand lotion that I was going “caveman style” and chafing my penis raw until the age of 14. But not even the pain of exposed second-layer skin could stop this eight-year-old boy from pretending Olivia Newton John was his girlfriend. Alone time in the middle of the night was my time. And it didn’t hurt that the crucifix hanging on the wall was across the room so he couldn’t see what I was up to.

Every night before bed I would ask my older sister if could borrow her Grease double LP album. It didn’t matter that I didn’t own a record player. All I cared about were the photos of Sandra Dee on the inside cover. Particularly, the ones before she started looking like a whore. Dressed in my Star Wars pajamas, I stared at them forever, meticulously studying every inch of her awesomeness. I thought if I fell asleep with Olivia Newton John on my mind, I'd have a better chance of dreaming about the two of us holding hands and slow-skating.

Of course, the ritual of filing images of Sandra Dee into my mental file cabinet could only occur until after I said my prayers. Sinning all over my hands and R2-D2 sheets before saying my Hail Marys just didn’t seem right.

Addicted To Self-Love

Back in the day, when I was young, free, and nimble, this video defined SEX. I had never seen anything more titillatingly arousing. Quintuplets with man-pleasing lips, wearing next to nothing, who knew how to play their instruments. The masterstroke was to have them seem content to be backing Robert Palmer, a sweaty, podgy, high-pant waisted everyman. If they were pleasuring him -- and they clearly were -- who wouldn't they be content with? The video was in heavy rotation, thank the gods, and so I was able to study the minutiae, down to whose areolae were most visible under the clingy black elastic of their stretch cotton. Back then, I mastered the art of shooting my load in the three minutes of bacchanalia Palmer offered six or seven times a day. But what is remarkable about watching this video twenty two (yes, 22!) years later is how safe and innocent it appears. The hem line of the guitar player on the right is just above her knees. What felt so risque in that time (1985) and that place (I lived in suburban Chicago) are now safe enough for an Amy Grant video.

Submitted by Steve Lavin, Chicago

Diamonds Are Forever (Forever... Forever)

Horatio writes: This blog is all about the details. And so we were delighted to receive this paean to methodology from Martin in New Jersey. If you developed similar unorthodox tactics like Shawn Marion at the free-throw line, this is the place to send them.

I was a self-taught onanist. My method was effective, but as I have since learned, rare. I would make a right angle with the thumb and forefinger of each hand and connect them to make a diamond. I would then insert my cock into aforementioned diamond and work it up and down the length to get the party started. And this was the only way I could get the equipment to work. Even when I learned of more common one handed methods in seventh grade. The diamond was my signature move. I would go to bed at eleven p.m. precisely, prop myself up on my sham, put on my Sony FM Walkman, and with headphones clamped on tight, tune into WYNY for Dr. Ruth's late night Sexually Speaking and let my wankfest begin.

Looking good, Billy Ray! Feeling Good, Louis!

One of the central challenges I faced when I learned how to do the act was to work out what to focus on over the six or seven minutes it took to get the job done. In those days, I had seen very few breasts. In fact I had a working knowledge of just two pairs: my mother's, which were like any mother's -- functional and instructional. And a those displayed by an African American extra during a party scene in the first video I ever rented, the magnificent Trading Places. The actress was a woman of wonder who lifted her arms above her head while dancing to Sylvester's Do You Wanna Funk? enabling a pair of small black breasts to slide clean out of her sequined silver boob tube. Jamie Lee Curtis may have also flopped them out in the film -- several times in fact -- but the party scene was the one I loved. It was less the breasts, and more the actress's nonchalant demeanor that thrilled me. I sat up into the early morning, astonished and excited by her blasé attitude and total lack of shame, rewinding the delicious moment over and over until the videotape began to crackle.