dankrubis

A Botched Attempt At Masturbation


At almost every point in our lives, we look up to someone. When I was nine, I looked up to Daniel Hardin. Daniel lived four houses down from me in middle class suburbia. Not only did I like him because he had the same name as I, down to the nickname, Danny, but he was also three years older than me. At that age, three years meant almost double the experience and knowledge that I held.

Also, his house was just plain better than mine. Mine was too perfect, a midwest wife's dream. Fake flowers and plants inhabited every corner, even the decor of the couches. My mother stood and stared at me at breakfast, waiting for me to take the last bite of Cracklin' Oat Bran so she could whisk the plate away to the dishwasher. Not so at Danny's house. Danny's mother looked stuck to her recliner, the remote control glued to her hand. Her other hand held a never ending cigarette, keeping the thin layer of smoke throughout the house at a constant level. And it seemed, at all times, there were three bags of Cool Ranch Doritos in the cupboard, and a case of Pepsi in the fridge. Nothing else.

I adopted his mannerisms. To name a couple, flatulence was no longer anything to be ashamed of, it was to be praised. In fact, if I farted and it wasn't loud enough, I got a punch in the arm, followed by a "loser." Whereas loud ones, especially if their smell penetrated the light fog of smoke and got to a nose, got a verbal pat on the back.

One mannerism he carried truly intrigued me. Now I know what he was doing, but then I didn't, and it lead to my first botched attempt at masturbation.

Whenever we encountered a woman, any woman, save his mother, Danny Hardin would perform a ritual. He would square his body with theirs, his pelvis jutting forward. He would then place his hand at his crotch, cupped, like he was holding a pickle or a large sausage. Then he would raise his arm, without bending it, until his hand was eye level with his head, then back down again, like he was stroking a large, curved pole extending three feet from his crotch. He did this quickly, over and over again, until the women were out of sight. Sometimes they ignored him, but mostly they said "ewww," or screamed, or ran away. He usually accompanied this motion with a "hey baby!" or a simple "yeah."

I didn't know what this ritual quite entailed, but I joined in on most occasions because it was fun making women uncomfortable. Still true to this day.

After five or six months of hanging out, we found ourselves spending time at a rare place, my house. I had just got a Sega Genesis for my birthday, and we took turns playing Sonic the Hedgehog. After three solid hours of gaming, we finally shut it off and watched TV. He snatched the controller away from me.

"Sweet, you got a box!"

A cable box. He didn't. Looking back, I'm pretty sure his cable was stolen. He turned the channel to 64. To my chagrin, it was a blue screen with rather large words everywhere. Not nearly as entertaining as Night Court. I was not pleased.

"Come on! Switch it back, homo!"

He didn't even hear me. His eyes were glazed over, he sported a wild grin, showing teeth that were somehow already yellow.

He pushed the Authorization button, and my life changed forever.

Men and women filled the screen, all completely naked. They were pressed up against each other, gyrating, swinging back and forth. Their pelvises ground together as they squirmed and grunted like animals. Danny Hardin looked over at me with the same smile, laughed, then performed the exact ritual he usually did with women, moving his cupped hand back and forth high into the air. "Yeaaaahhh."

It was all over, I was an addict. After school, when my parents were still at work, I turned it to channel 64 and hit Authorize.

So went my after school activities for the next few weeks. The nudity, the moaning, the acts performed, I didn't know a thing about them, but I was hooked. From 3 to 5 p.m. every school day I watched, unconsciously knowing I had glimpsed into the future, and it was good. I mimicked Danny Hardin's movements, his cupped hand going up and down, not knowing what it meant, not making the connection between that action and the stiff pre-pubescent manhood in my jeans.

Then the mailman ruined all my fun.

The cable bill came in at an astounding 216 dollars. Calling the company, my step-father yelled, complained, there must have been a mistake. But no, someone in the house had been ordering porn at 3:15, the minute they got home from school, at six dollars a pop.

My parents didn't yell at me, though. Not even a punishment. I got a book. It was titled, Love: An Introduction. Dr. Suess meets Hustler. Not pictures, but drawings, of things much more explicit than what I watched on Pay-Per-View. (I later learned that I had been watching "Soft-Core Porn.") I didn't read the book, just stared at the detailed illustrations within. I was still clueless to all of Danny Hardin's hand gestures and how they meant masturbation. It took me another three years, when I was his age, to finally make the beautiful connection.