5 uncomfortable confessions about middle-aged masturbation

5 uncomfortable confessions about middle-aged masturbation
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1. It's harder to focus.

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When you're younger, you're so horny you can't think. When you're older, you think too much. I'll be ready to start and suddenly think: I've got to pay the electric bill. We only have a quarter of a roll of toilet paper. Why didn't I pick up toilet paper? She told me to get toilet paper. Is this going to be a thing now, that I forgot the toilet paper? Fucking toilet paper! Did I lock the door? I thought I locked the door. Should I get up and check? I don't want anyone walking in and seeing the weird shit I'm watching. I'm kind of hungry. Maybe I should just forget it and put on True Detective instead.


2. Death of imagination.

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The only fantasy I have room for in my life now is Game of Thrones, or that my vote will make a difference. Most of my dreams have died or been gradually compromised and I'm not about to muster the effort to visualize something naughty with the taut tattooed girl from the gym obsessed with squatting. Way too much work. I'm more likely to take a Pilates class. I've also been with my wife for over 14 years and my Personal Masturbatory Rolodex became obsolete when Al Gore invented the Internet. The only memories I have left of other women are so old, it would be like trying to whack it to faded ghosts and white noise (sad, confusing and a little creepy). Pornography is the simplest solution.

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3. Too much of a hassle.

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Being a grown-up means having grown-up responsibilities and obligations. I'm married, so I have a lot of them, and literally do not want to get caught with my pants down. Gone are the carefree days of just jerking off devil-may-care whenever I please. There are other people's feelings to consider, and I don't want to consider my wife's if she finds me hunched over the computer gratifying myself like an oversexed, adolescent chimpanzee at the zoo. So, it's of vital importance that I know exactly where she is before I start and how long I have before she gets home (browsing, closing incognito windows and clean-up time all must be factored into the equation). Unfortunately, knocking her out and implanting a GPS locator isn't economical or humane, and the only viable alternative is calling or texting to find out. More often than not, this will lead to a list of demands, a fight about nothing or, worst of all, a prolonged boring story about her day that goes nowhere. This can both cut into the window of my “me time" and psychologically castrate my libido, defeating the purpose of contacting her in the first place.

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4. Clean-up is a bitch.

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Erasing your browser history isn't enough. You must erase all evidence you've debased yourself in the first place. Failure to do so might result in a humiliating tirade about what a disgusting animal you are, planning a “date night," or a frank discussion about finally having a baby. As an older adult, I have more refined tastes, which leads to a more complicated clean-up. I'm a little too old for the spit-and-tug (all that bacteria—ugh!) and can't just reutilize the same old crusty sock or t-shirt and throw it under the bed (she'll find it). I need a good unscented lotion (it's best to have your own supply or she'll become suspicious about why ¾ of her expensive Christmas gift is missing) and a quality, 2-ply paper towel (non-generic) that's ultra-absorbent. I also make sure avoid both the keyboard and crossing streams with the earbuds wire I'm wearing, so my elderly landlady doesn't hear the moans of the startled ingénue auditioning for a calendar and getting a little more than she bargained for. Collateral damage can be tricky, and tack on 10 extra minutes plus the use of a toothbrush if you're not careful. Finally, I dispose of the payload by burying in the bottom of the kitchen trash and placing some choice pieces of refuse on top as insurance (flushing it will result in a clog and burning it is too obvious). If you're ultra paranoid like me, you can always do one extra splatter check and pray she hasn't bought a black light.

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5. It's no longer necessary.

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When you're younger, masturbation is an imperative. It's mandatory. When you're older, it becomes a choice. Most of the time, I don't even do it because I want to. It's less about needing it and more about breaking up life's monotony, numbing disappointment, and just feeling something for a change. Rubbing one out has become a lot like a depressing Wes Anderson movie, and I'm Bill Murray. If I'm going to be completely honest, the main reason I still practice it at this point is that I read it's good for my prostate. I don't even really enjoy it anymore. It's like taking fish oil.

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