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      The Jerkoff Diaries: Part II The Jerkoff Diaries: Part II The Jerkoff Diaries: Part II

      The Jerkoff Diaries: Part II

      November 3, 2012

      By Christopher Lucas

      Christopher Lucas continues his mission to follow 50 Cent’s stop-masturbating plan.

      I honestly have no idea what blueballs are or whether they exist at all, scientifically speaking. But on Saturday I experienced something that may have been them. Saturday morning started unusually. With a blowjob from my wife. Well, almost a blowjob. Half a blowjob.

      Things got truncated by the dreaded knock on the door. The children were afoot. And the saber went back into its sheath. And I have to say it was a saber. A mighty Excalibur, in fact. Not engaging myself has definitely made for a responsive member when allowed.

      The odd thing was that the wife had actually introduced the idea of swordswallowing. Perhaps she was trying to out-pay-forward me on the whole day with the girls at the spa thing. But she seemed actually kinda turned on and into it. Which was workin for me until The Knock.

      God I hate the knock. Kids know, man. There's a kid radar that goes off when their parents are either asleep or having fun. And when that radar sounds they must find and disturb you.

      So away went Excalibur. And before I knew it I was outta bed and frying eggs and slicing fruit while experiencing a stomach ache and a pain like getting kicked in…well, in the groin.

      Incidentally, I had a colleague once who seemed to me like the kind of guy who jogged every day (something about the way his clothes fit), and when I pointed this observation out to him (he did/does, by the way), his response was, "you seem like the kind of guy who jerks off everyday."

      He was right of course. But it stung a bit. I hated being such an obvious manifestation of my habits. And knowing the banal shit is as much who you are as anything you aspire to be made it that much more painful. (Funny/depressing side note: years later this guy would continue to be way more successful than I was and would assign a writer a book about the power of habits that became a best-seller.)

      Now that I've stopped regularly slapping myself silly it seems like maybe my wife can tell. (By the way, I still haven't mentioned this little experiment/assignment to her, and I am probably courting some kind of painful death by so-doing.) But on Saturday she was definitely more interested in getting in my pants than usual. It may just have been that time of the month when she’s in the mood, but when we had to stop, she didn’t want to, and when I didn't sulk about it, it seemed like she was impressed.

      It feels like we both respect me more somehow right now.

      All right. That's over. My nuts feel like bowling balls. And the worst part is my dick looks smaller than usual next to them. My head looks smaller though, too. Could that be related?


      My wife’s Saturday day-spa pass turned into Saturday chick-flick pass, and I am starting to go dark. The sex, if it ever gets home from watching Pitch Perfect feels inevitable. Like it's sure to disappoint now that I've, um, built it up to be some big thing. I know, right? All of a sudden I am picky?

      The film she’s watching? Not for nothing, but it’s a movie about acapella groups, which, somewhat annoyingly, is based on the book of another colleague, whose jerking off proclivities I know little of, but am starting to assume include jogging and not jerking off and selling successful book ideas that can be turned into films my wife will go watch with her friends while I watch college football—a game featuring a big-name team coached by a guy I knew in high school who probably never searched porn or jerked off and read the goddamn Bible and the biography of Vince Lombardi instead.

      I'm tense. Self-critical. No fun. I don't doubt that I am stronger for this. Kinda like sticking to a good workout routine. But it also feels stupid and unnecessary. Kinda like sticking to a good workout routine. Yet discipline is self-reinforcing, once it cements a bit. And I’m sticking to my guns.

      Here’s a thought from my notes on Saturday night: I wonder if Obama ever jerks off. He probably can't, right? Too weird. Living in the White House there has to be a sense of being watched all the time. Bummer, I guess. But I don’t think any of us want POTUS cruising YouPorn and stroking himself stupid like a teenager, do we? It's good he and Michelle don't have sons Sasha and Malia’s age is all I’ll say.

      I wake up with an erection at least once a night. That coupled with waking up to pee and waking up cause I am hot or cold means I am waking up every 45 minutes or so. The one surefire way I know to get to sleep fast? Jerking off.

      But it's cool. My cock doesn't control me. I control my cock. Well, at least I used to. Now my wife controls us both.


      She and I ended up not doing it Saturday night. Yep, after all that. She came home late. I was pissed and hurt. And it was all very petty, but we got in a pretty wretched fight and went to bed angry. And woke up angry. And the whole time we both knew we needed to fuck and all would be well. But getting there, even if we could delete the children and find a moment's peace and a safe spot to copulate? We were miles away. It's like you gotta cross a couple bridges from Hateville in order to get to Funky Town. And neither of us had a map or a ride or the inclination to leave our little hate hamlet.

      What happened Sunday was a little cruel and unfair but also the best—absolute best—damn thing that could've. We both yelled like hell at the kids (who it must be said had devolved into two twitchy, selfish, candy junkies and somewhat spoiled brats). After a thousand threats and pleas and the kids repeatedly being obnoxious and destructive to each other and us, we finally threw out all the candy in the house and filled two black garbage bags with toys we confiscated, screaming at them to get in and stay in their rooms.

      Then we ignored their wails and rebukes for about an hour while watching the Food Network, effectively taking our lives back after eight years of autocratic child rule.

      The kids eventually calmed down. And fuck if things aren't a lot better since.

      The little fuckers amused themselves and were kind to each other for the rest of Sunday aftenoon, even sitting through and behaving for an old school family dinner at grandma's house. It was a huge shift in the tectonic plates of our family dynamic, and the wife and I made up and basked in the glory of Tough Love: Little Kid Edition.

      Later we climbed into bed, pulled down each other's pants and finally finished what we'd begun on Saturday morning. I felt good, in control of myself. She was responsive and quick. Things ended with a mess and some grumbling about "needing a shower."

      We cuddled and watched football and ate leftovers. It was pretty great. I was definitely girding myself for Monday's work stress but it felt like I had something worth girding myself for.

      Tune in next week to see if anyone gets fired, laid, or learns anything about being in love while having a family—including 50 Cent.

      Previously: The Jerkoff Diaries, Part 1

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      Topics: masturbation, 50 cent, jerking off

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