I took to masturbation after a friend in the sixth grade explained the meaning of the word ‘shag,’ to me. I went home enlightened and sexually awakened and fantasized about a girl who took the same school bus. Being a newbie to the art, I gripped both my penis and balls together and pressed and released; pressed and released. I kept going because something about the act was extremely pleasurable. I finally reached climax and let out a soft squeal. The whole thing was a sexual baptism; a regeneration akin to the rebirth of a veteran returning home and seeing his family after years. It was bliss. I bashed myself for not discovering it sooner, but then I felt a terrible spasm of guilt grip me, and I hated what I’d done. I vowed in vain to never do it again.

Three days passed, and I was back at it. Beating the meat, as they call it. Soon, I started excessively masturbating. I did it seven to ten times a day. The tenth time always felt like a war. I fought the soldiers of jadedness and sought orgasmic victories. Perhaps, I was punishing myself, but I didn’t care. Sex, sex and more sex: That was the only thing I lived for. I wanked ferociously; I frigged fiercely. I was a possessed madman. I got home from school; jumped on my bed and rubbed against the mattress like nobody’s business. I didn’t mind the pain the position I’d chosen gave me. After all, what’s pleasure without pain? I rubbed and rubbed and didn’t even take my shorts off. Then with soiled pants, I’d walk around a bit, before jumping on the bed and rubbing again with maniacal glee.

Years passed, and things changed, but one thing remained the same: I was still a chronic masturbator; an avid shagger; a habitual wanker. Maybe, the whole affair has something to do with my habit of escapism. When I was very young, I’d use toy G.I. Joes and create the craziest stories. I’d escape into a kaleidoscope of daydreaming and lose myself for hours. Or maybe, it is Portnoy’s Complaint. I try hard, to be a better person, and chastise myself severely when I fail. I guess that explains my guilt after a shag. It’s my altruistic impulses fighting my ‘unclean’ excessive sexual desire. Maybe all this stems from an Oedipal complex. I do love my mother very much.

Moving on, I’m in my thirties now and still shagging like a bastard. I don’t get erections sometimes. I’ve also taken to heavy pornography like gangbangs and threesomes. I get sick, twisted pleasure in watching men sexually humiliate women on the screen. The girls in porn pretend to love this, but I know that normal women desire respect. I’m the stereotypical weirdo; the sexually embittered poète maudit. I live with my mother and spend all my time in my room reading and smoking. I can’t even read without stroking myself these days. I’m lonely, and I’m an anarchist. I still have this tragic hope of sorting my shit out, but I don’t address my deep, unresolved problems. All my affairs with women have ended badly. My ex-girlfriends bodies have enthralled me, more than their hearts or minds. I’m fucked up and useless and not going anywhere.

I hate Freud, but I’m beginning to wonder if he’s right about things. Do we go through stages of psychosexual development? Is sex a childhood thing? Fuck! Too many questions and too little answers. I think I’ll get back to Philip Roth who inspired this uncompromising post.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

2 Replies to “Psychosexual misery”

  1. Portnoy’s Complaint was the first book
    I ever read, that didn’t have pictures.
    Being banned I just had to read it.
    A little like a literary Woody Allen, in that
    you didn’t need to be Jewish to appreciate.
    Or even relate 😎

    1. Ha! 😄 Philip Roth is a terrific writer though. He embodies the adage: ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover.’ The book covers he or his publishers choose are horrible! But the content is gold. And Woody Allen did write a few books. I have a collection of his works. Maybe they’re just scripts from his movies! I haven’t gotten down to reading them yet.

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