The last time we left 13-year-old me, I was at a Christian ski camp and made a deal with Jesus. He and I were going to stop me from masturbating. In my young adolescent brain it made a lot of sense. If the Messiah could raise Lazarus from the dead, then he could definitely keep me from paying sinful attention to my penis which had a life of its own.
Let me say this first, if the faithful were serious about masturbation they’d have support groups meeting daily in church basements. Think about it. The pious may debate on how different sins are weighed in the eyes of God (i.e., saying Happy Holidays versus watching MSNBC). However, it’s clear any sin will get you a first class ticket to HELL — For the wages of sin is death… – Romans 6:23.
These masturbation support groups would operate like Alcoholics Anonymous. There would be cookies and coffee. Members would say something like, “My name is Andy, and I regularly wank myself.” And if you know anything about AA, then you know there are chips. Been sober for a year? You get a one year chip. Dry for 20? You get a twenty-year chip. Wanking chips would need shorter time spans. I would need some recognition for not going full wank between the hours of 6am-12 noon.
13-year-old me got home late from Christian camp. It allowed me to go quickly to bed without too much temptation. This was a good sign. I only had to keep this up for six or seven more decades. The next day was school. Fantastic. My plan was to get up quickly, and get myself ready for the meat grinder known as middle school. This was easier said than done.
I’m sure you’ve figured this out, gentle reader. I hadn’t wanked for a few days. Being at Christian camp and sleeping dormitory style with a bunch of dudes inhibited wanking. I was already on Day 3 of forced self-celibacy.
It’s been said before, but it needs to be restated here and now — young people don’t understand how difficult it was to see titties in the 1980s. You couldn’t just fire up your smartphone, laptop, or iPad and surf sin. No. If you wanted to see titties, you had to work for it. And even then you had to deal with non-naked tittie visual stimulation.
My porn stash at the time consisted of Sears’ advertisements from the Sunday newspapers. Oh, how I waited for the Sunday newspaper. Once it arrived, I grabbed the inserts and brought them to my lair. The underwear models made my day, my evening, and oftentimes a self-indulgent afternoon delight.Not only did I have copious amounts of Sears’ ads. I also had the real thing — pictures of naked titties. Don’t get me wrong, the Sunday newspaper brought me joy. But there were no naked titties. I don’t remember where I got the two pins featuring women with bare breasts. They were probably from a friend who had an older brother who graduated from porn-pins one could wear on a prized Members’ Only Jacket to porn movies on VHS tapes.
That morning I decided to get rid of my porn-pins. Better to do it quickly. If they loitered around in the draw by my nightstand, they’d be too much temptation.
My forced self-celibacy lasted approximately 15 after waking up on that Monday. You see, while throwing away the porn-pins I looked at the naked titties. And I was done. The Power of Christ was powerless in the face of The Power of Half-Naked Women.
Jesus didn’t have a prayer against millions of years of evolution and sex drive.
And that’s my story.
Maybe someday I’ll tell the tale of how I almost became a Moonie because a pretty girl chatted me up in London.
Thanks for reading.
Andrew Hall is the author of Laughing in Disbelief. Besides writing a blog, co-hosting the Naked Diner, he wrote two books, Vampires, Lovers, and Other Strangers and God’s Diary: January 2017 . Andrew is reading through the Bible and making videos about his journey on YouTube. He is a talented stand-up comedian. You can find him on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook.