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In law school, they try to teach you how to “think like a lawyer.” Recently, I was reflecting on my creepy adolescent years, and I think I had already figured out how to “think like a lawyer” well before I even got to law school.
Let me explain.
When I was 12 or 13 years old, I was a portly little bastard. I spent most of my days walking around with a Kool-Aid mustache and Dorito cheese dust caked onto my fingertips. I don’t remember much from this period in my life, except for the fact that I would get boners all day long. I could be watching the Zapruder film in a classroom full of men and my dick would be harder than Final Jeopardy.
Now, with that description in mind, it shouldn’t be too hard for you to imagine that I used to masturbate constantly – usually several times a day. I couldn’t get enough of it. After all, I was just a creepy little semen demon.
However, I did have one rule when it came to pleasuring myself – no rubbing on religious holidays.
I’m not exactly sure why I implemented that rule, but I assume it had something to do with the fact that I was raised Catholic and always felt like someone was watching and judging me at all times. I guess I thought this little concession would be a good faith gesture to the man upstairs, which would probably help me overcome Judgment Day.
Plus, I didn’t think it would be too big of a burden since my family really only celebrated two religious holidays per year: Christmas and Easter. No fucking way was I going to refrain from diddling myself for some bullshit holiday like All Saints Day.
But I soon found out that even refraining from self-gratification on Christmas and Easter would be more of a burden than I had originally anticipated. I’d be lying in bed at night, when I’d suddenly start to feel it in my underpants. I’d try not to think about it, and roll over and go to sleep, but even though I was hung like the Statue of David, I could not ignore the fact that my dumb little chubby was poking through the hole in my Umbros. I was going to be up all night. Something had to be done.
Well, this is when I started “thinking like a lawyer.” I had to figure out a way to technically comply with rule, yet at the same time, satisfy my carnal desires. My first thought was to try and hold off until at least 12:01am, at which point I could open the floodgates. Literally.
The way I saw it, this would at least give me a leg to stand on if I got up to the Pearly Gates and was questioned about my indecent behavior. I guess I envisioned the following conversation between Michael the Archangel (Heaven’s doorman) and myself to go something like this.
Michael the Archangel: (rolling up the sleeves of his Affliction t-shirt) “Um, hey buddy. Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
Me: “Heaven. I can’t wait to see what this eternal bliss thing is all about.”
Michael the Archangel: “Um yeah, about that – I don’t see that happening anytime soon. Why don’t you go try purgatory for a little bit, and we’ll call you when we’re ready for you.”
Me: “Uh, what are you talking about? Is this some kind of a joke? I’d like speak with a manager.”
Michael the Archangel: “Christmas of ’97. We saw what you did in your grandparents’ basement with that Black Tail magazine. The fuck was that all about?”
Me: “Oh, that. Shiiiiiit! Go back and check the tape, my man. It was 12:01am, which means the act occurred on the 26th, so quit busting my onions, will ya?”
Apparently, I felt rather confident with that argument, because those 12:01am beat-sessions continued for the next four or five holidays. Unfortunately, as I went deeper into my pubescent years, my sexual appetite grew even larger, which made waiting until midnight too much of a burden.
Therefore, I developed what I thought was another bulletproof argument in order to massage my rod without actually glazing on a holiday.
I would “edge.”
If you aren’t familiar with the term edging, I’m sure you are familiar with the concept. Edging is where you maintain a very high level of sexual arousal over an extended period of time, without actually ejaculating. You eventually do ejaculate, but first you come as close to the “edge” as possible, and then you let “the excitement” come back down. You repeat this process several times before allowing yourself to pop. The process is also known as peaking, surfing, and erotic sexual denial.
Well, my new plan was that after family dinner, I would retreat to my Beat-Suite, toss on a VHS of some rough lesbian porn, and edge for 3 or 4 hours, releasing just after the stroke of midnight.
Again, since I wasn’t actually climaxing on the holiday itself, I thought I was in complete compliance with the black letter interpretation of the law, even though I was certainly splattering seed all over the spirit of the rule.
Looking back, it fucking baffles me how I thought that type of bullshit reasoning would hold up if I actually had to explain that to some sort of higher power, especially the deity who created all of mankind. It further baffles me why I thought there would be some sort of due process afforded to me. I guess I pictured Michael the Archangel as some two-bit, underpaid and overworked assistant District Attorney, who wouldn’t have the time or the brains to craft a rebuttal to my edging defense.
Keep in mind that I was struggling to keep a C-average at that point in my academic career.
And I guess I pictured God as some sort of chin-stroking neutral arbiter, who would actually listen to my edging argument – deliberate on it for several hours – and eventually return with a verdict in my favor.
The fucking on ego on me!
It just makes me laugh, how I thought that I was going to dupe GOD – you know, the guy who was clever enough to figure out how to create Heaven and Earth and the entire fucking universe in six days – into buying my bullshit, depraved line of reasoning.
Talk about delusions of grandeur. I should be fucking excommunicated.
But, I guess it doesn’t even matter anymore. I eventually caved on my whole policy against knuckling off on holidays. The edging became too risky. I’d start waaaaay too early in the day, and by like 10 o’clock at night, I’d be curled up in the fetal position in my bed, moaning as if I were pregnant.
You can only go to the edge so many times before you give yourself the worst case of blue balls conceivable. You develop a fluid congestion in the testicular region, and eventually, you’re just left with a swollen bag and a prolonged dull aching pain in your pubicle sack.
My mom would hear me moaning and come in and be like, “Oh honey, what’s wrong with you. Is it something you ate?”
It’s a damn good thing I didn’t have a holiday ban on lying, otherwise I would have to shatter the angelic image she had of her eldest son when I had to tell her that I had been bringing myself to the brink of completion every hour – on the hour – ever since we opened presents earlier that morning.
Fucking creepy little teenager.