I Could Tell Them I Didn't Jack Off, But I'd be Lion

Every teenager masturbates, but very few boys who grew up during my Wonder Years in the '70s were brave enough to admit it. Doing so invariably painted the offender as a jerk-off in the eyes of his peers. The heckling an unrepentant masturbator had to endure was relentless. On this front, I must admit, I gave way less than I got. That's because I was an out and proud adolescent dolphin polisher.

I owned up to my onanism the old-fashioned way:  a friend tricked me into admitting it. The question Kenny posed during our bus ride in the sixth grade seemed straightforward on the surface, but I realized the second I opened my mouth there was no way out of his catch-22.

"Has your mom ever caught you playing with yourself in the bathroom?"

"No."

"Is that because you lock the door?

"Yes… I mean, NO!—it's because I …"

I backpedaled, but the snail was already out of the turtleneck sweater. The truth would have set me free—it wasn't mom, it was Aunt Nancy—but how many 11-year-olds are wise enough to know that. When my schoolmates got wind of Kenny's cross-examination, they piled on. 

Harold's a faggot!

What a pussy!

Only queers play with their dicks!

I felt like a hyena in a pack of lions on "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom." As the scorn and ridicule echoed off the Blue Bird's cold steel walls, a personalized version of Marlon Perkins' soothing narrative unfolded in my mind…

"Uh oh—the cat's out of the bag. Against such ravenous predators, the young masturbator's odds for survival don't look good. There's one way he might escape their hungry clutches, but it requires fast thinking and plenty of agility. Let's see how he responds…"

Yeah, I jack off—so what? You wanna watch? Now who's queer? Maybe you guys should try jackin' off once in a while instead of picking on kids who are smarter than you. Face it—you're stupid if you DON'T play with your dick! Ha ha—Kenny's so fat and stupid he can't even choke his own chicken! Hey, pin dick—I'd show you how to beat your meat but I don't have a pair of tweezers! Oh yeah? Well fuck you!

It worked. When my chest puffed up, my assailants backed down. It wasn't the first time I had talked my way out of a threatening situation, but it was the most cathartic. After averting a feeding frenzy on the bus, manic outbursts of a compromising nature became a staple in my comic schtick. As legend of my homoerotic hi jinx swelled, the number of self-actualized self-flagellators grew. Soon every pubescent clown puncher at Sugg Middle School was touting his pud prowess over tots and chocolate milk in the cafeteria. The War on Tugs had been won, and I was the general who forced his enemies to grab their weapons.

I Could Tell Them I Didn't Jack Off, But I'd be Lion