A Personal Timeline of Sexual Self-Discovery

Age 9: I experience my first erection. Confusion and mass hysteria ensue. The peals of laughter make me suspect that those around me understand what’s happening, but I can’t be sure because everyone thinks it’s more funny not to tell me what is going on.

Terrified by the prospect that my body can do things without my permission, I subsequently come to think of my penis as the ‘Benedict Arnold’ of my body. I become convinced that erections are my penis making a desperate gambit for freedom by attempting to trick me into pulling it off.

This is also around the time that I finally realize the term ‘boner’ isn’t the male-specific equivalent of the word ‘bitch.’ I’m not exactly sure why I thought this was the case, but it seemed to make a lot of sense at the time.

Age 10: Confusion over the ambiguity of the term “wet dream” leads to a mistaken classification of the bladder as a sexual organ. I consequently spend the next six months peeing three times before bed to avoid the terrifying possibility of an erection.

Age 11: I learn via 6th grade sex education that sperm and urine are actually two completely different things. I subsequently overcome my fear of urinating on girls and getting them pregnant. Splashing the seat when I stand to pee consequently becomes much less of an issue than it once was.

Age 12: I am informed by my parents that God kills kittens every time a boy masturbates. My parents decide it’s funny to make dying cat noises when they walk past my room on their way to bed. Masturbation is suddenly less fun.

Age 12 ½: I get to 2nd base for the first time. I decide that masturbation is fun again. Kittens can go fuck themselves.

Age 15: I get my first hand job. I am surprised by the large amount of pain it involves. I begin to suspect that I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.

Age 16: I attempt to have sex for the 1st time. Confusion over the specifics of how things fit together prevents said attempt from being even remotely successful.

Age 18: I attempt to have sex for the 2nd time. I discover the male orgasm, proving once and for all my long-standing suspicion that I never learned how to masturbate properly. Existence of the fabled female orgasm still TBD.

Age 19: I discover whiskey, a magic elixir that can help absolutely anyone overcome crippling levels of awkward shyness—as long as that person is willing to surrender their dignity for a night.

I attempt to employ several new impromptu strategies aimed at convincing women to like me, including (but not limited to): throwing food, pretending to be in love, attempting to introduce myself with my tongue instead of my words, drunken boxing, exposing my bare ass to a roomful of people, freestyle rap battles with other tragically white people and puking in unexpected places.

None of these strategies prove to be successful. My initial suspicion that women are instantly attracted to the man with the highest blood-alcohol content in the room turns out to be very, very incorrect. Never one to learn too much from my mistakes, I switch back to beer.

Age 20: I fall asleep in the middle of my first college hook-up. Offended by this, the girl in question leaves. Certain social circles adopt the term “Andy-Sex” as a synonym for sex that is so boring it makes you fall asleep. The number of girls in Pocatello who are interested in dating me declines significantly.

Age 21: I learn, via my various experiences at the bar, that women like men with jobs/cars/money/facial hair/self-esteem/big dicks/an education/cool t-shirts with skulls on them/muscles/artistic talent/spiky hair/athletic ability and/or a busy schedules that keeps them from sitting on the couch all day playing Super Smash Brothers on Nintendo 64.

Realizing that I have none of those things, I resign myself to writing whiny, highly-emotional poems about my life. I reconsider my aforementioned stance on kittens, guided by the belief that having a cat will increase my self-esteem.

Age 22: I start a blog in an attempt to sort out my deep-seated psychological issues and come to terms with my own unique brand of repressed sexuality. TC mark

image – Jon Feinstein

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