Portnoy’s Mother (entering room unexpectedly):
Stop that; you”ll go blind that way.
Can I do it ’til I need glasses?
Portnoy certainly was not the master of his domain, but then again, who among us men are?
Our singularly uncontrollable urge to do that doesn’t mean we will lose our eyesight. If that was true, men would have sprouted antennae and developed bat-like radar eons ago. No, enjoying the pleasure of one’s own company is no more likely to lead to a deterioration of sight than staring too long at a picture of Rosie O’Donnell. Well, maybe that wasn’t the best analogy, but you get the point.
The only way you’ll go blind treating your body (to quote Seinfeld’s Estelle Costanza) “like it was an amusement park” is if you get too careless and are endowed enough to take your own eye out. If that potential existed, however, you wouldn’t need to get jiggy with yourself. Plenty of women would do it for you.
Which, of course, brings you to your present dilemma. You are no John Holmes. And the only girth on you deserving of mention is the one that obscures your belt buckle. So, let’s keep it real. Two Playboy Playmates are not gonna come rapping on your door and ask you to let them do all the work.
Sure, there are those special moments with your life’s helpmate. But twice a month (don’t ask me how—I just know) places you in the high risk category for punctured ear drums from listening to her talk about the house, the kids and her mother, because: “It’s the only time I can get your attention.”
Go forth, then, and spill the seed of thy fruit on the ground. Tis’ not an abomination. Nor is it a stain, er, blight on your character. It is the way of man. Or, perhaps better said, the wayward way of man.
This article is available in Braille.