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April 05, 2010


It won’t be long now that I’ll be turning 45 years old. Seems like only the other day I was in my twenties—slim, full of energy, a thick-flowing mane, my mental faculties at a keen razor’s edge, waking up every morning with a stiff one. Not a single one of those descriptors fits now. It’s funny how life changes you. But there is one thing that hasn’t changed, which I had thought would: jerking off. This is the one constant that has remained with me lo these many years.

I can still remember when I first discovered the joys of self-gratification. I don’t know how old I was at the time, couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8. We had one of those cheap metal swing-sets in our backyard. And I liked to hang my dad’s old duffel bag from when he was in the army, filled with old blankets and what not, and jump on it and swing back and forth. It wasn’t your typical army duffel bag. It was made out of blue denim, and had a looped rope threaded through brass eyelets that extended a couple of feet. This made it perfect for hanging from one of the bolts extending through the top of the main bar.

One time, as I had my little legs wrapped around it, and it was pressing against just the right area as I’m swinging on it, a strange, wonderful sensation overcame me. I didn’t understand what had just happened. I only knew one thing: it felt good. Really good.

After that initial discovery, I couldn’t wait to get home from school to ride her, and I eventually wore that bitch out. After she finally started ripping and coming apart, I begged my mom to patch her up.

“Why can’t you just play on your swing the normal way, like other little boys?” she asked. She didn’t understand. I’m probably the only person in the world right now whose first love interest was a WWII U.S. Army issued duffel bag.

It wasn’t until much later, when I started pleasuring myself in a more traditional manner, when I figured out what had been happening with me and Duffie.

Those days are now long since gone, and Duffie is no more. I think the moths finally took her. But I still miss her, and think of her fondly. I can still see her, hanging from the bar, swaying gently, provocatively in the breeze. Beckoning me for another ride.