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October 20, 2010

Some of my oddest experiences have been on account of members of my family. Many of my lasting and inexplicably awkward experiences have to be chalked up to my cousin, Wally J.

Hello again reader…I often think of myself as a “left field” or an “out there” person. Don’t get me wrong. There are people who say that type of thing and they think that makes them some sort of hip, iconoclast, eccentric individual. I, however, I am not that person. My left fielded-ness comes from the experiences I have had, rather than a personality or an image I have created. And coming from the genetic lineage I have been given I can safely say some of my oddest experiences have been on account of members of my family. Many of my lasting and inexplicably awkward experiences have to be chalked
up to my cousin, Wally J.

Wally for a time was living at my house. To be caught up on that story please read The Adventures of Wally J Part One. His bedroom was the basement, which also doubled as my “den” in our house. I had a small room and there was no cable or phone service in there, so my friends and I had that area to be idiots and hang out. Wally did not really have much of a job unless you count getting in my uncles way who worked as handy-men around Urbana. Most of his time was spent in my basement, getting high by the cellar door, and watching TV.

He went out drinking most nights, but during the week I had school, extracurriculars, and I worked…so I was already asleep in my bed by the time I could get some basement time. I’ll call it basement time for a reason. I think most adolescent males have rituals when it comes to masturbation. A secret towel hidden under a mattress, a bottle of lotion hidden behind a night stand, a cleverly placed porno in a shoebox no one would uncover…these sort of things. Well, I did not like masturbating anywhere but the basement. There was a TV that worked in the basement, there was an old VCR (so kitsch and retro now!) in the basement, there were old towels and bottles of lotion no one would find in the basement, and there were my hidden pornos in the basement. No one ever came down there with exception of doing laundry. Plus the basement was pretty musty so I could not imagine my cleanly mother and sister hanging out down there. This is was my lair, these were my rituals, and they were infiltrated by Wally J.

I caught him on numerous occasions just watching my pornography. Just watching…nothing else. I would feel violated because one, he would have to snoop through my stuff to find it. Two, the porn was really close to my “Masturbation Survival Pack,” and three, it was just fucking weird knowing the stuff I kept in my spank bank was the same shit Wally was watching stoned and fantasizing about finger blasting bar sluts.

One evening on a Friday or a Saturday Wally was bragging about how he was not going to be home tonight because he was going home with somebody. I remember him saying in the basement while he was getting ready to ruin some gross woman’s night “Wally J, here to stay! Bustin’ nuts, in some guts! Put some cologne on my bone, ain’t comin’ home!” Wally had an affinity to try to rap when it was pussy-gettin’ time. Most nights he was true to his word, he would not come home because he was out raw dogging some 50 year old lot lizard.

He walks out the door, and hops on his trusty Scwhinn Ten-Speed. (One reason to this day I don’t think the whole bike craze is cool is because Wally got so many DUI’s he never had a valid license so he HAD to ride a bike everywhere. I thought it was really fucking lame. Still do. Fuck your stupid fixies…get a car. Nerds.) But I digress. Wally is gone for about half an hour. My mom is fast asleep. It is just me, my penis, and the safe masturbatory confines of the basement. I start my ritual. (If you aren’t totally awesome like I am you might not want to read this part, or visualize it while you are reading.)
Pull out my jackin’ stash. Put the tape in. Shorts off. Fast forward to a really awesome part. Put just enough lotion on my hand…not too much so it isn’t all gloopy and sloppy later, get an old bed sheet, lay it down in front of me on the floor for easy clean up, and begin. I work up to it, I take my time.

I enjoy every minute I can get. For a 16 year old male, this is as good as life gets. Because let’s be honest, even if you are sexually active with a girl at this age…she doesn’t know shit about dick. She gives you a handy…she’s pulling out your pubes. She gives you a blowie…she’s hit the tip with her teeth. She goes all the way…she kind of lays like a fish with her mouth open afraid to look you in the eye because you are FUCKING 16 YEARS OLD AND ARE A MORON ABOUT YOUR BODY and you have the dumbest, most uncontrollable orgasm face in the world. So jacking off at 16 is way less awkward, more comfortable…but way less brag worthy.

I am going at it. I am in my moment, so much in my moment in fact that I do not hear Wally walk down the steps, and come right up to my chair. I do not notice him until he says “What the fuck you doin’…bullyin’ your pecker?!” I freeze. Look him in the eye, lotiony dick in hand. Grab the used cum-covered sheet and cover myself with it. It smells of that weird diluted bleachy ejaculate odor mixed with a musty corner in a basement, layers of lotion, and a bit of asshole.

I’ve been caught masturbating before, but I at least heard someone getting closer and was able to get myself together as much as I could. Though they knew I was masturbating or not, they at least didn’t see any penis or hand movement. Wally saw quite a bit of my private moment. Now I was only protected by an old spunk-sheet, and my hand still tightly clinch around my rapidly flaccid dong.

He had only been gone an hour, and was obliterated. Who does that? The bar is at least a 10 minute ride from my house. So with a there and back trip, Wally had 40 minutes to drink. Maybe he did 10 shots in 20 minutes and was kicked out of The Little Nashville? He had to be high as fuck on something other than weed, to be that fucked up in a short amount of time. It was amazing in that sense, but horrifying in every other way.

Wally sits in the chair next to me, and begins telling me how he has been caught jacking off. He had told me about a babysitter who caught him jacking off, and that he fucked her. He told me about how women he dated liked to catch him wacking off because it turned them on. He is drunk, and genuinely feels he is having this man to man, heart to heart, tender moment with me. This older male supportive moment to him, which is the shittiest thing to happen to me…remember the whole time my dick is in my hand because I am frozen with embarrassment, and I don’t want him to see my lotion-lathered right hand. He then tells me about he used to like to rub one out while tripping. Wally does this for about half an hour. At one point I finally unclench my dick after the lotion had fully absorbed into my hand and my penis, leaving my hand wrinkly like I just took a bath. Wally pats me on the shoulder and says he is going to smoke a joint on the porch. I hear the door shut, wipe myself off, clean up my ritual materials, and go upstairs for a fail-shower and some sleep.

The next day Wally is sitting at the kitchen table drinking some coffee when I wake up. He looks at me dead in the eye. Does the jack off hand motion while sticking his tongue out making squishy sounds and says “You won’t do that again, will ya?”

No Wally, I won’t.

-Justin N.