My Mother Is A Pornstar

There's something I desperately need to get off my chest.

I am a chronic masturbater.

Now, I know what you're probably saying: 'Dan, there's a big difference between a guy who loves to buff out the hummer here and there, and someone who is medically diagnosed with an addiction to his own reproductive organs.

Well, I'll lay it out for you.

I'm in the Eight Grade.

It's second period.

My math class is reviewing fractions.

And I'm jerking off in the bathroom.

This isn't some last minute thing, either. Truth be told, I've been contemplating this all fucking morning. I would have chipped this roach before I left for school but time had not been on my side; not only did I sleep through my alarm but Carrie had practically pushed me out the door before her film crew arrived.

And so now I'm here, standing with one arm pressed against the wall of a dirty stall while I beat the hell out of myself over an even dirtier toilet bowl. I can't help but steal the occasional glance at the crudely drawn penis on the cement backing and feel the lowest strain of irony.

The really messed up part about all of this though is that the situation, as is, doesn't seem all that bad to me. If anything, you might call it normal. I don't doubt the country is thriving with young men locking themselves in dirty washrooms to punch themselves in the balls while their class reviews useless fractions, and I bet a good percentage of them are equally as bad at math as myself. But the thing that separates me from all others is that I moan.

Yes, I said it.

Moan.

I couldn't tell you why, but for some reason masturbation has me croak and groan like a whore saluting with her left leg. This trait of mine is embarrassing, I'll be the first to admit it, but it doesn't usually serve to be an obstacle as nobody is usually around while I'm in the zone. But it was on this early October morning that Carter Dumple decided second period would be the most ideal hour to empty his bladder. The kid was only in grade six and usually the toddlers knew not to disturb us seniors, but Carter (who knew nothing about the wonderful world of boner polishing) had come to his own conclusion that the moaning leaving my tight stall was not from pleasure, but instead pain.

He knocked on my door exactly three times, I remember perfectly. Stern enough to show his concern, but with just the right amount of hesitation so that I knew Carter wasn't sure he wanted to intervene at all. I also remember how his quaint, prepubescent voice echoed all around the boys bathroom when he spoke, almost as if God himself had been the one enquiring.

“Are you okay?”

You see, this is the key moment in all of the events that would come to pass that I fucked up the most sincerely. I should have put down the shaft and replied, 'Oh yes, I'm fine. Just taking a spicy piss,' and that would have been the end of it.

But I didn't.

I didn't even answer, if you can believe it.

I couldn't.

I would still testify that my hand had fossilized to steel and I was truly unable to pry it away from myself. I was too close to land to jump ship now.

I vomited another mouthful of sound.

Carter knocked again, this time with more authority. “Hey, are you okay? Should I get someone?”

Panic in his voice now. There was no way he couldn't get someone at this point, but how did I reply?

“Uhh-HH-uhh.”

It was a loud one, and I heard Carter's steps recede into the hallway.

Now I had a decision to make.

A) Let go of my cock, return to class, and forget this ever happened. Carter didn't even know it was me in the stall. I could easily slip out of this without any lingering penalties.

Or

B) Keep going.

It's a funny thing about addicts; we are the world's best lawyers, but only when pitted against ourselves. I don't need to tell you that B was my choice, but I will attempt to explain the warped logic behind it. At the time, it all had seemed sound. I could pinch it out before any teacher arrived and explain to them that I had been giving my breakfast an early retirement. Not the best excuse, but it was better than the truth. Maybe they'd even send me home, which wouldn't have even been bad because I could just go to Max's house and avoid Carrie altogether.

But does anything really ever go to plan?

No.

If Carter hadn't come in, I'd have been done ages ago. But the little bastard had shattered my train of thought, breaking my sight of home base. Now I was back in the dugout, weighing bats before my turn to swing. But after a minute or two, I was able to regain my position – and a little more. I felt my shoulders lighten. It was all going to be okay after all.

Knock. Knock.

“Hello? Is everything alright?”

Oh ... fuck.

Not only had Carter found a peer but it was the principal, Mr. Thimble. How hadn't I heard them come in?

Of course, my reply was only: “Hmm-Mm”

“Are you sick?”

I just wanted to yell, 'Shut up!' All these interruptions were growing to be weary. If they would only give me another minute , we could all go on with our day in peace. Even just a few more seconds of solitude...

“Can you speak?”

Just

“Hum-

A

-mmm-

Few

-uhh-uh-

More

-Hooo.”

Seconds.

And that's when Thimble kicked the door down.

How the fuck was I supposed to know they'd break in? This is a public middle school for Christ's sake, not a SEAL operation. But nonetheless, the latch was torn clean out and I was sent in a quick twirl, landing square on the toilet seat, pants down, fully erect.

“UHUhhh...”

I never saw Mr. Thimble wear that black sweater again.