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Three Pillars of the Modern Gentleman
The Well-Adjusted Gentleman
The final installment of a three part DIY Gentleman’s Series
by Josh Tyson
Before I conclude the Modern Gentleman trilogy, I’d like to offer a brief addendum to the last installment, “The Well-Dressed Gentleman.” Donny, the blue-collar rocker who smoked the hand-rolled cigarettes, has been forced to quit smoking after a trip to the emergency room. His habit had advanced to the point where he was smoking all of the butts left in the senior center’s ashtray, so it‘s for the best. He wears a patch now. And he told me, instead of smoking, he sits in his bedroom listening to talk radio and playing with his cat, Phillip. Eddie, the grunge style enthusiast, who was a good friend of mine, recently succumbed to a fifth heart attack. Eddie forgot to put on the boxing gloves he usually wore when playing with his cat, Sunshine, and received a vicious scratch on his hand. This scratch became infected and landed him in the hospital. That last trip to the hospital took a lot out of him, and he expired about two months later. He never had much, but I know him and believe that he died smiling and unafraid. Eddie was one of the good guys, so get reflective with an Old Style (his favorite) and pay your respects to a truly Modern Gentleman.
Consuela and Marcia were having a heated conversation as my back arched and I shot a balmy load onto my belly. I don’t speak Spanish, so I’m not sure what they were fighting about, but I think they were quarrelling over a man named Domingo. I rolled over and dug under the sheets and pillows, looking for the remote control. I turned off the Spanish channel and took a good look at myself in my mind‘s eye; the well-adjusted gentleman. Stretched out on the bed, with a pearly streak of wasted protoplasm drying across my gut, I may have looked a bit sad, coarse and lonely, but I was riding high on the golden road towards well-adjusted, gentlemanossitude. It wasn’t always this way. I wasn’t always this way.
Truth be told, the road to becoming a well-adjusted gentleman is not really a road at all, it is a constant battle with the self. It is man versus his inner-animal, and sometimes it’s necessary to whisper into the ear of this core-dwelling, wooly, fanged albatross, “bring it, bitch.”
Back before I snared my girlfriend, there were darker days. Lonely days filled with desperation and torrid journeys through the labyrinthine annals of free internet porn.
I don’t pay for porn. Years ago, when I worked at a bookstore, I’d get all the free Penthouse, Playboy and Perfect 10 I could handle. I had to throw away about two hundred pounds of it when I moved. Between that and the hand-me-down videos that circulated amongst my friends, I was kept in good jerk.
Then I got DSL.
To begin with, looking for jack-off material on the internet is to open Pandora’s box.
When I started looking for smut on the world wide web, I quickly found the thumbnail sites that were to become the bane of my existence. Type “free pussy cum girlie thumbnail”, into any search engine and marvel at the boundless list it‘ll produce. And once you pick a site to explore, watch how many more pop open. Like the scene in a horror movie when the girl opens a mysterious door and a thousand crazed bats fly out into her face, it’s shocking. Madthumbs.com, jpeg4free.com, these are two that I can clearly remember. Just pages full of thumbnail pictures of girls’ faces, usually smiling, or sometimes with a penis in their mouth instead. They’re all broken down by the days of week, and the sites are updated daily. I was hooked. It was free, and with DSL, it was fast as hell. I was caught in a cyclone of e-wank, and its vastness suggested no foreseeable break in the storm.
With a magazine, I would pick the best spread and then work with it, formulating an adequate fantasy. But now I’d become a really picky (hand) fucker. If I didn’t like one girl or scenario, there were literally hundreds more to chose from. I also began to develop certain hang-ups. Even when a girl was really attractive, if I clicked on her thumbnail and a spread was revealed in which she was wearing ugly shoes, or she had an untidy bush, or if she was pissing in a dish, it was no go. I was working nights, so I’d waste my afternoons sitting at the computer looking for masturbatory nirvana with my dick in a dress sock–another pathetic outcropping (I really didn’t want to get hand lotion or semen on my computer, so I’d sleeve my member with a mismatched, silky dress sock; much gentler on tender penal flesh than an athletic sock). This seemingly endless pool of porn in combination with my new, and constantly swelling sea of complexes had taken what used to be a ten-minute process into the hour-long arena. And unless you’re getting paid to do it, that’s far too much time to spend fondling yourself.
The more time I spent with this teeming harem of eager beavers, the more I started to notice the hard workers. The girls who were on multiple sites, in new situations and outfits every week, desperately trying to pay off college loans. This was the first pang of my pathetic mismanagement of time to really hit me. I was a connoisseur of this garbage.
Pang two, I started seeing the girls in the outside world. I’d be riding the train and I’d see a girl who looked familiar. Do I know her from somewhere? I’d ask myself. Work? Some bar? No! I saw her riding the electric orgasm machine last week on hornyhousewives.com.
I doubt that many, if any, of the girls I’d see on busses, trains, and sidewalks were actually the same ones cock-hobbling about on the internet, but it’s entirely possible. The world of amateur porn is not all that exclusive, and there are a lot of colleges in Chicago. It got to the point where I felt they were closing in on me. They’d see me looking at them, and from the way I was blushing, they’d know that I’d seen them, dick in dress sock, at my pathetic altar. It was always crushing. I was no gentleman, let me tell you. To put it another way, that soul-sucking Bull Harley on the inside was bashing his bald, sweaty head into my inner Lincoln Hawk’s face, all the while growling, “Your ass is mine! It belongs to me!”
It was time to push that fat fuck Over the Top.
“Bring it, bitch!” I hissed.
I tried to quit cold turkey, but the site names seemed glued in my web browser‘s memory, and I couldn‘t figure out how to remove them. Out of desperation, I turned to Univision.
For lack of in-house porn, I beat-off to the Spanish channel when I lived with my parents. The thing about the Spanish channel is that there are always really attractive women on. Always. Their newscasts and morning shows all have foxy hosts and the cameras are pulled back far enough for full leg shots. Their soap operas are brimming with gorgeous girls as well. Even their lame variety shows are onanist pay dirt. Since I don’t speak Spanish well, they could be talking about anything, finance, massacres, tea parties, none of it disrupts my erections, it all sounds exotic and sexy. Plus, I don’t need cable to get not one, but two Spanish-language stations. It was healing for me, helping me shed the layers of shame that were suffocating a once-noble manifestation of inner-reflection and personal growth. When I hit channel 120, it was like I was turning on a machine. I could generally rub one out in under fifteen minutes, hurried a bit by an impeding commercial break–and when it was getting too close to the mark and I‘d yet to uncork, I’d slip my fingers over the top of my thumb, creating that extra pressure point that shot me past the finish line. So my time-wasting issue was solved, and because I won‘t be in Mexico City this or any holiday season, I wasn‘t worried about running into one of my “victims.”
I haven’t pawed myself in front of the computer in almost a year now. My dress socks are no longer a crispy mess, and, to tell you the truth, I don’t even use the Spanish channel anymore either. Even though I know it’s not done much these days, as a well-adjusted gentleman–one always engaged in sanguinary melee with my inner-badger–when I have to jerk-off, I use my imagination, and it‘s taking me places.
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Volume 2, Issue 3 contents |
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