There’s Something Wrong With Willy!
by Andreas Economakis
When a boy discovers how to masturbate, the world ceases to exist as he knows it. Everything revolves around yanking willy. Morning, day and night. In the bedroom, in the bathroom, in the school bathroom, in the restaurant bathroom, in the library, behind the soccer field, in the woods, on the desk, under the desk, on the way to school, on the way back from school, carefully, everywhere. And the props! Sports Illustrated’s February swimsuit issue had a 2-second lifespan in my school library. Next on the list was National Geographic with its nude pygmies, nude natives, nude nudists. And the luscious lingerie ads in the Sunday paper! My mother must have thought I was a closet fashion designer, creating a scrapbook of Macy’s and Caldor and Woolworth’s clothes catalogs.
I was twelve when I discovered that excessive rubbing, in and of itself a pleasurable activity, could lead to the big Medina, the holy cow(!), Nirvana. I’ll always remember how, when we were younger, my brothers and I would sneak up into the water tower of our summer house with warm beers we’d nicked. We would sip the beers and then tuck ourselves into our sleeping bags to yank our willies. I didn’t fully understand what the big deal was. No matter how hard I yanked I could not for the life of me reach that state of bliss that my brothers seemed to achieve after a bit of strenuous yanking. My eldest brother was convinced that it was all technique, that somehow my wrist movement was wrong, that simply, I was a bad masturbator. I tried and tried, to no avail. My brother then decided that my willy was too small, possibly even deformed, and that only the three-finger approach would work for me. Needless to say, I became very worried that there was something wrong with willy. Fears of an 8-year old.
By the time I hit twelve, I was still apprehensive about my deformed willy. Of course that didn’t stop me from playing with it. And then it happened. Good God all mighty! Now I needed more props. I ransacked the library but found very little to feast my eyes on. How many other 12 and 13-year olds have pillaged and looted before me?
Back home, I eagerly tore through my collection of lingerie catalogues in my bathroom, pants bunched up hastily around trembling pubescent ankles, pimpled butt practically soldered to the toilet seat. That’s when I became even more worried that willy was indeed deformed. Careful examination of the catalogues confirmed what I already knew about female anatomy. Women had pubic hair. Behind it was a hole. The Hole. The Mother of all Holes. Logic dictated that the hole was like the belly button, only deeper. But my willy stood straight up. Shouldn’t it point straight out, horizontally, instead of up? Big problem! I pushed and pushed willy down but he kept springing back up. Dear God!! I was deformed!! There’s something wrong with willy!
This piece is part of a collection of stories on blindness entitled: The Blindness of Life.
Copyright © 2010, Andreas Economakis. All rights reserved.
For more stories by Andreas Economakis click on the author’s name below.