I play with myself in public as much as I can. Why? Because its fun, and it get’s me laid. How? Practice makes perfect, and every time I stand confidently in front of a group of people and pleasure myself, it’s an invitation to others for sharing pleasure with me, so sometimes they do.
When I stand in the corner and play, it may look lonely and inappropriate to some, but I’m good at it, and sometimes it brings me more than the practice to improve my game. Usually I play pool, and if I get lucky the establishment will have a dart board. As the balls meet the pockets and the darts meet my intention of precision, the pleasure leaks out. I can’t help feeling good about accomplishing my goals, and the sounds of an artist in passionate pursuit of a skill set is sometimes exotic.
My challenge is to hide the freak in me and be casual. The jukebox doesn’t help me hide the oddity that I love to sing, but it does help my game look less serious. It’s a dilemma every time I go into a play house. I have to decide between standing out with my nature, and shining with my unbridled nature.
Counting drinks is a similar issue of fitting in for me. When I lose count, I tend to lose control of my pretending. I don’t care as much about keeping my mouth shut, and in my experience the world inside my head is fun, so I share it. You can imagine what this might look like if you read my blog much….needless to say it doesn’t happen very often, and I prefer to have a chaperone when it does.
Last time I lost count of the drinks I ended up in the middle of the street crying. It was pouring rain and had been for hours, so the streets were pooling with the water I lay in. In the morning I woke up to the sight of the ocean and an impressive bridge across the beautiful sky. My chaperone had been a good friend getting me out of the city before I ended up in the nuthouse, but wasn’t particularly thrilled by my performance of the night before, and as I took in the mayhem I’d created inside the cab of her car, I understood why.
Red sparkles and other miscellaneous crunchy snack food was particulate across every nook and cranny of the car. As I sat there in my soaked underwear and looked around the interior, I found my saturated clothing under my feet, and stared in wonderment at the beauty outside the car. Panels were removed from the floor well, and I begged her forgiveness. As I vacuumed the car later in the day, taking off the dealership installed plastic floor covers to reveal mold underneath, I didn’t feel too bad, but the writing on them that said, “only to be removed by dealership”, and the rigging on the compartment I made to fix the results of my episode, was a reminder to me that I should only drink like that in the country.
When I play with myself in public things like this don’t happen. It’s when I start engaging with others that trouble develops. Like the night a recently made “friend” thought I was looking for a drug fix. He invited me to the bathroom, and being innocent of his ideas and not gay, I declined. The night went along fine until his switch was flipped, and then it went sideways. He started circling the bar and insisting that I had let him down. As the bartenders got closer to him and urged him to leave with a bottle of mace, I took pity on his misconceptions of our friendship, and attempted to take him home.
Unknown to me, was that this meant a night of attempting to break in at his ex-girlfriends, a barely missed car jacking episode (after he was done casing the inside of a patron of the bar’s house who saw the altruistic glint in my eye, but may have been just waiting for me to pass out so he could get me) where I kept walking away shaking my head so he wouldn’t thump the guy for his Range Rover, and ending up in a Spinner(Tweaker is a hate word)pad two hours away from my home.
As he threatened to wrap me in plastic and throw me in the bay if I didn’t stick around so he could make drug drops with my SUV, I rethought our “friendship” for the umpteenth time. Boy was I thankful for the bottle of whiskey I had bought and left open on the table earlier. In the ensuing mayhem of trailer park friends gathering to share in the bounty of the bottle I’d had one shot of, I slipped outside to “have a smoke”, and oozed into my car.
So if you see me playing with myself in the corner of a bar, it may look socially unacceptable to you, but it’s lonely for me too, and in my experience being alone in the bar, is safer when you leave alone.
With the improvement of my skills at play, and the research I’m doing into the medicinal qualities of alcohol, I stand out like a sore thumb in polite company. I don’t know how to interact normally. How do normal people do this? How can I avoid looking like a newspaper investigator or even more common as I’m dressed for the street, a PI or Police Officer?
Sometimes I feel like an emotional retard. Like my special education curriculum in elementary school due to good grades, should have included specialized social education training. Well I shouldn’t say that I didn’t get some, so if you want to know what that looked like, I’ll publish that later to clue you in. I was talking about fitting in, not the training that allows me to have wild fun and end up in barely survivable situations.
Should we give kids etiquette classes? How about if the courses were titled “The Art of Conversation” or “Basic Healthy Peer Communication Dynamics”. It seems ironic to state this here at the bottom of this filthy article, but also fitting. Like I said, I feel confident that I’m a bit socially retarded.
This reminds me of a conversation I had today about a bike wreck. I went around a corner as a bicycle courier delivering mail, and ate it hard enough to shatter my skid lid into eight pieces. The girl who I was showing off for didn’t lose stride, and probably didn’t even notice, but that’s testosterone for you right? Anyways, with my pride of work ethic I finished the route with a splitting headache. This was years ago, but I feel it gives me an out to confidently say it’s not genetics that made me slow…
When I returned to the bike shop, my coworker commented on the state of my helmet in wonder, and I took it off to see that the thing was only held together by its outside plastic coating. The interior Styrofoam had done it’s job by shattering into fragments, saving my skull from doing the same.
Later on that night I was at home contemplating my dull aching brain with different sized dilated pupils, and my girlfriend convinced me to go to the doctor. Good on her you would think. Now I’m looking back and wondering where that guy got his license. He told me after a cursory inspection of my basic functions, that I did not have concussion, as I still had a sense of humor. Guess my IQ dropped another fifty points that time, and he just missed it because I was funny.
This is an example of me playing with myself in public, if you liked it and want me to keep doing it, please encourage me with likes, and rate it highly. I loved writing this, and my pants are dry, so the double meaning is not double, you probably just have a dirty mind….I certainly hope so, as clean minded is a bit boring.
Clean living on the other hand, is something I can agree with, but remember that Jesus didn’t say sober was the way, he said “sober minded”, so I’m going to blame my lack of medication for this potentially spiritually transgressive story line, and go crack a beer to work on it. Tag……your it reader.