I Swear I Don’t Over-Masturbate Anymore

February 7, 2016 — 20 Comments

Dear Journal,

“Welcome to my home. Please don’t judge the uncleanliness as I stopped giving a shit two weeks ago.” That was my verbatim greeting to the young man on my porch, bearing a name tag that introduced him as ‘Tyler.’ He laughed and shook my hand. That wasn’t supposed to be funny.

The moving company sent him to provide an estimate for packing services. When he asked, “Do you mind if I look around in your cabinets and drawers,” I said, “No problem. I already stashed the dildos.” He didn’t laugh. That was supposed to be funny.

As the tour of my home lead into the bedroom, I was embarrassed to discover that I left a scattered pile of waded, used tissues on the floor at my bedside.  As I caught him shooting an awkward glance at the mess, I remember thinking, ‘He probably regrets shaking my hand right now.’

The tissues encapsulated phlegm from a bad night of allergies, not seedy discharge from a morning of frantic self-pleasure; unfortunately, my almost-43 years of life experience didn’t prepare me for how to explain this situation to Tyler, so I didn’t. Even so, do you really think he would have believed me?

By now, I should be accustomed to salacious misunderstandings as they happen often enough to brand me with a deviant reputation, but I’m not. For example, at 5 one recent morning, I had a nightmare that resulted in me punching my sleeping husband in the head. He let out a long, slow moan of pain but quickly fell back to sleep while I shook and cried out from the residual fear of the nightmare, “Oh, God! Oh, my God!” Later, I realized I was more anxious that our neighbor may have been sitting on his front porch drinking coffee, wishing he didn’t live close enough to hear ‘the gays’ having sex than whether or not I had seriously injured my husband.  That’s not normal.

As I instructed Tyler on how I preferred the contents of the dresser be packed, I could tell he only pretended to pay attention. He nodded and said “okay” in all the right places, but his hurried tone indicated his mind was still fixated on the supposedly desecrated corpse of a medium-sized sequoia sprawled nearby. This was confirmed when he didn’t offer to shake my hand upon departure.

Moving day is quickly approaching. I guess I’ll know how Tyler interpreted the situation when the professional packers arrive wearing either street clothes or hazmat suits. I wonder if it’s too late to call him and swear on a thousand Bibles that I’m not a frequent masturbator…anymore.

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20 responses to I Swear I Don’t Over-Masturbate Anymore

  1. 

    You have given me my motto: “Welcome to my home. Please don’t judge the uncleanliness as I stopped giving a shit two weeks ago.”

    Thanks.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. 

    Thank you.. I needed that.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. 

    I had so much fun with this post, Cary. Thanks so much for the pictures in my head. LOL

    Liked by 1 person

  4. 

    You should have said, “Oh, Steven. Damn it. Sorry, he always leaves such a mess over there on the floor.”

    Liked by 1 person

  5. 

    Wait a minute – can we talk about the sheets? Are those Star Wars sheets??

    Liked by 1 person

  6. 

    Thats actually hilarious. No one would believe your “cold” story!

    Liked by 1 person

  7. 

    Well, if Tyler & Co. falls through, you can always engage the 1-800-Got-Junk troop that descends upon every episode of Hoarders with shovels and a rollaway bin. You’re always sure to get the one big, handsome black guy who shakes his head at the situation and says slowly, “Aw, HAIL, no!”

    Liked by 1 person

  8. 

    You’re a nut. LOL

    Liked by 1 person

  9. 

    Oh, I howled, little old lady that I am. The joys of paranoid suburbia.

    My daughter once had a tantrum (15 years old, I think she was) that resulted in a neighbor calling the police. Red lights flashing in front of my house. Talk about being mortified. When the cop asked if she was hurt, she said no, I just hate my mother

    Liked by 1 person

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