The Persistence Of Whacking It, Part 1

by P.S. Wagner

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There are some urges that human beings, across the spectrum, must have, no matter how pretentiously intelligent or ridiculously retarded (literally) one is. Despite what the Catholic Church would have you believe, masturbation is definitely one of them.

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First I feel compelled to present a little background in order to lend some credibility to my story and establish my authority on the subject matter at hand. I have a cousin, Sam. As classified by the American Association on Mental Retardation (AAMR) he is “profoundly retarded”. Only 1 to 2 % of the retarded population can be classified as such, and they are defined as a person who may be able to develop basic levels of self-care and communication. I think, or rather I know, that Sam falls short of this category.

He can communicate only by occasionally whaling or releasing screechy high-pitched yelps. He has the basic self-care of a 9-month old, so I guess he can turn himself over in bed too. My mother adopted Sam three years ago after his parents passed away in a tragic car accident. Sam has been living at my mother’s since (he was 19 then, he’s 21 now) and during these three years I have become acquainted with a very curious habit Sam has.

I was visiting one Sunday afternoon when I strolled into the den to get some directions from the computer. Ever since Sam’s arrival, the den has been converted into a combination den/bedroom; my mom thought it was necessary he have human contact as much as possible. When I walked in I noticed that Sam was awake and fidgeting beneath the sheets. I thought nothing of it and set out to the task at hand.

My back was turned when my mom came in the room. I heard her quickly rush to Sam’s bedside, tapping the side of the bed with one hand while grabbing at Sam’s with the other. She was shouting “No! No hands in the pants! Our hands don’t belong in our pants!”

I turned around and inquired, “Mom, why, what, ok, what’s going on here?” My mom is a woman with the heart of an angel, but Lord, she’s one sleepless night away from the loony bin.

She explained, “Well, you see, Sam is a grown boy, and his hormones are reacting, and he likes to … play … with himself.” I sat there mouth agape. My mom had just said “Play with himself.”

“But he can’t even feed himself,” I said. “He wears a diaper. He doesn’t have the proper motor functions to walk on his own … but he masturbates?”

“Well, no,” she said. “He tries, but I’ve been trying to break him of his ‘habit’.” With that she turned around, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pair of tube socks. She placed one on each of Sam’s arms, turned to me and beamed, “See! I think this is going to work.”

Bad thoughts started to creep into my head, thoughts created by years of time spent with my less-than-classy male friends. Wouldn’t he prefer to have socks on his hands? I thought. It was less friction perhaps, but since he can’t grip a fork, I’m guessing he doesn’t grip his penis either. Perhaps this was a better experience for him. I just nodded to my mother and said “Yep, ok, I have my directions and I’m going to go.”

I didn’t think much of it until I was at my mom’s again a few weeks later. I was sitting in the living room with my dad, who was watching some movie, and Sam, who was sitting on the other side of the room. We were chatting when my dad glanced sideways and starting shouting “SAM! HANDS! Out of the pants!” I look over and sure enough Sam has both hands shoved down the front of this pants. My father starting yelling for my mother, “Would you get over here? This kid, always with the hands in the pants.”

My mom came from the other room and crouched down in front of Sam’s face. “What did I tell you? What did I say? In this house no hands belong in the pants.” I couldn’t help but laugh. I thought of how many times in the past I had boy’s hands (and I’ll admit, even my own) down my pants. I imagined it would have been different if my mom walked in the room shouting “P.S.! Get your hands out of your pants! Good girls do not put their hands in their pants!”

I shook off the thought and asked my mom, “I thought you had a method that involved using tube socks. I have to wonder, how did that not deter him? I thought it kind of ingenious.” She didn’t get I was poking fun at her.

“Can you believe it? He figured out a way around it! I walked in one night and I saw him. He pumps his fist up-and-down in the air until the sock inches it’s way down and falls off.” She acted out a demonstration while telling the story. I couldn’t help but wish Bon Jovi’s ‘Living on a Prayer’ was playing.

I started to give this serious thought. Sam, as also categorized by the AAMR, needed pervasive care like a 9-month old. Without constant care he would die since he wouldn’t know when to feed himself, when to change himself, or when to move his muscles. He’d just lie in bed until he passed away from starvation. Yet Sam was well aware of his young manhood and his desire to pleasure himself. Constantly. I was determined to do some investigating.

I had a couple of friends who volunteered at centers for the severely retarded. Surely enough, they all had stories of how, yes, these young mentally incapable men liked to, on a regular basis, pleasure themselves. Now, I understand that stories about masturbation inherently have an element of exaggeration, so when I heard their animated recounts of how, “they all did it all the time, they were always jacking off, you couldn’t stop them,” I figured the best thing was to go to a more trusted source.

I went to nearby facility and asked them if this issue is normal, and how does the staff here deal with it. A kind nurse wasn’t shocked by my inquiry at all. “So, this is normal, that he, um, likes to touch himself?” I asked. “What do you suggest? My mom has this whole sock…”

She stopped me and said, “No, it’s completely normal, in fact, I like to give them ‘alone time’.”

I looked at her, puzzled. “Alone time?”

“Why yes. If I see that they’re enjoying a moment I just close the door slightly and let them be.” Looking at this nurse, who first seemed a reliable source, I had thoughts of webcams and a pay websites running through my head. I thanked her for the information and walked out, feeling more perplexed.

So, this was normal behavior, yes, but there was an element here that didn’t seem quite right. I wanted something more, a scientific reason how can someone who doesn’t mechanically know how to feed themselves knows how to masturbate. This was a question I was determined to find, and I realized that I had to try harder.

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Prepare yourselves, sickos, for part two, in which P.S. promises to write post-haste. We imagine it'll be ready sometime in 2013. In the meantime, feel free to contact this clever girl roaming the streets of Chicago at p.s.wagner@hotmail.com with all of your masturbatorial queries. She is at your service.