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January 26, 2014

The Four Stages of Sexual Death and Dying




The feistiness suggests classic Stage 2


How does it feel to grow old? The young tend to imagine aging and senility and dying as a series of insults that the old inflict on themselves, in active voice. She broke her hip. He wore out his liver. She lost her mind. He made a pompous speech and then jumped into an active volcano. Etc.

Speaking as one who now sees Sixty looming on the horizon, I think the whole nasty dying business is more realistically viewed as a series of can’ts that assail the victim one after another, each patiently waiting its turn to attack—rather like Warlord Han’s henchmen charging Bruce Lee, but with greater success. Can’t do arithmetic in your head any more. Then, can’t do it even on paper. Then, can’t recognize a calculator for what it is. Etc.

Can’t read and digest anything longer than a postcard. Can’t process alcohol. Can’t eat sweets. Can’t get a boner, even with supplementation. Can’t get to the toilet in time. Can’t hear. Can’t see. Can’t breathe. Can’t make wishes known. Can’t resist the long-distance charms of Sydney Leathers. In this way, the World of Can slooooowly zeroes out like the camera at the end of a silent movie, the black borders creeping inward on an ever smaller circle of light and motion before snuffing it out.

Pretty grim stuff, eh? At least, this is my conclusion based on observing my father’s long goodbye in the early 2000s—by which I mean, observing it second hand and from the opposite side of a large ocean for the most part while my sister did all of the heavy lifting and updated me by email.. This methodology for watching a parent die, I heartily recommend.

Grim stuff, yes, but from the male point of view, it’s not all that bad in the early stages. The doctor tells you to give up ice cream? Fine—no biggie. Unless you are seven kinds of crazy and thus in some way need ice cream to achieve sexual climax, you’re still in the game. No more beer, either? That’s a tougher one to swallow, but you can still ejaculate. Huh, what’s that?? No more swallowing, either, you say? Ah, well… Still, we’ll always have Paris. And ejaculation!

But in fact we won’t always have ejaculation, and there’s the rub. Or rather, the absence of rub. Ejaculation is like the Queen in the chess game of male life. All other pieces must be sacrificed to sustain her, for when she falls, it’s truly Game Over.

The reader did not ask for the list promised in the title of this post, nor does he likely require it for the present; but I advise him to tuck it away for that long day’s journey into night that lies ahead for those of us not lucky enough to live to see, and be wiped out by, the zombie apocalypse.


Stage 1. You can still masturbate to people you see in your everyday life, but you have to concoct ever more elaborate scenarios to make it work.

I’m sure I don’t have to sell you on the importance of having people in your daily life worthy of fantasizing over. Based on data that I have just this moment painstakingly extracted from deep within my rectum, no less than 86.75 percent of self-inflicted ejaculations in the past thirty-five years (aka, the Modern Porn Era) have been triggered not by porn stars nor Sports Illustrated models, nor even the formidable combined sperm-producing majesty of the adorable Japanese pop cabal AKB48, but by persons we encounter on a regular basis in our daily lives. Rather, they have been triggered by your coworkers, your classmates or students, your barista, your supermarket cashier. If you’re incredibly lucky as well as a fan of irony, your fluffer. But those ejaculations can only open into full flower if we can cast those persons in a fantasy that has at least some tiny glimmer of potential.

For example, as noted above, I’m pretty old. On purely physiological merit, I’m unlikely to inspire ovulating twenty-something Japanese women to spontaneously disrobe and clamber atop me. But I do have one trump card up my rumpled sleeve in the form of the two-year seminar I offer at my university. It has been a popular class, in some years attracting far more applicants than the twelve I am allowed to admit. So there is an interview process, and…well, the reader is getting ahead of me here.

You will suppose that my favored fantasy involves a female applicant so desperate to gain access to my seminar that she will take advantage of the privacy of my office to demonstrate her dedication by disrobing and clamoring atop me, without so much as a hint on my part. Shallow, shallow reader! In fact, my fantasy involves two female applicants who insist on being interviewed together, who then, etc., etc. The rationale here is that, with a one-on-one encounter, some sinister outside forces might infer a case of quid-pro-quo sexual harassment. Two girls together verifying that it was they, not I, who instigated the romp puts me in the clear. So you see, it’s the insistence of my mind’s legal department that results in having two Japanese college girls doing all this clamboring. That, and the fact that there are then two of them.*

Problem is, my seminar just isn’t as popular now as it was in my younger (i.e., fifty-six-year-old) days. In 2013, I only had five people name my seminar as their first choice—including three with penises of their own—and ended up suffering, for the first time, the indignity of going all the way to the third round to fill my quota. I started lurking outside classrooms to buttonhole likely candidates. If anyone was sacrificing their dignity to get this seminar fully populated, it was me.

So, you see, at fifty-eight, the lights are finally dimming on my last kinda-sorta-thinkable scenario for a realistic fantasy starring myself. I’m like Woody Allen at that stage of his career when not even he could picture himself as a romantic lead opposite Scarlett Johansson and thus had to hire younger actors to play him. Personally, I’ve been experimenting with Justin Timberlake in the Young Muggins role, but am open to suggestions.

In other words, I’m finally segueing from Stage 1 to Stage 2, namely…


Stage 2. The “local hottie fantasy” has died, but you can still find joy in porn.

For some reason, I see the poster boy for Stage 2 as Wilford Brimley in The Thing (pictured above). Ponder his situation a moment. Even before the whole depressing alien-assimilating-people business starts up, there you are at an Antarctic research station without a single female to contemplate, and even if there were some, you’d still be Wilford Brimley: your naked body is the very sort of thing that other men think about when trying to forestall ejaculation. And then, on top of everything else, you go on a rampage that severely wounds your credibility as an oatmeal spokesman and causes your peers to lock you up in isolation. What do you think he’s doing in there all alone for most of the movie? Granted, he himself has destroyed all access to the outside world in an axe-wielding, radio-smashing spree, including what sorry excuse for dial-up internet porn might be available in 1982. But a chap his age must have had some magazines stashed away, don’t you think?

Stage 2 is a brave new world for me, but I’m an optimist. If Wilford Brimley can make it work in sub-zero temps with nothing but frosty copies of Gent, our generation can certainly soldier on with the vast array of porn options available to us.


Stage 3, which consists of two equally grim alternatives:
3a. Even porn doesn’t work for you anymore OR
3b. You lose the ability to create friction.


Here we enter into a slippery downward slope which, like the slippery downward slope in Act One of It’s a Wonderful Life, leads inexorably to a thinly-iced pond of freezing water, which is not an optimal environment for self-stimulation and ejaculation by any means.

Still, science, as is its wont, is on the case, churning out new advances like the one shown in this promising video. Maybe porn via its normal delivery system doesn’t do the trick for you anymore, but perhaps by having the porn smooshed right into your eyeballs via an iPad glued to your skull you will yield a less diluted dose, and the Handjob Robot will take things from there.

If, on the other hand, extreme Parkinson’s or a sudden case of handlessness or some other affliction has deprived you of the ability to self-stimulate, the Handjob Robot alone should suffice.

In either case, there’s life in it, man! As Jesse Jackson was wont to say, once upon a time, Keep hope alive!


Stage 4. Even porn pumped directly into your cortex via an iPad strapped to your face and a robot arm tirelessly wanking away no longer do the trick.

Ah. Well then. Boy, that's rough.

If it’s not already spoken for, could you leave me the Handjob Robot?







* I naively ignore the possibility that the two girls could conspire to blackmail me. But that’s why they call it fantasy.