I’d say it’s been at least twenty years since I caught someone ruining his eyesight (aka masturbating). I can only assume that the internet has something to do it. At least for that exhibitionist guy one night in 1988 who turned the flashlight on himself in his car as he drove next to me on the I-80 freeway. I mean, why risk your life on the road, when you can visit Rosy Palms and her five sisters on a webcam for all the world to see? It’s hands-free, but it’s not. How Zen.
My college friend, Angela, was in the car with me at the time, and we discussed at length the coulda-shoulda-wouldas of the incident, because no matter how much training you have, you’re never prepared to react appropriately when some yahoo hitchhikes to the sky. We decided that we should have pointed and laughed. As if that would make a pervert see the error of his ways and stop tickling his pickle in public.
In fact, my increasing paranoia over time has me convinced that nowadays, if you laugh at a guy who shuffles his iPod in front of you, he’ll shoot you. Then who’s gonna pick up the dry cleaning?
I went to a hippie college on the coast whose culture espoused organic and natural living, which included nude beaches. Those of us who balked at nudity were chastised for our immaturity and close-mindedness. “Nudity isn’t sexual,” they’d proclaim, “it’s natural.”
So one day I decided to check out one of the hidden, “natural” places. I walked down to the beach to find a lot of tan naked people lounging in chairs, some of them even playing and running around in their birthday suits.
I tried not to act like a prude, but I didn’t have the courage to strip off in front of a bunch of strangers, so I found a semi-private area behind a huge log, and daringly removed my top. I was topless! Yay for me and my bravery! But there was no way I was going bottomless. When it comes to nude beaches, I have, you know, standards.
So I relaxed on my towel, listened to the crashing waves, and worked on getting rid of my tan lines. The sun was warm and I fell asleep.
When I woke up, I felt like I had accomplished some great feat, like an acrophobic who has skydived to face his fears. I stood up and just on the other side of the log was a bearded, skinny hippie, stretched out on his towel, doing hand-to-gland combat.
I hunkered down, threw on my shirt, grabbed my belongings and ran back up to the car, never to return.
Nude beaches are nonsexual, my ass.
For all I know, people don’t get “trigger happy” these days, but if you’re going to do it around me (and this includes you too, ladies), at least ask first, because you know, I have standards.