No regrets. No regrets. Just tell your brutally embarrassing story and then fade into the mists of obscurity...
Phew, here we go.
Gather round and heed this tale of gift-giving, stupidity and um, masturbation. Captivated yet?
On my 18th birthday, my friends and I gathered for a night of legal intoxication and merriment. I received a few gifts: Tickets to a show, a novel and the like. Also - as was customary among our small posse of bastards friends – was a prank gift. I was fortunate enough to receive a box of tissues, a tube of KY-Jelly lubricant and a pornographic magazine of the homosexual variety. What funny scamps I associate myself with.
Being of heterosexual tastes, I dramatically tossed the porno mag into the raging bonfire and joked about how all the gay ghosts within were now free to please someone of said sexual alignment. The tissues ended up... somewhere. They're tissues for Christ's sake. Who cares?
But the lube, I kept. Having never utilised such a product before I found the immature, testosterone-fuelled, pubescent side of my brain piqued. I decided to take it home with me to discover its properties. Oh, but I was so innocent. And horny.
Fast-forward several days. My debilitating hangover from the party was a distant memory, and I sat in my bedroom reading my brand new novel – The Dragon Reborn by Robert Jordan - when... What should I see from the corner of my eye? KY-Jelly? Why on Earth do I have a tube of...? Oh, yeah!
I considered calling my girlfriend before remembering I was pitifully single, and turned instead to my actual partner at the time: my computer. A quick survey of the household to ensure I was alone, and in no time at all I had some colourful imagery on my computer monitor and had discarded those troublesome pants. It was time to experiment.
I opened the lube-tube and vigorously dispensed some into my palm. Then, dear readers, I did what to this day is the stupidest thing I've have ever done and will ever do: I RUBBED MY HANDS TOGETHER. Like it was freaking moisturiser or something. Then I proceeded to, um... what's a safe euphemism here? Burp the worm? Shake hands with the milkman?
Not 20 seconds in, I made the fatal error of placing my unused, still-heavily-lubricated left hand on the table top. With zero friction on said appendage, I slid face-first into my monitor with enough force to knock it clear off the desk. With a panicked, pitifully-emasculating squawk I crumpled to the floor, slamming my already-bruised face into the desktop on my way down and sending my office chair flying as I flailed.
What proceeded was some of the most shameful reflection any young man has visited upon himself, as I lay half naked, bruised, half-heartedly gripping my pork sword and staring up at the ceiling, questioning all of the choices that led to this moment. My monitor survived and my chair was undamaged, but the psychological scars remain to this day. I remember thinking my self-esteem may never recover...
In the moment I'd resigned to keep this incident within me, forever, where it can't hurt anyone. But self-deprecating-me got drunk again the following weekend with the aforementioned bastard-friends and told them everything in vivid detail. In case you're wondering about the consequences of such a stupid thing to do: I'd later learn that my story would precede me for months after. I literally met new people through my friends, and their first comment was something along the lines of, “Is this the guy that wank-attacked his own computer?”
And that's about it. Thank you for following me on this journey of teenage-wonderment and wounded pride. Perhaps now, 17 years later, I can put this low-point of my life to good use by submitting it in an online competition. I know I said nothing could repair the mental anguish, but you know what? I've never tried pitching my story for prize money before...
- THE END -