Tag Archives: porn

BABY BLOCKS: CHAPTER 11

 

Another double whammy this week on the chapter front. We’ll start out with BABY BLOCKS: CHAPTER 11, which will mostly round out our cryo-banking experience (as far as it’s detailed here) followed closely by TIME OFF: CHAPTER 12, which is a shorty and doesn’t really work as a stand alone.

If you’re new to what we’re doing here, I’m releasing my book Cancer? But I’m a Virgo one chapter a week All. Year. Long. This week is chapter 11 and 12 but it’s not too late to catch up! To start reading from the very beginning, just click here!

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Three hundred million: That is both the amount of money Forrest Gump made theatrically, as well as the average number of human sperm per serving, according to Wikipedia.

Fifty-six: the yearly average number of people on the Sioux Falls, South Dakota, bowling league, as well as the number of healthy sperm in my semen analysis, according to Dr. Chaplips, whom I currently have on the phone.

I ask him what the chances are of me getting my wife pregnant. I hear him lick his lips and, judging by the crackling noise coming through the line, I assume he still hasn’t solved his oral issue. “Aaahh,” he says. “Almost impossible. Very unlikely.” I say, “One thousand to one?” and he pauses before saying, “Probably higher.”

“Higher? Like what? What are my chances of a standard human pregnancy?” I don’t know why I’m doing this to myself. I don’t know why I’m asking these questions. It’s already too late to do anything about it because the cryobank suggests that I abstain from myself for three days previous to each deposit. I just feel this desire to know how defective I am. If I were a term paper, what grade would I receive?

“Probably more around one hundred thousand to one.”

I take a couple small breaths and ever the Dumb and Dumber enthusiast, say, “So you’re telling me there’s a chance?” He’s clearly never seen the movie because he just says, “No. I’m not.” I thank him and hang up. I tell my wife the great news. “Babe,” I say, “We never, ever, ever have to use condoms again! Don’t you get it? I’m as sterile as a crayon! A potato has more potential for reproduction than I do! This is fantastic! This—this sucks . . . . ”

 

Inside I can feel the growth, the landmass, the intruder, the Cancer, growing larger and larger on my testicle. Every moment of every day I am reminded of it. Every moment of every day, I have a constant throbbing pain. Every day it grows and grows and grows. What was once a tiny pea is now a lima bean. It’s getting bigger. It’s stretching out. It’s making itself at home. And still I can do nothing. If I want to bank what little functioning sperm I have, there is nothing to do but wait. If I want children, I must gamble with my life. True Russian roulette.

The pain grows and the doctor prescribes me Vicodin, which I begin to pop like Tic Tacs or cashews or addictive prescription drugs. The pain grows more and I pop more Vicodin and the pain grows more and I pop more Vicodin and the pain grows more and I wait and wait and wait to bank. The banking will take a month. The banking will take thirty days. Cancer will take full advantage of me in that time, feeding itself and fueling itself off me.

The waiting gives me anxiety, and I neurotically touch My Lump, the way people will continue to play with a hangnail or tongue the sore spot in their mouth. My body wants it out, and I’m forcing it to stay in. My body hates me, and I am sorry.

Call me selfish. Call me crazy. Call me reckless. But I’ll have my children.

Even if it kills me.

Fast forward a couple blurry days, and I’m taking the Olympic Boulevard exit off the 405 freeway at 8 a.m. I’ve got my first appointment scheduled with the sperm bank this morning and am very excited to open a savings account with them.

The building is tucked away and is fairly understated, causing me to drive around the block a couple times before I find it. The parking lot only holds about eleven cars and most of the spaces are empty. On the front door is an intercom switch. I hit the button and wait. Someone buzzes me in.

Hidden buildings, hi-tech locks, espionage! This is getting dead sexy, and I’ve seen enough James Bond movies to know that the chicks involved are going to be hot. I open the door and put on my “cool face,” expecting to see some smoking bombshell blonde in a short nurse’s skirt. In my head, she looks just like the girl on the cover of Blink 182’s Enema of the State album. Those clowns at the semen analysis place don’t know shit about shit, making me rub one out in a dentist chair. These people here are professionals. I have no doubt about that. Professionals. Hot Nurses. Hot Nurse Professionals.

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(ABOVE: THE DREAM.)

 

I cup my hand over my mouth, smell my breath, and walk into a reception area containing only six chairs. An older gentleman who arrived before me lowers his newspaper and glances at me through Coke-bottle glasses. We make eye contact and both immediately think, You’re here to jack off! and then, JINX! 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10!

He lifts his paper back up, and I turn my attention to the Hot Nurse Station where I come face to face with Bill Cosby and Mimi from The Drew Carey Show. The first sits behind an ancient IBM whose white plastic sheen has turned the color of eggnog, while Mimi digs through towering filing cabinets twice her height.

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(ABOVE: THE REALITY)

 

Now it should be noted that these two people are not actual Bill Cosby and not actual Mimi from The Drew Carey Show but individuals who look so incredibly similar that they could be hired to work at a children’s birthday party as cheap duplicates.

One final word on their characters: I will describe the first person as both “Bill Cosby” and then as “she” but trust me when I say that both of these descriptors are not only accurate, they are also absolutely necessary.

Bill Cosby says, “License, please,” and I slide my ID over the counter. Without looking up, she says, “Is this your current address?” and I say, “No. I didn’t drive that far.” She looks at me sideways, and I say, “It’s a South Dakota license.”

She glances back at it and laughs far harder than is deemed even remotely necessary for what can only be considered a subpar joke. She then repeats her folly to her coworker, Mimi, in a fit of giggles. Mimi says, “What? You’re laughing too hard. I can’t understand,” and so Bill repeats it again, the poor joke becoming less and less funny with every turn.

“Riiiiiight . . . . Buzz him in,” Mimi commands and Bill Cosby opens a door, ushering me to The Back. He/she hands me a small cup—sort of the ATM deposit envelope, if you will—and then says, “Choose any door on your right.” I examine each of them in turn and discover that they all look identical save for room 4, which has been decorated with wallpaper adorned with silhouettes of naked women.

I choose the room I’m standing in front of. I figure it’s the closest to reception and therefore probably the least used. Only a true pervert would choose this room, so close to other people. Only a true sicko would choose—I stop analyzing my choice.

Bill Cosby hands me a disc. I look at it: an adult DVD artfully titled Bangin’ at the Cabo Cabana. I say, “Thank you,” and he/she turns and walks away.

I enter the room and shut the door. Lock the door. This is not what I expected on the drive over. It’s a 4 x 4 closet with a 7” flat screen television and a stack of hardcore, full penetration, tit-squishing, spread-’em-wide, take-no-prisoners, anything goes, pornographic magazines.

I flip through a couple, and the pages are genuinely stuck together, crusty with usage. The classic joke isn’t that funny when you find your fingers running over a stranger’s dried semen. I drop the magazines and pop in the DVD. At this point, I’m still not certain if I’m going to watch it to the end. I’m not sure how I feel about this, making children like this. “Son, I remember the day I ejaculated you. I was in a closet by myself, watching a Puerto Rican girl get sandwiched by a couple of brothers who kept high-fiving.”

Curiosity being what it is, I hit play and turn the volume down. There is a pair of headphones connected to the television but I have no desire to touch them, let alone put them on my head. I wait. And then it begins. The most horrific thing I could imagine begins. From the sky, eight individual baby blocks drop until they’re in the middle of the screen. On each block is a letter and, all of them together spell out the name of the production company, which I won’t name here, a production company that, obviously, specializes in making porno strictly for sperm banks.

Everything really has been thought of. Half of me is disgusted and half of me applauds their ingenuity and sense of entrepreneurial pioneering. Actually, half and half is an unfair ratio. I’ll call it a 90/10 split, respectively.

And then, just like that, without any set up or story, without someone entering a room or taking off their clothes, without any dialogue or foreplay, from frame numero uno, Bangin’ at the Cabo Cabana immediately earns its title.

I reach up and hit stop. The screen goes black again. Much like the girl in the video, I feel as though I’ve gotten my fill of Hector (my name for the male actor), and I’m really concerned that if I watch the video to the end, the guy, rather than choosing to go with the “traditional” adult ending, will just decide to neatly collect his “product” in a little plastic vial and then set it on a nearby counter and frankly, if that happens, I believe I would just go limper than a spaghetti noodle in a bubble bath.

Mimi and Bill Cosby stop outside my door to chat about a party this weekend, some kind of dinner date. Mimi has a bad cough, full of phlegm. Bill Cosby does most of the talking and laughing. I double check to make sure the door is locked.

I’m so ashamed to be here. Not that I’m ashamed that I have cancer or that I’m sterile. I’m just feeling these very powerful emotions of human shame about masturbating. I can only equate it to pooping in the woods. You know it’s OK. You know everyone that you’re with is doing it and it’s totally normal but you’re just afraid someone is going to come around the corner and catch you in your most exposed state.

Snap out of it, Brookbank! I yell at myself. You’re paying them to be here! Now pull out that dick, and get yer whack on!

I do. And with the help of those sticky-paged magazines and the blonde cop with the nightstick on p. 27, it takes considerably less time then the dentist’s reclining chair experience did. I’m not really going to get into the logistics of the deposit itself, but I will say this: Even after my final visit, I’m still not completely certain what the best way to get the “money” from my “wallet” into the “envelope” is.

Once the deed is done, I screw the yellow lid on and it’s only then that I realize that they’ve never told me what to do with it. At the semen analysis place there was a Mr. Ed style half-door that I opened and placed the jar into to be gathered up by a faceless technician in the next room. I search the walls. Nothing.

I put my pants back on (yes, I felt the strange need to remove them completely, as the only thing that could make this a bit more awkward is dried cum gracing the cover of my jeans), unlock the door and slowly, slowly open it. I don’t want to alert anyone that I’m done. More shame. Shame. Shameful Shaming Shame!

Should I leave my cum basket behind? Should I take it with me? Which is the least horrendous situation: the one where I abandon it in the room and a stranger finds it, or the one where I’m caught in the hallway trouncing around with a porno snack pack?

After weighing the pros and cons endlessly, I decide to plant the plastic container into my palm and sort of twist my hand backward so that no approaching person will see what I’m carrying. I walk through a small labyrinth of narrow hallways up to another counter with more bulletproof glass, and I stop to wonder how many times sperm banks have been robbed. I set my collection of human sperm down on the counter and ring a bell. DING! ATTENTION EVERYONE IN THE GENERAL VICINITY! THIS YOUNG MAN HAS JUST COMPLETED HIS JACK OFF! CONGRATULATIONS, SIR!

I turn to leave and almost make it back to the exit when a small Asian woman who looks like Michelle Kwan wearing a baggy blue hazmat suit (helmet and all) pops her head out from the sliding glass door and says in a Darth Vadery voice, “Excuse me . . . sir . . . . ” All these dots are where Darth is doing his heavy breathing. “I need to ask you . . . a few questions . . . . ”

I come back over to Darth Kwan and, with my canned specimen resting next to her writing hand, she says, “How long . . . have you been . . . absent . . . ?” and I just assume she means abstinent.

She says, “Did you get it all . . . in the cup?”

I want to tell her that most of it went on the floor because of their stupid little cup technology. I want to tell her it’s on the TV and all over the magazines and on the headphones. I want to tell her that someone needs to go in there with some baby wipes and give every object in that room a cursory once-over.

But I don’t. Instead I just nod and say, “Yes, ma’am. It was a clean escape.”

At the front desk they charge me a hundred bucks and I say, “A hundred bucks? But I did all the work!” and ol’ Bill Cosby certainly thought THAT one was funny. And I don’t blame him/her.

 

***   ***   ***   ***   ***

 

 

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I’ve been banking “successfully” for several weeks now. Every Monday and Thursday, I come into work feeling like a completely twisted weirdo. My producer asks me how my morning is, and I turn to him, a guy I call Cookie Dave, and say, “Cookie Dave, this morning I jacked off into a cup inside of a commercial business. If I’m being totally honest with you, the last couple weeks have been pretty strange.” He hands me a small napkin with a cookie in it and asks if I’d like it. “Thank you.” Peanut butter. My favorite.

He asks me how the whole “cancer thing” is going, and I say, “They’re going to cut out my ball in a few days. They’re going to just . . . cut it out completely,” and he says, “Ouch,” and takes another bite.

“Yes,” I say. “Ouch,” I repeat. Cookie Dave tells me to call him when I’m done with my edit, and he exits just as my boss walks into my bay and begins telling me about some zombie movie he recently saw. I try to listen, but his words all run together into a sonic blur. He says, “Dead,” he says, “Blood,” he says, “Tumor,” and I say, “What?” and he says, “TWO MORE! They’re making two more sequels!” and I say, “I have cancer,” and he sits down on my couch and says, “What?”

I try to explain it in the most succinct way possible. “I felt a lump on my nuts . . . . I went to the doctor . . . . I have cancer.”

“Uh . . . uh . . . ” he stammers. This speech pattern and the blank looks and the blind stares and the hopeless get-well-soon phrases are something to which I’ll shortly become accustomed. He looks at me like I’m a puppy that’s had its hind legs blown off and now rolls around in one of those sort of cute, sort of depressing doggy wheelchairs. “Well . . . uh . . . that sucks.” “Yes,” I say. “It does suck. I have surgery in a couple days and they’re going to try to remove it. I need some time off,” and he says, “Yes! Yes! Absolutely! Anything you need! Any time off you need, you take it!” And then, again, “That sucks, man. That really . . . sucks.”

The room is silent, and I feel my tumor throbbing, calling out to me, begging for attention. I sniff and rub my nose, not crying, just trying to make noise to break the horrible silence. He says, “Wow,” and I say, “This zombie movie . . . . It’s good?” and he says, “They run!

The throbbing continues and the black venom stretches out slowly into my body while I do nothing but wait.

***   ***   ***   ***   ***

 

Next week is pretty monumental as we are going to be covering SURGERY: CHAPTER 13, wherein the tumor and the testicle will be attacked by strangers wielding blades and laser beams. So if that appeals to you (why would it not?), then you’re in for a real treat.

 

 

 

 

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I am the Devil (and you might be too)

 

We all know this story.

 

Lucifer is hanging out in Heaven, acting as captain of the cherubic hosts. He (male pronoun used here for simplicity) is basically the worship leader in Heaven. With every movement he makes, there is music. And it is beautiful. But Lucifer becomes jealous of God, gathers up a third of the angels and tries to overthrow The Great One.

 

Lucifer and his “army” lose and God casts them to either Earth or Hell (interpretations vary) and now Lucifer is The Devil and the angels are the demons that we know today.

 

This would be considered a literal translation of Satan’s origin story.

 

But what else can we pull from this story? What else is happening that we are not acknowledging? There are pieces in this simple paragraph that the church (as a very general body) tends to ignore.

 

Based upon this telling, if I am a Literalist (to believe the Bible is word for word accurate with no symbology) I am to also believe that there is such a thing as jealousy in Heaven. Correct?

 

If you are a Heaven-Is-A-Perfect-Place-Where-No-Pain-Exists type of person (which most Literalists are, please correct me if I’m wrong), please do not shut off to this. Based upon the telling from the Bible, Heaven is a place where jealousy exists. And not only jealousy, but hierarchy. Lucifer stood above the other angels.

 

And not only jealousy and hierarchy but hatred, violence, rebellion and punishment.

 

In Heaven.

 

This is not what we have been taught.

 

But this is what is written.

 

How do we come to terms with these two contrasting worlds?

 

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There is, without question, a darkness in the world. There is evil in the world. There is selfishness and greed and hatred. You can turn your TV to any news station, fire up social media or peruse the papers at your local grocery store to see it.

 

Darkness is real.

 

But is The Devil?

 

Have we pinned our every shortcoming on this singular being? Is he our universal scapegoat? Is The Devil responsible for tempting us at every occasion? Are demons responsible for tempting us at every occasion? Are there so many creatures of darkness that each of them lingers with each of us, constantly tempting and whispering words into our ears? Is that how we think we exist? And does that sound medieval? Demons whispering in our ears.

 

Do we believe that we are inherently good people and it is only by the temptation of dark forces that we do evil?

 

Or… is that evil inside of us?

 

Is The Devil inside of me?

 

Am I The Devil?

 

Could the snake in the garden that tempted our perfect heroes be nothing more than symbolic of our own wants and desires?

 

What is the first sin we commit as humans? We disobey.

 

“Rory, clean your room.”

 

“No.”

 

Just like Adam and Eve. Or “Adam and Eve”.

 

Does darkness and light, good and bad, God and Satan, exist within me and you and everyone at every moment of every day? Are we each, as individuals, capable of doing what is right or wrong with our free will at any moment?

 

Here’s a personal confession that isn’t really a personal confession at all.

 

I love pornography.

 

Love it.

 

I could watch it all day long. Just sit down with a bowl of popcorn and let it rip. Video after video after video. Non-stop. 24/7. Weekends and holidays.

 

Now, it should be noted that I do NOT do this.

 

I do not watch pornography.

 

But I want to.

 

I choose not to. It is my choice that creates my actions. And it is my actions that define my character. Same for all of us.

 

We are each, as men, addicted to pornography.

 

Our male brains are hardwired, like magnets, to draw us to those images. We are born with that compulsion. Ladies, if your fella is telling you that he doesn’t like pornography, watch out, because you have got a liar on your hands and he is telling you things just to keep you satiated. If a man produces testosterone, he wants naked women. As many as possible. As often as possible.

 

This want is not a threat to the sanctity of your marriage or the commitment of your relationship. This is a burning in his very human nature. And it cannot be shaken.

 

And now you say, “Nah, my husband is not like that.”

 

And then I say, “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he does not exist.”

 

If you don’t think that darkness is there, it’s because you are being fooled. There is darkness in each of us. But it is our choice to be swallowed by it or to shine light on it. Light in our thoughts. Light in our actions. Light in our words.

 

Now I’m going to take that popular phrase a step further and say that the greatest trap we, as humans, ever fell into was believing that we were not subject to darkness. That we were somehow above darkness.

 

You are not above darkness. You are not above selfishness. You are not above greed.

 

Nobody is.

 

Liking something. Wanting something. Being drawn to something. And actually indulging in that something are very, very different things.

 

Now, without going off on too much of a tangent, I do want to quickly acknowledge that there are various schools of thoughts on pornography – some people think it’s fine and some people find it repulsive / sinful / harmful. I tend to be of the latter group because, even though the act itself is being committed by two or more consenting individuals, the people experiencing it in the privacy of their home are, at the very least, being brainwashed to believe that sex is a certain way. And I believe this is very damaging to the individual.

 

This is my opinion. You are obviously free to disagree. (High-five for respectful diversity!)

 

That said, I am opposed to brainwashing in all of its various forms – cultural, religious, sexual, analytical, creative, etc. We should not be told what or how to think. If given certain data, the truth should be self-evident.

 

For example, does extended exposure to pornography affect the way in which a man views a woman? Does it alter our opinion of what women should be capable of / interested in? Does it alter our expectations of our wives?

 

If the answer is yes to any of these, then it’s brainwashing.

 

If you were raised in the jungle with one woman as your partner, you would still desire her sexually but your wants and actions would not be formed by things you had witnessed. We choose to be victims of our environments.

 

The devil is not tempting you.

 

You are fighting your culture and your human nature. And it is a difficult uphill battle. But we must admit that we are fighting a battle. And we must admit that we are fighting a battle with ourselves. It isn’t until we know who our enemy is that we can begin to overcome them.

 

We need to adjust our cultural perspective on darkness – what the church likes to call sin or what humanity calls immorality. Being drawn to the darkness is not immoral. We are each drawn to the darkness in our own way. We are each selfish in our own way and, ultimately, doesn’t each sin come down to a form of selfishness? To sum up sin would be to say, “Putting oneself before another.” Murder, envy, lust, greed, lying, stealing, etc. It’s all really different forms of the same thing. But these are natural human traits. Survival at all cost came with us when we arrived in the universe. Batteries included.

 

Being drawn to a thing does not make you a bad person.

 

Making a decision to be a part of that darkness is where things spiral out of control.

 

I don’t believe that’s Satan whispering in our ear. That’s us.

 

That’s our own wants and desires.

 

You’re sitting at a dinner table and you’re stuffed. You’re so full. You’re going to puke. But then dessert shows up and you take just a couple more bites because it looks so delicious.

 

That’s gluttony. Your body is begging you to stop poking food into it and you just keep on truckin’. You think a demon is sitting at The Cheesecake Factory, prodding you on, encouraging you to have one more bite? Does that thought sound silly? It should.

 

That’s you.

 

Those are your decisions.

 

The Devil is not in you.

 

The Devil is you.

 

And you create the darkness in the world. When you choose not to share. When you talk about someone behind his or her back. When you insult someone, whether in his or her presence or not. When you choose to ignore a hungry person. When you pressure your wife / girlfriend to do something they’re not comfortable with. When you steal something, even a tiny thing that nobody will probably ever notice is missing because really, they weren’t using it anyways…

 

That’s you. That’s you creating darkness in the world.

 

Don’t worry about the splinter in your brother’s eye until you’ve removed the timber from your own. That’s a biblical truth that I think anyone, regardless of faith, can apply productively to their lives.

 

Maybe stop worrying about The Devil and start worrying about yourself.

 

Start thinking about each moment. Each day. Each word. Each decision that you have to make. You bring either darkness or light with every action that you make.

 

If The Devil is real, he only exists within the temptations themselves. He does not cause the temptation but is the temptation.

 

Likewise, I don’t think that God causes the kindness. God exists within the kindness. God is the kindness.

 

And we choose to cast light or we choose to cast shadows.

 

Go forward.

 

Cast light.

 

And thanks for coming to church on a Wednesday 🙂

 

***Subscribe for updates. New blog every Wednesday – friends, family, life, death kids and adventure. And on Mondays we’re currently releasing a fiction in 10 parts called The Spiraling Cornucopia of Pale Lavender. Part one linked to the left and the intro is linked here. It’s a tale of evolving consciousness through many different plains of reality. If that sounds weird enough to check out, you should.

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