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In This Issue

• Toddler Sex Toy Secrets Revealed
• Belgian Makes Fun of Belgians
• Sobriety: Mardi Gras Withdrawal
• Letters to the Feditor
• John Ashcroft = Scary
• Marauding Interviewer: Ass Virginity En Masse
• Inside the Real ROTC
• Columbia's Just Being Nice to Get You into the Sack
• Unleash the Flood Waters
• Your Local Forecast
• Oompa-Loompas' Fingers Too Short for Shocker
• Portrait of the Masturbator as a Young Man
• And Now, the Fed Translates the Creepiest Ad Ever
• Jacko Makes Cocktail Party Chitchat
• Spring Fashion: Haute Couture in Haute Alert
• At Your Local Supermarket
• Ode d'Orange
• THEY Watch
• Wacky Fun Whitey Wets the Bed
• An Outdoor Conversation
• Roboninja
• Poor Orange
• The Staff

[Names have been changed to protect the reputations of the future political, economic, and/or communist leaders of America]

When I was nine, my premature sexual awareness somehow led to the notion that the tooth fairy was a busty lingerie model-type who checked underneath everyone’s pillows for teeth every night. One night I wrote her a note that read: "Dear Tooth Fairy, I don’t have any teeth to give you, but do you think you can wake me up so we can have sex? Love, Tom." It would be only two more years before I discovered a new outlet for this sexual energy...

Masturbation! I first learned of this penile ability when I was 11, and had stumbled upon a guide to human sexuality in the public library. First pre-pubescent attempts left me with just inconveniently located rug burns and unwelcome soreness in the tendons.

Then it happened. I’d recovered the Victoria’s Secret catalog from the outdoor trashcan. Smuggling Stephanie Seymour, Frederique, and Elle Macpherson past my puritanical parents and into my room was an absurdly complicated covert mission. I began with bedsheet humping in the umpteenth attempt to apply knowledge garnered from the library. Although this attempt didn’t end in failure, I was left terrified – snot was coming out of my dick!

After a while, I put things together. I kept my discovery to myself, because Middle School talk about masturbation is utterly ridiculous:

Student One: Do you masturbate?

Student Two: No way. Do you?!

Student One: Ewwww, no!!! No way! Noo. Eww. No. I bet you do.

About a year afterwards, I experienced the moment dreaded by spankers the world over – the unexpected motherly walk-in. In my haste, I apparently hadn’t bothered checking the door. My erect penis, I supposed, diverted most blood from the rational centers of my brain.

And as I would see, this would hold throughout my life.

While visiting extended family overseas, I would wake myself up most mornings by liberating endorphins. The day of one particularly involving session, my father pulled me aside. "We need to talk," he said.

"Uh, uh, I know the, uh, incident today, this morning, was, uh, embarrassing and strange. You know, this is an uncomfortable age for, uh, most teenagers. After the incident, uh, we’re going to always knock the door, uh, from now on. You know, if you ever have sex, you’d better, uh, use... condoms."

I was, of course, bewildered.

"What are you talking about? What incident?!" I asked.

A pause, and then, "You-Your grandmother caught you masturbating this morning," he replied off-guard.

I froze. "Well, gee golly fuck," I eventually said to myself.

At dinner my generally talkative family went silent when I walked into the room. Why didn’t I just leave? If I had left the table, my family would have thought, "He’s going back to masturbate AGAIN!"

If I hadn’t gone to dinner in the first place, my family, similarly, would have thought, "He must be up there MASTURBATING instead of eating his wontons."

And since I stayed, my family probably thought, "Man, let’s hope he doesn’t touch the finger foods. Look at him. Shameful."

The silence continued. My grandmother is quite old, and today, I can only wonder what would have happened if she’d not had a healthy heart. What a terrible way to go, an awful tombstone engraving to have: "Killed by the sight of her pervert grandson making animal noises under bed sheets while pleasuring himself."

My female cousin Linda broke the silence.

"Tom, stop taking my Seventeen magazines. It’s gross," she said.

The crowd murmured.

My tragic lifelong sexual repression was bound to one day compel me to invest in the rubber pussy, so at 4:30 a.m. one morning in L.A. I vistited the local 24-7 adult sex shop.

When I returned home, rubber pussy and dirty magazines in hand, I stripped nude and began giving myself foreplay (which mainly consisted of sniffing and licking my magazines and caressing my body), hoping to simulate the real deal. When it came time for "penetration," I came to understand the model’s cheap price. My rough shove inwards actually resulted in my letting out a minor yelp, for I had forgotten to apply lube. When I attempted to "withdraw," I found I’d effectively gotten stuck in this device.

After I’d withdrawn myself (difficult, given that the tightness sustained my erection like a chinese finger trap), I applied lube and tried again, but at 5:45 a.m., fatigue had begun to set in. I decided to rest my eyes for just five minutes before resuming.

"WAAAHH!!!" I awoke to the shrill sound of Mrs. Lipton screaming.

Waking slowly, I replied with an initial "WUHHH," then amended the statement with a "WAAAAAH, GO AWAY! GO!!" Apparently it was now 11 AM; five minutes had become five hours.

My mother gladly exited the room, despite the rubber pussy hanging off my cock.

One day while scouring the Internet for porn, I came across an ad for a callback phone sex service offering ONE free conversation. Why not, I thought? My parents were out shopping, and the house was empty.

I went to the site, entered my number, picked a girl ("Alicia, 19, loves to eat cum!!"), and waited patiently.

Two, three, four minutes, nothing. Hopes dissipating, I decided to go to the bathroom. As I wrapped up, I heard a ring, then another, and another, by which point I had arrived at my phone.

"Hey sexy," said ‘Alicia.’ I told her I’d never had phone sex before, but she helped me through it, and before long I was yelling things from: "Suck my cock, get that cum all over your mouth!" to "Mmm, your asshole tastes good. I love licking your asshole with my tongue!"

‘Alicia’ seemed unusually into ‘ass’-centric comments but nevertheless, I ejaculated within 15 minutes, complete with squirmy noises and loud self-proclamations about what a virile stud I was. Then I cleaned up.

My parents returned a couple hours later, said hello, and then entered their room. I went to make myself a sandwich, and when I encountered them again, their trademark look of disgust had surfaced. They didn’t say anything, but I felt bad vibes. Two hours later, they informed me that they would be off to see a movie.

Shortly after they left, I entered their room to send a fax. Next to the facsimile was our answering machine with the message light ON. Hoping it might be for me, I pressed play. I heard about cum in mouths, tongues in assholes, hog noises, and the requisite heavy breathing and "ungh, ungh, ungh’s."

We still had a tape deck-based answering machine from the 1980s that automatically recorded anything after the third phone ring –without limit.