Wet Dreams and Other Matters of Grave Societal Importance

Part 24 of a 30 part series called Overcoming Sexual Repression.

So you’d think I would run out of bizarre sex stories at some point. I keep remembering more. My life has been more sexually interesting than I usually give it credit for.

Let’s play around with a few more memories before heading into the final stretch of the book.

My first wet dream was about one of my middle school teachers. In my dream, we were in the shower. I didn’t know what vaginas were, so she had a penis and we rubbed the heads of our penises together to make sex. I woke up with a sticky load in my pants.

At that age, I knew girls didn’t have penises. But I didn’t comprehend vaginas. So my mind made a penis.

I think maybe I just thought a vagina was a lack of a penis. Smooth skin where the penis would be.

A few years maybe, before my first nocturnal emission, a friend and I saw a movie. Not sure what it was called. Some baseball movie. A baseball player was in a bed with a woman, under the sheets, making metaphors about baseball while kissing her in various parts of her body. All you could see was him moving around under the sheet and hear him talking and kissing, and maybe the woman moaned, I don’t know.

Later that night, my friend (a boy) emulated that scene. We were under the blankets, and we’d take turns tucking our penises between our legs. Then, the other one would be all like, “And here’s a home run,” and kiss down low, in that mysterious place where girls apparently didn’t have a penis.

I can’t tell you how much I wish someone would have given me some kind of a real clue about sex.

My school shied away from sex education, because they thought it was the responsibility of the parents.

My parents shied away from sex education for the most part too. Maybe my dad would have talked to me about it more if I had asked.

But I don’t remember being invited to ask, other than once or twice.

And it all seemed so awkward and weird, I didn’t want to ask, anyway.

Now, why was it so damn awkward and weird?

Is it because sex is awkward?

Well, it can be, but not in the way I am referring to.

Is sex actually inherently uncomfortable to talk about?

I don’t think so.

It’s the way our culture treats it. It’s the way many religions treat it. It’s the societal double standards and contradictions.

How sex is on the forefront of biological imperatives for organic lifeforms, but it’s treated with such stigma, mystery, it’s shrouded in dogma and often deemed unethical.

As an adult, I’ve observed some parents blow up at their children for touching their own genitals. “No! Don’t touch yourself there!” as though they had just activated a bomb between their legs.

What message does that send, exactly?

Are those children going to grow up feeling comfortable with their bodies and sexuality?

I am not saying that kids should be encouraged to run around with their hands down their pants all day.

But as humans, we all need to be able to explore safely. To be guided patiently. To have things that we do not understand explained to us.

Kids are not as stupid as they are often perceived.

Kids are not stupid at all.

Let’s not treat kids like sub-humans.

Let’s treat them as developing humans, who have learning capacities in some ways beyond that of adults.

Children are sponges for knowledge, and they absorb all happenings in their environment. They absorb the energy of intention, and that energy feeds back into their development process.

Children deserve to know the truth, and to be aligned with reality.

Children deserve the opportunity to grow into their own identity, sexually as well as intellectually, emotionally, and spiritually.

Now, I’m not intentionally being harsh on parents who don’t know how to handle these things by default.

We’re all doing our best with what we’re given.

My parents did their best with what they were given.

I hold nothing against them.

As their son, it is my responsibility to take what I have learned from my parents and from my own life, and apply it to the future.

To do a little bit better than before. Or even a lot.

This is evolution.

As a society, we can overcome sexual repression. I believe this is inevitable.

What happens if we don’t overcome it?

Well, teenagers like me get confused and coat their penises in peanut butter and have the dog lick it off and feel guilty about it for decades.

Societal unfortunates like Brock Turner rape unconscious women because they clearly never learned the importance of consent, respect, and self-discipline.

Sexual repression is a dastardly demon.

Sexuality is essential to our lives. When we suppress what is essential, we trigger a psychological phenomenon called inner reactance.

Inner reactance is a tendency to react in exaggerated and over-compensatory ways to self-denial and repression.

When we try to subdue our sexual natures, we produce a potentially volatile inner landscape.

And from that volatility rises sexual aggression, sometimes to an uncontrollable degree.

We need to get over this shit.

But first, another random memory.

So, I fucked an empty plastic milk jug. I was 20.

I slid my flaccid penis into the hole. Got myself hard.

Not my brightest moment.

My erect penis got completely stuck. I could not move the jug up and down at all, without it causing enormous pain.

I created something of an airlock. Somehow, the airtight nature of the situation prevented me from losing my erection.

My dick was gorged and suffocating.

It was terrible. Feel sorry for me. Or not.

I felt like if I could ejaculate somehow, perhaps I’d go flaccid and could escape.

So, I embraced the pain. Budged that terrible plastic vagina up and down over and over again. Until finally, it felt like I was going to cum.

Finally, oh finally, I began to cum.

Or so I thought.

It wasn’t semen. It was pee.

And it was… glorious.

It was like I’d created some kind of anti-gravity science project.

As the urine shot out of me, it seemed to spiral upwards in slow motion. Like it was floating in space.

I’d be tempted to re-create the experiment, but no thanks. You can try it, if you want.

I did indeed go flaccid.

But I’d been laying on my back the whole time. So now I had a jug half full of pee, and I had to hold it down against my pelvic region to keep the pee from leaking everywhere.

Oh, and I was living with my dad at the time. He’d just gotten home.

So, I ran into the hall way without pants on, with a milk jug held over my mortified penis, trying to get to the bathroom before Dad saw me.

I think I made it.

Probably splashed a little pee on the floor.

Could have been worse.

And that’s the story of how I never stuck my penis into a milk jug again.


Also published on Medium.