On afternoons off, I have nothing to do, sometimes I’m in school barely listening to the professor and sometimes I’m at home barely listening to my parents. But when it comes down to it, these afternoons are rarely productive, maybe purposely against the wishes of my parents. I daydream a lot instead. Sometimes they take form into something beautiful on these afternoons off. And sometimes I feel stupid for daydreaming about stupid things. Deep in the corner of my mind, things nag at me, I know there’s something I could be doing, but then again, there’s someone who could be doing me and they’re not doing their job so why should I.
On this afternoons off, some time is allotted to daydreaming, maybe a good 50 percent of my time. Some time is directed to eating. Some time is placed toward writing and napping. And the other percentage of my time is placed toward “self-handjobs.” I refuse to call it masturbation because who says that? “Pardon me I am going to masturbate” or maybe, “I am ready to masturbate.”
Not likely.
I prefer something classy that gets the point across without being too explicit. “Rub one out” is a favorite. So is “Get my rocks off.” But when I want to be demure and feel like I’m actually having sex instead of pretending to I say, “self-handjobs.” Don’t fucking criticize me okay? Either way, I’m getting mine.
The worst afternoons are the ones where I find myself around my hyper sexually active friends who brag constantly about the ass that they got last night or the super skank who gave it to them good the week before or even the fuck buddy who blew them while they watched the game. You know how these people are. They must lie even though they’re probably in the same situation as me, giving themselves “self-handjobs” and pretending their hands are amorous lovers. I could call them out, ask them for a name or ask them how they met her or what they did but then there would be the red face and the stuttering. It’s especially awkward when the circle gets to you and all of a sudden “self-handjobs” look pretty lame and you’re talking about how “Tiffani” (with an I not a y) pretty much raped me because my penis is so desirable.
These afternoons off are the good ones. They are the ones where the anxiety isn’t overwhelming and I can be who I’ve always wanted to be.
On afternoons, my brother and I can be insensitive; we can call each other gay and question each other’s sexual preferences. My parents stare outward, bewildered. None of us are actually gay though. But with my brother, everything “sucks the balls” or “cradles the dick” or “works the shaft.” I don’t know if he could make it the whole pay without a penis reference to why something sucks. I don’t even think he could make it the day without pretending to jack and jizz on something. It’s funny to watch I guess, but at the same time, it’s traumatizing to think that there’s always going to be this cock reference. I wince when I think about him going out on dates and muttering because deep down he knows it’s wrong, that something sucks the dick. It’s immaturity in its finest and I’m okay with that because that’s how I am. I mean, I could get tired of the fact that his hand is always in my face pumping out gallons of imaginary sperm but he’s a kid and he’ll always be a kid to me. And that’s the way it is.
The way it is on afternoons off is all about childish ambitions and what I want to be when I grow up or what I could do and what I should do and why I don’t. I could sit there and with a snap, sit up and I’m drying a spaceship or doing something I used to do when I was five years old. I took my cousin to a playground to swing and while I was there, I wished I had someone my age when I was younger who took me to parks and stuff like that. I’m 19 now but I still gravitate toward playgrounds and jungle gyms and kickball and dumb stuff like that. I’m a kid at heart and there’s so much pressure to grow up. To put on a shirt and a tie and to assimilate into adulthood would be betraying myself.
