I Can’t Get No Satisfaction

[WARNING: Mom, you won’t really want to read this. Just FYI.]

Resident Sex Fiend, Kevin Hamm, is Ordered to Not Have Sex, and Instead Spends His Time Coming Up with Some Substitutes for Nookie. He Didn’t Like Writing this Article One Bit.

Suppose that you were told you couldn’t have sex. None. Nada. Zilch. No funky butt-loving, no hand-jobs or masturbating, no anything that would make Mr. One-Eyed Jack so happy he could “spit.” In other words, complete abstinence from all things that voluntarily cause semen to erupt from that engorged organ you love and appreciate so much. OK, stop whimpering. You’re still allowed to read this mag if you decide to get off. Actually, we strongly encourage that around here (as if you haven’t noticed). Hell, if you’re wanking while “reading” Instinct, we must be doing something right. All we’re asking you to do is imagine going for a certain amount of time without some sort of sexual relief. Imagine being trapped in a barren, sexless and hostile environment that refuses to let you carry out your basic fundamental desires. Imagine you’re a Mormon in Phoenix. Of course, even in this extreme example you still need some viable substitutes for sex, right? Right. My editor decided that he’d like to see what happens when some sex-crazed fiend is not allowed to touch or be touched for 72 hours. I thought that was a great story idea-until I realized he wanted ME to write it. (“Hell, Kevin’s a new writer, let’s experiment on him!”) He informed me I would be “sacrificing my sex life for the greater good of the gay brotherhood.” I asked if I could instead help my butt-fucking brethren by seeing how many I could blow in one weekend. Apparently, that must be the article he’s writing for this issue because he smirked and said, “Um, no.” Then he asked if I still wanted to write for the magazine. So, as you can see, this topic was not my choice. I wanted to write about leather, SM, B&D, Hot Wax and whatnot, but noooo, it was decided that I write about something that scares me. Frankly, the thought of never playing “Cocks and Rubbers” again reduces me to tears and has me researching creative ways to off myself. But, I’m a fighter, so here’s what I did when the proverbial chastity belt was clamped around my groin (besides scream like a sissy):

No Nookie Activity #1: Drink Like a Fish.

On any given Friday, consuming mass quantities of alcohol is what I call a “good thing,” if not a mandatory activity to kickoff the weekend. Drinkies not only lower your ability to get hard, but they can help knock you out. Being unconscious is usually a good way to avoid sex (unless, of course, you’re a sorority girl). Personally, I go for martinis. It’s Cosmos when I’m feeling frisky, and Manhattans to forget about the world. Obviously, I’m going for double Manhattans this weekend. However, my plan is doomed from the beginning. See, they drink Cosmos and live in Manhattan on Sex and the City-my favorite show EVER-and, what’s more, I identify with Samantha. DAMN, do I want some dick. So, now I have to drink enough to stop my cock thinking for me. “Bartender! Can I have about seven more of these?”

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #2: Fun with Fingertips.

Even though liquor does relax me, it only lasts until the next morning when I awaken to that wonderful phenomenon known as dry mouth. However, dry mouth is usually a “got some” sign in Kevland, but I know that didn’t happen because my editor confiscated my condoms and lube (and is probably putting them to use right now, that little…). OK, breathe. I need to relax somehow, and since the usual avenues are closed, I’ll have to seek out the next best thing (and I’m not talking about that crappy Madonna movie, either!). Hmm, I’m starting to think death is the way to go, but I keep convincing myself that I’m not THAT dramatic. Instead, I’ll get a massage. After all, what could be more relaxing than having some brute with more muscles that your college football team pummel your body for an hour? I just have to conjure up something that completely kills any sexual impulses. Maybe Genre, Trent Lott or, for those with the libido from hell, Dr. Laura-naked. I also recommend avoiding hiring someone from an ad that mentions inches or spurting. The temptation would be too great, and no one is THAT strong, buddy. Plus, after a REAL massage you usually go home and crash for hours. So a massage is like drinking: same amount of money, same amount of sleep. The only differences are that you don’t need a bottle of aspirin the next morning, and your skin is silky smooth.

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #3: Cook your Pants Off.

Now that I’m relaxed and have slept for half the day, I have two things I must do. First off, call the boss and apologize for not making it into work. Oh, wait, it’s Saturday, so scratch that. This “no sexual relief” stint is making me go schizo! The other thing that I need to do is eat, which brings us to the next substitute for sex: cooking. Taking the pots and pans and whipping up gourmet food should relieve the stress of 24 sexless hours. I’m going to whip up something so gourmet that people will think I’m avoiding sex to pursue other, more constructive interests. Either that, or they’ll think I have crabs. And, no, not the edible kind. (Well, I’ve never heard of anybody eating ’em, but if I do, you can bet that Instinct will DEFINITELY share it with you.) A few food items to avoid at all cost: Twinkies, hot dogs, German sausages, oysters, bananas, cucumbers, snack cakes, anything with “cream” in the title, nuts, any big hunks of meat and tossed salad. Hmmm… considering all the sexual innuendoes that can be attributed to food, it’s no wonder we’re a country of gluttonous slobs.

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #4: Paint by Numbers.

OK, so cooking got boring really fast. What the hell else am I to do? Actually, hobbies are a good way to avoid sex-well, except that sex IS my (favorite) hobby. Thankfully, it’s not my ONLY hobby. I’ve been desperate before and have found that fine art is a great way drown out lustful laments. Painting, for example, can be an effective way to forget about your dick. You can imagine the future or the past, bend the laws of physics to your will and revel in bright colors and deep contrasts-or some other artistic bullshit. Basically, just engage in anything that’ll jumble your mind. Take a class, fer christ’s sake, because while you usually get to paint fruits in bowls, sometimes you get to paint fruits in towels. For this excursion try to get a class that uses female models-it’s better for three reasons: 1) you’ve made it through four more hours without having to pack ice into your pants, 2) you won’t have to ponder how the male model remains conscious when that monster between his legs gets loooong and haaard and throoooobbing, and 3) you have the perfect Christmas gift for your best lesbian friend.

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #5: Chick Flicks.

Speaking of lesbians, they are a great resource for things to do that don’t involve sex. If you don’t believe me, just look at their gardens. I don’t know about you, but on Saturday night I go to town. I go out, I dance, I hunt for cuties to take home and use in various and sundry ways. Well, can’t do that now, so what better time-consumer than spending an evening with my favorite muff divers? If it weren’t for this mandatory downtime, however, I’d never visit the Condo du Lesbo on a weekend. They know this, so they’re immediate reaction is to ask me if something is wrong. I inform them about my assignment, and the evil cows laugh at me. But they agree to a movie night, so I don’t hate them nearly as much as I hate my editor. Plus, they have the best spinach dip recipe in the world. We pop in a bad Ally Sheedy movie (Is there any other kind?), have some herbal tea (It’s “soothing.” Whatever.) and great dip (SPINACH dip, that is), and the night isn’t too bad. Actually, I kind of enjoy it. Seems hanging out with the Sappho Sisters on the weekend isn’t the worst thing in the world. Now I’m really starting to scare myself.

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #6: Get Car Back from the Impound.

I left the lesbians with the intention of heading home (alone) and hitting the sack-alone. Alone! Alone! Alone! FUCK! Sorry, had to get that out of my system. I’m fine now. Really. But when I get to where my car should be, it’s not. I think, “Hey, I’m not gonna get any while fighting to get my brand new car back from some oily dwarf tow-truck driver,” so I consider this a relevant diversion. There’s no possible way you could think about sex during this, unless if you’re into grease-stained freaks named Smitty. I just want to go suffer in my empty bed, but instead find myself autoless and having to convince two lezzies to schlep my dried-up ass all over god’s green earth to get it back. After going to my pad in the northeast valley to get my goddamn title, we go to the tow company’s lot in the southwest. I try to drive my car off the lot and the manager tries to lock the gate on me. I pull up enough to block it, so he calls the police. They arrive and tell me that I’m breaking the law. On a good note, these uniformed hunks of burnin’ love threaten to arrest me. Suddenly, I’m transported into some sorta porn sequence. If they handcuff me, I will come all over my undies and blow the whole article, figuratively speaking. They even do the whole Good Cop/Bad Cop routine. Long story short: I get my car and get to spend almost two hours with two of Phoenix PD’s finest. The only problem is that the Bad Cop chews tobacco. He looks really butch doing it, and he has the body of a god, but ugh, gross. (Officer Hunt, ditch the can!)

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #7: Pray for Forgiveness.

Can I get a hallelujah? Can I get an “amen?” Can I get a MAN? The good thing about attending church is that it isn’t difficult to keep your libido in check during the service. One, it’s boring spending hours with a bunch of heteros and their fidgety kids, and I’m thankin’ the Almighty for making me queer. What’s more, how could you possibly get aroused while the pastor is reading from The Bible? Yeah, there’s some scandalous stuff in there, but after years of reading Men and Honcho, I’m used to a higher quality of erotic fiction. Besides, the stories are so 70 A.D. The biggest problem was the toxic-shock of actually attending church after so many years. The only hymn I know is “Son of a Preacher Man,” which I know isn’t sanctioned by Rome. It reminds me of that all-boys Catholic school porno I own. I get all worked up, and then the altar boys kneel before the priest, and I end up making a beeline for the exit before I even get to the free wine.


OK, trying to be all pious and shit made things worse, but isn’t that always the case? Ask my priest, and he’ll tell you. Anyway, I’m full of energy, and feel the need to work on my body. Again, not the exercise I would choose on a weekend, but something to do nonetheless. I figure today is as good as any to do some training. After all, we’ve been testing the strength of my will all damn weekend, so what the fuck? Let’s see if we can damage me physically, too! Oh, yeah, let’s go sling some weights around. Let’s jack up every joint in my body. Then I’ll do my best impression of a drowned rat/Leonardo DiCaprio (you can’t tell them apart, anyway) in the pool. Oh, and then let’s go to the showers and try not to stare at the hottie getting a rim job in the steamroom. Must… make…it…thru…weekend…

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #9: Pay Homage to Godiva.

Obviously I need something to calm me down, so I stop in at THE chocolate shop, Godiva Chocolatier. We all know that good chocolate works as a substitute for sex, even though you have to pay through the nose for it. I recommend Godiva because they hand out free samples-especially if you look upset. (“Me? Upset? JUST GIVE ME THE FUCKING CHOCOLATE, SKANK!) Unfortunately, having spent nearly 52 hours being chaste instead of chased, I don’t think this will help. Even after gorging on sweet chocolate so rich it votes Republican, I’m still pretty bitter. The waistline doesn’t need it, but after six pounds of the stuff, I’m so sick that there’s no way I could possibly stuff anything else into any of my orifices. Great, now I’m inducing nausea to finish this piece. I hope you’re happy, Ben!

NO NOOKIE ACTIVITY #10: Become a Workaholic.

WHEN you get desperate or have to abstain for a longer period of time (for which I pity you, because now I’ve only got a 17 hours to go. Hold on Mr. Spanky, hold on!) you can always throw yourself into your work. Most queers do this anyway, because we love our jobs. Really, we do. Honestly. Fine, we need the overtime to pay for the Godiva and the paints and the cops, but it’s worth it, dammit! However, it’s Sunday. Work on Sunday? Well, I guess if I want to make it until noon tomorrow that I have to resort to desperate measures. Grrr. Oh well, at least it gives me some time to catch up because I was too busy surfing eBay and Gay.com at work. I disconnect the net connection and open up some spreadsheets. Spread. Sheets. Spreading the police officer between my sheets. (Great. Now I’m drooling all over the place! AAAAAAARRGGHH!) If I do remain in the office, I think I’ll try chaining myself to the desk. It should work for you, too, unless that sort of thing excites you. That way, you can work at work, spending the rest of the time finally doing something productive for your company. However, I WILL make it until noon the next day! Give me libido or give me death!

I realize that some of you might be disappointed that I didn’t make it longer, but tough shit: I barely made it to noon. If traffic hadn’t kept my fuck-buddy from getting to me right at 12 p.m. I would probably have headed to the rest rooms and proceeded to wank for the next hour. But, he made it, and we ended up screwing in the copier room. It was fun, but I wish that the copier didn’t make all those pornographic prints. My editor says to send them along and he’ll include them as artwork for the article. I think he’s lying.

Originally published in Instinct Magazine in 2001.






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