Friday, June 5, 2009

Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation: Good Idea?

Whenever I think about... umm... stimulating myself, there's one thing I'm never tempted to do: Tie something around my neck and balls and choke myself to intensify the experience.

I don't know. There's just something about my family and friends and kid learning that their brother or buddy or daddy died trying to get himself off that really isn't appealing to me.

Then again, from what I hear, auto-erotic asphyxiation is pretty intense. Supposedly, it's right up there with manual prostate stimulation (AKA milking) and electrical testicle stimulation (AKA torture). It's something between sex and death. To quote the infamous Paris Hilton, "That's hot."

When done right, auto-erotic asphyxiation chokes you just enough to bring you to the point of death. Then, at the last second, you pull out of the choke, get a big old gasp of air, and do it again, until you eventually have a pretty spectacular, spaced-out orgasm (strangely enough, the Greeks referred to the orgasm as "the little death"). Then you pick yourself up, mop your load off yourself (or not. Maybe you just rub it in.), and get back to work on that novel nobody's going to read.

When auto-erotic asphyxiation goes wrong, you pass out from lack of oxygen. Then you hang there for awhile, unconscious. Then you die.

That's not really the bad part. Actually, that kind of death seems like a good way to go. You're not thinking about death: You're thinking about blowing a load. Death is just an unexpected byproduct. You accidentally pass out and basically die in your sleep. Oopsie.

The bad part is that some time later, you end up discovered by some poor unfortunate. He or she finds you hanging by the neck in the nude. Your face is bloated and purple and unrecognizable. Your cock is much the same... only it's as limp and dead as you are.

You know, I really liked David Carradine. And I thought INXS and Michael Hutchence had their moments, too.

But whenever I see or hear anything featuring either, the first thing that'll come to mind is the image of a grotesque, purple-faced dead man hanging by the neck with his purple cock in his hands. And that's a fucked up thing to have associated with your memory of someone.

Shit. I don't think I can watch Kill Bill ever again.

Damn! I liked that movie.