Here’s a question for the men in the audience: How many times have you masturbated? Your response likely sounds something like, “Interesting question. Almost as interesting as, how many times have I inhaled? Or, how many steps have I taken, on average, since my infancy?” To count every time you’ve slapped your salami since you realized a boob can be sucked on for more than nutrition would be nothing short of insane. Yet I have posed this exact question to a number of my female friends, most of whom can either cite each particular attempt, or simply reply, “I don’t do that.” Usually when I hear this, I rapidly go through several phases of grief — first denial, then confusion, followed by sheer anger — before I can calm down enough to say, “BUT WHY?!”

[media-credit id=20122 align=”alignleft” width=”250″][/media-credit]For a young, vibrant college student to have never experienced the beauty of a self-induced orgasm, seems to me more criminal than public urination in the bushes of Isla Vista. But here’s the rub (or lack thereof): Not only are my pleasure-barren friends hindering their own sexual advancement, they are putting the men who work their asses off trying to take them over the edge at a serious disadvantage. Hooking up is like the blind leading the blind. You’re sending him on a treasure hunt for gold you’ve never bothered to look for yourself! Unless there’s an academy award category opening up for best faked orgasm, I think it’s time you introduced yourself to your vagina.

First, have you ever taken a good look at a vagina? For men, I know, it’s a sublimely traumatizing first experience. To put it lightly, that shit is whack. It looks more like Jabba the Hutt than a human organ. If women are intimidated by something we are housing between our own legs — even if it does resemble a Venus flytrap — how do you think a guy feels while trying to navigate his way through our labyrinth of pink folds? Given the complexity of the female anatomy, it is unfair to put all the pressure on a guy to take you to O-town if you’re not willing to help him out with the process.

It seems to me that the stigma associated with masturbation in general, as enforced socially by religious teachings, has in a modern context targeted the “filthiness” of female masturbation in particular. Though many believe I’m the descendant of the original sinner, I will admit no shame or disgrace in my natural compulsion to reach a bodily release I was built to achieve. I learn more about my body and myself each time I dip into my south of the border salsa bowl, and that is something I am proud to have the opportunity to do.

Now over to the boys, who present an entirely contrasting issue. My main concern is this: How often can you beat the bishop without becoming a one-handed, sore-dicked, sun-deprived psycho? Don’t get me wrong — I understand how playing a little game of pocket pool in class might pass the minutes, but do yourself a favor and set some log flogging boundaries. For example, you know that chick you’ve been jerking off with for the past month is finally going to put out tonight; now would be an acceptable time to beat your meat. Or, you’re stressed out about an upcoming final; also a suitable occasion to take your dog for a walk. You start the day off with an extended shower session or some alone time in the evening opens up before bed; go ahead buddy, pump that python.

Just remember to preserve the sacredness of your pipe cleaning tradition, or it will cease to be special. More specifically, does 0-4 times per day sound reasonable? And girls, how about squeezing in some rubbing it out alone time at least once a week? I promise you there is nothing healthier or more natural — in moderation, of course.