Masturbatorium

The fact is that we are all censors, whether we operate the amnesic sedative of shock, faint from pain, deceive ourselves into thinking things are better than they are, or simply find a coherent message incomprehensible. Imagine smuggling a small child into one of Fun City’s new masturbatoria where only skin-flicks are screened, where those who jiggle may be gratified and those who giggle may be maimed.

It is reported that upon deposit in the usual standard mechanical coin box, it got for its spender a few minutes of a pornographic movie, in a booth large enough to seat two (or more) people comfortably. Each of these tokens appeared in what can only be called commercial masturbatoria, and not old fashioned whorehouses.

As for the rape, well, Dr. Finch did seem like a pretty horny old fat man. I thought back to his masturbatorium, his many “wives.”

Among the arguments advanced to support homosexual marriage is that homosexuals can have children. Yet, as the attorney/author Lori Andrews states in “The Clone Age,” such “parenthood” entails the use of glassware and sperm, purchased from catalogs, and “generated” for quick cash by strangers who view pornography in “masturbatoria” with vinyl sofas.

The Hewitt [Centre] has dedicated facilities for everything, including two purpose-built “masturbatoria” – rooms where male patients produce sperm samples assisted by cable TV pornography.

I wish Jerry Rothwell’s movie [Donor Unknown] went further than the “dear diary” tones in which a set of well-adjusted teens – central character JoEllen and her adventitious kinsfolk – meet an apparently well-adjusted beach bum. Doesn’t anyone in this America have a problem? Isn’t there something strange, even tragic, about a guy who spent his years of desire doing three-times-a-week sessions in “masturbatoria”?

The distinguished female author and I were now unabashedly getting drunk. As we ate, I told her the story of my visit to the masturbatorium, and I had her cracking up; we were laughing loudly enough to draw some stares from other tables.

At his clinic, sports are on TV in the waiting room, and the walls are painted dark. The room Dr. Turek calls the “masturbatorium” has a lava lamp, framed Playboy magazines and a photo of a vintage Maserati (his own).