Regression

CAUTION: I strongly advise that anybody of delicate sensibilities or more tact than I have (ie. you) does not read this entry beyond this point. It contains way, way way, way way way, way way way WAY Too Much Information, of the delicate personal details kind. If you continue to read past this point, I take no responsibility if your eyes melt out of your skull and pool in your bellybutton in sheer horror of discovering the icky sticky details about me you never wanted to know.

Oh, and before I continue, I hereby acknowledge that I am forfeiting what little may have remained of my integrity by still not including a photo in this entry. Quite frankly, taking and posting a photo is such a pain in the ass that I wish I’d never included that option! I was looking forward to writing a detailed and interesting entry tailored to your questions, but I lucked myself out by forgetting that the basic nature of mankind is a superficial one, and ultimately all people want is to check out your goodies. I’m not judging you – I’m no different. I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I didn’t judge people differently based on their appearance. Hell, I’ve added people to my favorites based solely on their hot pic before. I’m as shallow as the next person. But, I’m also lazier than the next person, so the pic will be posted when it’s posted. If that makes me a scumbag whose word is dirt, well, I’ve been worse in my time. =P

Anyways…

I’d like to tell you, dear readers – if any remain at this point, and I trust some of you are perverted enough to have ignored my warning! – what puberty means to me.

Puberty, to me, is a plot line – it’s something they give to kids on TV, to help write a more complex plot and give them more challenges to face in the ongoing saga of the show. It’s something that was always entertaining to watch poor clumsy old Kevin Arnold go through time after time, but something that never really happened to me.

That’s not to say I was never a teenager, or never experienced adolescence. Some will tell you I still am. But puberty, the physical, emotional, and hormonal trials and tribulations of making the abrupt headlong crash from clumsy childhood into awkward adulthood – to this day, the notion seems like a myth to me.

Somehow, growing up, I managed to completely avoid any of the drastic effects of puberty that I grew up watching the boys of television experience. And, that’s not to say that I experienced them in a less dramatic, more realistic way than television often portrayed. I mean, they just didn’t happen to me. Period. (That’s not a pun.)

TV kids always seem to get hit with a face full of acne first. Countless shows over my lifetime alone have depicted gawky brace-faced teens with a wasteland of oily angry-looking craters across their visages. Me, sure, I got one or two zits on rare occasions – no more or less so than I do now in my twenties, and nothing that couldn’t be avoided by just keeping clean, exfoliated skin. But I never found myself panicking before a hot date, slathering layer upon layer of zit cream over my demolished face while anxiously splattering fistfuls of pus all over my bathroom mirror. It just never happened.

Same with excess bodily hair. Maybe it’s my North European blood, but I didn’t wake up one day with a morass of dark wiry short and curlies in all my secret places. In fact, I couldn’t even begin to tell you when I got my first pubic hair, facial hair or underarm hair. To this day, I still have only a very small amount of fine, light hair on my arms, legs and chest, and nothing on my back or any other strange places. It just seems like over a long and unstartling stretch, my skin went from very smooth to gently fuzzy, and one day my teens were over and it seemed like I’d always had hair where I had hair.

The whole voice breaking thing which boys allegedly experience, was much the same way. My voice never actually broke. It just sort of aged, like a stinky cheese or a too-expensive bottle of merlot. I certainly wasn’t singing soprano one day in the Christian Boys Choir and suddenly found myself squeaking and croaking through my chorus solo to the horror of ten thousand stricken on-lookers, or anything like that. No, much like a family pet that you don’t notice is getting bigger when you spend every day with him, I nor anybody else around me seemed to notice my voice ever changing. Perhaps a long-lost extended family member or old family friend could have differentiated between the before and after, but to me, my voice was just my voice, and it never seemed unusual to me. When I listen to recordings of me speaking as a child on home movies and the like, it’s readily apparent that I shed a few octaves somewhere along the line. But I couldn’t for the life of me tell you when or where they went at the time.

And then there’s the much-dreaded wet dreams. The bane of teenage boys since time immemorial, this pubescent phenomenon has apparently caused more midnight laundry trips and missing pajama bottoms than any other event besides geriatric incontinence. Legions of lads spend a portion of their lives in a phase in which they can’t look their mother in the eye, and squirm every time somebody squirts mayonnaise out of a squeeze bottle, wondering that age-old question – "Is tonight going to be one of those nights?".

Not me. I had a whopping total of three wet dreams in my entire adolescence. And, point of fact, two of those happened while I was sleeping in a bed with a girl or girls. (Yeah, the second one I was smack in the middle of a threesome. Fuck you, subconscious brain!) Each time I woke up seconds before impact, and while I was helpless to prevent the occurrence, it was at least enough for me to quickly compose myself and act like nothing was happening, and then casually yawn, extract myself from the bed, and excuse myself for a late night "urination", where I mopped up the fallout and went back to bed like nothing was amiss.

All in all, the wet dream was a rare lightning strike at best, and no more traumatic for me than a premature ejaculation or urgent teenage need to jack off in the nearest public toilet at random moments of the school day. I was sexually active younger than a lot of people, so blowing my load, whether into a condom or a bedsheet, was hardly cause for therapy.

This, however, changed for me last night.

As of my typing this entry, I can now grudgingly say that I have had in fact four wet dreams in my life. Yes, horrified readers, at the unexpected age of twenty-seven, I, Venomous, had a nocturnal emission. A sleep spray. A late-night load. A snooze splooge.

To be fair, the only traumatic thing about it was that it happened at all this many years after leaving such an uneventful adolescence far behind me. The act itself was hardly a bother. In fact, it wasn’t really actually either wet, nor a dream. I was flickering betweenawake and asleep, and thinking about sex. Suddenly I woke up like a shot with the certainty that I was about to spurt, and instinctively I grabbed my dick in a vice grip like a little kid that’s about to pee his pants at school. I leaped out of bed like it was on fire, sprinted to the bathroom, and let it go. Didn’t spill a drop. No need to change the sheets, or even my shorts. Totally hassle free.

But still… what the hell gives?! I’m a man of almost 30! Sure, my sex life has been a bit stale for a couple of years, but I’m a healthy masturbator. I don’t tend to go to bed with undue pent up sexual tension. There’s really no logical explanation for it at all.

Am I, then, suddenly regressing to the puberty I never really had?

Am I going to wake up tomorrow and suddenly find hair growing where never there was hair before?

Will I startle friends and strangers alike by suddenly breaking into a child’s high-pitched squeak during a vehement rant about the socioeconomic decline of modern western civilization?

Will I look in the mirror one day and not even recognize my once handsome profile, hidden suddenly by a bubbling magma of the grease of a thousand McDonald’s deep fryers?

Will I be refused entry to bars, clubs, strip clubs, and adult sex toy stores everywhere, because thinly pasted over the body of a tired old man, lies the pasty pimpled veneer of a nervous teenage boy??

What will become of our hero?!

Stay tuned for the next exci-… oh, ahem, sorry. Got carried away there.

But yes. Who can say what other extremely unusual things my body may do to me now that I’m suddenly living my days again instead of grudgingly barely existing from one to the next. Maybe now that my brain chemicals are all rebalancing themselves, I’m going to find my hormones throwing all kinds of bizarre curveballs at me!

Or… maybe I just need to get laid. =)