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Having never been a boy, I had no idea about all the weird shit boys do to get off. Even though I had a big brother, I wasn’t privy to the vast array of strange self-satisfying tools and tricks teenage boys have up their sleeves. That is, until I met my husband and he told me a hilarious story about why he loved climbing the pole at school.
“At first,” he explained, “I just climbed because I liked to see how fast I could get to the top. But one day when I climbed something weird happened. It felt really good. Like, so good I would make sure to climb that pole every morning and every lunch.”
Even as my own sons grew, I didn’t understand just how resourceful boys could be, until I questioned my then-12-year-old about why he had a giant box of condoms in his bedroom.
His hesitation should have been my first clue.
“Well, umm,” he said. “I use them to, uh, you know…”
“To what?” I asked. I had no idea what he was trying to say.
“Oh. Oh, well, OK,” was all I managed to say.
A week later, while out for drinks with my girlfriends, who also had teen boys, I asked if that was normal.
“I don’t know about condoms,” my friend Tammy said, “but I found out my son Charlie was using socks.”
“Socks?” I had never heard of boys sexualizing slippers.
“Yeah, socks. Your boys don’t do that?” Tammy asked. “Well, Charlie does. I swear I won’t even touch his laundry anymore. All it took was one time grabbing a sock that was hard as a rock and I was done. It was nasty!”
Learning about socks, and laughing my ass off watching the Bridesmaids scene where a mom describes cracking her son’s comforter, made me curious about what other means boys employ to get their (pun intended) socks off.
Naturally, I first turned to my husband and sons to learn more. I was in for a surprise with their answers.
Like machine gun fire, my eldest son listed his favorite masturbation props.
“Let’s see, there’s good old wadded-up toilet paper, towels, even shirts. Heck, I’ll use dirty laundry if it’s there. Whatever is within reach, really,” he shared. As he spoke, my younger son nodded his head emphatically.
“Anything else?” I asked. I was all business. Hey, who was I to judge? As a teen, I’d had an amorous moment or two with my favorite bottle of perfume, Love’s Baby Soft, which, if anyone remembers, was totally shaped like a dildo.
“OK, don’t laugh, but one time I put my penis in the vacuum hose,” my youngest said.
“While it was on?” I asked. I’d lost my deadpan expression the moment I picture my son losing his penis in a vacuuming accident.
“Yeah, but it was on low, don’t worry,” he reassured me. “It didn’t feel that good, so I only did it once.”
“Oh, what about paper towel rolls?” my oldest added. “And that time I used the cantaloupe?”
Even my husband was shocked at the cantaloupe revelation. Fruit. Really? I thought that was only a thing women in prison did.
“And the trash can,” my youngest said. Was nothing sacred?
By the end of our conversation, I had the idea that my sons, and probably all teenage boys, used anything and everything at their disposal to masturbate.
With my curiosity quelled, I had to wonder if my quest for knowledge was a worthy endeavor. Honestly, I’ll probably never look at a cantaloupe the same way again, but I am grateful I had this awkward, yet illuminating, discussion with my kids.
They felt confident enough to be real, knowing full well I would write this information and share it with the world. It may seem like too much for some parents, but talks like these let me know that my sons can truly be open with me about any subject, no matter how uncomfortable. Like, penis-in-a-vacuum uncomfortable. Ouch.
Before you go, check out our slideshow below:
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Having never been a boy, I had no idea about all the weird shit boys do to get off. Even though I had a big brother, I wasn’t privy to the vast array of strange self-satisfying tools and tricks teenage boys have up their sleeves. That is, until I met my husband and he told me a hilarious story about why he loved climbing the pole at school.
“At first,” he explained, “I just climbed because I liked to see how fast I could get to the top. But one day when I climbed something weird happened. It felt really good. Like, so good I would make sure to climb that pole every morning and every lunch.”
Even as my own sons grew, I didn’t understand just how resourceful boys could be, until I questioned my then-12-year-old about why he had a giant box of condoms in his bedroom.
His hesitation should have been my first clue.
“Well, umm,” he said. “I use them to, uh, you know…”
“To what?” I asked. I had no idea what he was trying to say.
“Oh. Oh, well, OK,” was all I managed to say.
A week later, while out for drinks with my girlfriends, who also had teen boys, I asked if that was normal.
“I don’t know about condoms,” my friend Tammy said, “but I found out my son Charlie was using socks.”
“Socks?” I had never heard of boys sexualizing slippers.
“Yeah, socks. Your boys don’t do that?” Tammy asked. “Well, Charlie does. I swear I won’t even touch his laundry anymore. All it took was one time grabbing a sock that was hard as a rock and I was done. It was nasty!”
Learning about socks, and laughing my ass off watching the Bridesmaids scene where a mom describes cracking her son’s comforter, made me curious about what other means boys employ to get their (pun intended) socks off.
Naturally, I first turned to my husband and sons to learn more. I was in for a surprise with their answers.
Like machine gun fire, my eldest son listed his favorite masturbation props.
“Let’s see, there’s good old wadded-up toilet paper, towels, even shirts. Heck, I’ll use dirty laundry if it’s there. Whatever is within reach, really,” he shared. As he spoke, my younger son nodded his head emphatically.
“Anything else?” I asked. I was all business. Hey, who was I to judge? As a teen, I’d had an amorous moment or two with my favorite bottle of perfume, Love’s Baby Soft, which, if anyone remembers, was totally shaped like a dildo.
“OK, don’t laugh, but one time I put my penis in the vacuum hose,” my youngest said.
“While it was on?” I asked. I’d lost my deadpan expression the moment I picture my son losing his penis in a vacuuming accident.
“Yeah, but it was on low, don’t worry,” he reassured me. “It didn’t feel that good, so I only did it once.”
“Oh, what about paper towel rolls?” my oldest added. “And that time I used the cantaloupe?”
Even my husband was shocked at the cantaloupe revelation. Fruit. Really? I thought that was only a thing women in prison did.
“And the trash can,” my youngest said. Was nothing sacred?
By the end of our conversation, I had the idea that my sons, and probably all teenage boys, used anything and everything at their disposal to masturbate.
With my curiosity quelled, I had to wonder if my quest for knowledge was a worthy endeavor. Honestly, I’ll probably never look at a cantaloupe the same way again, but I am grateful I had this awkward, yet illuminating, discussion with my kids.
They felt confident enough to be real, knowing full well I would write this information and share it with the world. It may seem like too much for some parents, but talks like these let me know that my sons can truly be open with me about any subject, no matter how uncomfortable. Like, penis-in-a-vacuum uncomfortable. Ouch.
Before you go, check out our slideshow below:
The stories you care about, delivered daily.
SheKnows is a part of Penske Media Corporation. © 2022 SheMedia, LLC. All Rights Reserved.
Style | The Houseboy Wanted to Serve Me. I Tried to Oblige.
The Houseboy Wanted to Serve Me. I Tried to Oblige.
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The Houseboy first messaged me six months ago on the online dating site OKCupid.
“Hi,” his message said. “I am a houseboy. I will clean your house, or anything else you want me to do. I expect nothing in return. I like serving strong, confident women. I also like women who smoke.”
I have always loved the absurd, and this scenario seemed too strange to pass up. I wanted to meet this man with a housecleaning fetish. And, frankly, I wanted a clean apartment.
I had joked with friends about how great it would be to have a manservant, someone who would clean, do my dishes and laundry and all the other things I hate doing. I’ll happily degrade him, I’d say. I’ll throw olive pits at him. Whatever turns him on.
“I’m a strong, confident woman,” I wrote. “I need my apartment cleaned. When can you come over?”
We started messaging and then texting. Although most of our interactions were fetish-related, there were moments of intimacy. Sometimes, at night, he’d ask me how I was doing.
“I’m O.K.,” I’d say. “Kind of lonely.”
I had been single for nearly four years, and it was easy to confide in this stranger who already had made himself so vulnerable to me. Although our exchanges didn’t always make me feel better, it was still nice to know someone was rooting for me.
Even so, I told him not to tell me his name. I thought he would like it better if I just referred to him as the Houseboy. After all, I wanted him to get something out of the situation, too. If his fetish was to serve a woman who would boss him around and make him feel worthless, I would try to play the role. His fantasy didn’t work if I didn’t play along, and I wanted to hold up my end of the bargain.
We set up a date for him to come over and clean. But at the last minute, he backed out.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m broke. I don’t even have subway fare. I could ask my dad for it, but I don’t think he’ll give it to me.”
A friend said, laughing, “He needs to get a real job as a houseboy to support his houseboy fetish.”
I tried twice more, and both times fell through. I didn’t hear from him again until I started my YouTube series.
“Ladies of Leisure” was something silly I thought up when I was drunk. It was a simple premise: I would sit in my bathtub, drink martinis and sing karaoke. Sometimes I would smoke cigarettes.
I posted a few videos on YouTube. My friends thought they were funny. I thought they were funny. That was all I thought would happen.
And then, I got a text from the Houseboy.
“Your videos are really good,” he said. “I bet they would go over well in the smoking fetish community.”
Over the next few days, people started following my YouTube channel. They had names like “AshtraySlaveNY” and “SmokingFetishVids.” I had gone viral. Except the people watching my videos were people who got turned on by watching me smoke.
“Are you right- or left-handed?” the Houseboy texted me.
“Sometimes you smoke with your left hand. You’d look more comfortable if you smoked with your right. It would be hotter.”
“That’s not really the point of the videos,” I replied.
I started to lose interest, but he kept texting me.
“Do you need a chauffeur tonight?” he would ask.
Or, “When are you going to put out a new video?”
Or:, “I want you to use me as an ashtray. Let me be your pig-slave.”
And then, I needed a lamp. And some wineglasses. And Ikea is in Red Hook, which is a hassle to get to. So I texted the Houseboy.
“It’s your lucky week,” I wrote. “I need a ride to Ikea.”
“I want to,” he replied, “but I don’t have money for gas. I know it’s not very slavelike to ask for gas money. But I’m broke.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Cheaper than a cab.”
We made a date for a Friday at 2 p
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