Seven decades have not diminished one myth I grew up with. It has a placeof honor in my head that makes me smile. I still remember when I heard what would happen to my vision if I wacked my weinie!
I was undeterred and ready to go blind at eleven when I tossed caution aside infavor of pleasure – after some experimenting – and crossed the line between boyhood and manhood. I look back now with fondness at my innocence.
I never could fully understand the taboo against exploring my own body but would have preferred to be thrown in a cauldron of boiling oil than admit that. I joined my peers in mocking others accused of that crime of solo indulgence.It was a mean meme before there was such a thing.
My recollection of who came up with the myth is fuzzy, but I’ve narrowed it down to the church and parentsuniversally who don’t want their offspring to ever have sex.
Burnt sands cover the liescape stretching between truth and deceit buried deep in a person’s mind. A desert of deceit. Unhindered by any convention, yet still possessing a conscience that sometimes asks questions about morality and sensuality.
Falsehoods, like scorpions and snakes, strike swiftly in the seething sands of a liar’s mind whose mission is to deceive. The liar’s soul, burnt by dwelling in the bronzed wasteland of duplicity, is shriveled and crispy.
There are those who dwell in this sandy hell by choice. Content to wander dunes of deceit. Content to live a lie. Content to vilify. Souls that were born bone dry. For these nomads in society, I have no pity.