In The Information Age, It’s Nice To Know That People Still Jerk Off In The Woods

Having recently relocated to California from NYC, I’m new to the whole “outdoors” scene. I view all flora and fauna as potential hazards, so I operate in a constant state of high-alert; a rodent-like “prey” mode, scanning my surroundings for anything that may pose a threat: snakes, hummingbirds, Armenians, avocados, etc…

Normally my paranoia is unjustified, but on a hike into the canyon this morning, it paid off… Sort of.

Just off the main trail, an unnatural feature in the thicket caught my eye. Stepping over the gnarled trunk of a fallen oak, I came upon a man-made clearing that was artfully decorated with rain-warped computer printouts of semi-nude male wrestlers. And just like Robert Frost in “The Road Less Traveled,” “…long I stood.”

An odd feeling, to find oneself alone in a complete stranger’s secret masturbation shrine. But despite its semblance to a set from Law&Order SVU, I wasn’t frightened. I was rather… inspired. For the entire stroll back home, my mind raced. Who did this?

When I was young lad, self-gratification was a harrowing ordeal. It might be difficult for a Gen-Y millennial to comprehend what life was like in the Middle Ages. (In pornography terms, of course, the Middle Ages refers to period between c.1810 and c.1996).
Today, there’s enough variety in your average wank site to satisfy even the most discerning of twisted young libidos. In my time you’d be blessed to find a Zulu breast-feeding feature in National Geographic, or a Wonder-Bra ad torn from a sun-bleached Sears catalog. Even then you’d have to conceal it under a railroad bridge and rotate ownership with 15 of your buddies. (Same business model as Zip Cars.)

The question then becomes: If everyone today has such unrestricted digital access, why is this mystery Luddite jerking off in a manner that is so… retro?

I came to the conclusion that this hideaway spank altar is not the work of some cargo-van-driving nympho prison escapee, or a depraved rake waiting to pounce. No… This man is an artist.

He’s making a poignant statement about disposability. Like Thoreau, he’s a classic man who understands the corruption of the soul that comes with modernity. He appreciates that the neck-breaking speed of progress comes at a great price to our humanity: No one takes deep breaths anymore. No one writes letters by hand, or stops to smell the roses anymore. No one… wacks off to man-on-man forest porn… anymore.

He could have easily taken his Blackberry into the restroom at Chili’s like the rest of us; But instead, in a delightful blend of the analog and the digital, (like a USB Turntable) he prints 8×10 hard copies and hikes up 4miles to a discreet locale where he can also drink in the beautiful panorama of the greater Burbank/Glendale area.

This man is a true goddamned libertine, and I hope all you Brooklyn hipsters are paying attention. Accept no half-measures. If you’re going to be ironic with your antique bicycles, carved ice blocks, handlebar mustaches and Amish overalls, then go ALL. THE. WAY.

Stop streaming HD porn online. Throw both your iPads in the compost, and start pulling your wang to crumpled up, low-resolution B&W wrestling printouts… in the woods.