Because NYC masturbators come in pairs

I lived in New York City over two years before I ever saw someone masturbating in public. This has got to be some kind of record.

Yesterday, Cade and I were eating ice cream in midtown. We’d walked to the outdoor front plaza of an office building, so we wouldn’t have to sit in the fast food place where we procured the creamy treats - a place with a shady cyber cafe area and patrons who throw burgers at the cashiers. As we were walking from the sidewalk to some steps to the butt-friendly edge of a central flower bed, Cade said, “Don’t look, but that guy on the bench is touching himself.”

So then I looked. Nothing is worse that saying, “Don’t look, but…” That always signals me to, “Look and…” It wasn’t a big deal. The guy was touching himself through his clothes, which were fashionably ballooning off his thin frame. You could hide a bicycle in those pants. He was either a stroke victim or just really into his moment…on the bench…with his hand.

Cade and I walked far away behind him and sat down. “That’s illegal,” I said. “He’s not exposing himself, but it’s indecent. Should I call 311 or something?”

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I knew I wasn’t going to sit down next to him to condemn what he was doing, or pull a Seventh Heaven and rattle off a five minute heartwarmer of a speech before shaking his hand (eww!) and wishing him well. He was definitely not sane, either. I like to keep the crazy at least a good six feet from me.

So Cade and I ate our ice cream. Then we started watching the people walk down the sidewalk and notice the man. Some were oblivious, but most saw and did at least a double take. Some were confused, thinking, “Is he doing what I think he’s doing?” One woman pushing a wheelchair kept turning around and watching, her elderly loved one nearly careening into oncoming traffic. Some people laughed or at least, stared curiously. No one was too offended, despite how grody it is to watch a stranger attempt to light a campfire with hand on denim friction. Watching the watchers reminded me of Borat.

Blocks away on the Upper West Side this evening, Cade said to me again, “Don’t look, but…” Another guy playing with himself. This time his hand was shoved down his pants. This time he was walking and practicing onanism. You’ve gotta admire that kind of coordination. It’s like patting your head and rubbing your tummy x 10.

“How weird is that?” I marveled. “I’ve never seen anything like that, until yesterday. Now I see it again today.”

“In a city this large,” Cade mused, “coincidence is magnified.”

We both thought about the gravity of the statement at the crosswalk.

“You know,” I said, “that sounds like movie preview narration. In a city (pause) this large (pause) coincidence (pause) is magnified.”

Though my deepened voice didn’t sound that much like that guy who narrates the previews, Cade smiled knowingly. We almost had the beginning of a story.

I continued, “Now, one man must…”

Cade interrupted. “Ahem. Two men must.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Where was I?”

Like it? Share it!