Posted on myspace with the bulletin title "Masturbating In Public" to 169 friends and strangers...

Longtime readers know I enjoy walking. Long distances, to me, range from 6-10 miles. I am a smoker, after all, so no Gumpian cross country epic journeys for me, just the little jaunts I weakly consider grueling.

I haven't had a decent walk since last summer. So, I got myself kickstarted earlier this evening. Since my place of employment recently relocated, I now have a new network of sidewalk capillaries to traverse.

I've been feeling down and out lately, and as I've learned over the past several years, my two best remedies for depression are reading and walking. I've been back on the book bandwagon for a month now, closing the final page on about ten books since my eyes got seesawing over letters again. That wasn't doing me well enough, which leads back to this entry's first line: I enjoy walking, and I'm at it again.

I had something of a lazy day at work, reading other folks' blogs, playing online Scrabble, leering at photos of swimsuit models, that sort of thing. As my feet clapped concrete and the white fluffy clouds moped across the blue above, I got down to brainstorming introspection and silent catharsis.

It wasn't working.

I remained grumpy, unsettled disgruntlement mingling with an urgent horniness stewing inside because it's been so long since I got laid. I mean, a long time. My brain played ping pong with two repeating thoughts: "I hate everything, especially me" and "that picture of the model bending over washing a Corvette with her panties all wet and soapy was pretty damn sweet."

Can you guess which thought won out?

I'm generally well behaved, sometimes too much so, to the point of parochial restraint. Not today. I found a path veering off the sidewalk, leading into a golf course. The path looped throughout the 18 holes, sometimes crossing residential streets, sometimes weaving through shitty little patches of forest.

As I passed the first copse of trees, the image of the supermodel began to take control of my brain. Nasty, dirty, thoughts. Oh yes. I began to harden.

Twenty minutes later, by the time I reached the second swathe of trees, the throb was impossible to subdue with any self-imposed discipline, with any tricks of mental redirection. Although I considered it to be pervish and uncivilized, my hormones could not be ignored. I decided I would masturbate on that golf course.

In that second lonely orphanage of trees, one tree's trunk split into three at ground level, the three massive stalks rising diagonally away from the ground center. I unzipped my pants, peered stealthily through the shrubbery at the seventh hole, and seeing no golfers present, began my frantic fondle session.

It was exciting. Aside from the usual sensations, there was the danger of getting caught and the thrill of doing something WRONG. A couple minutes in, I added some spit to my palm, finished myself off, and sighed. The orgasm wasn't spectacular, but the ejaculate certainly was. I came a lot. I mean A LOT.

I got myself zipped up and scampered back to the paved trail just before the four pastel cyclists came around the bend. 10:12 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm