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"Father Tribou: Masturbation"
In my 9th grade Sexual Wisdom Class @ Catholic High School For Boys, Father Tribou claimed: "Boys, if you get a bit aroused; next, slap or splash some cold water on your scrotum."
Indeed, masturbation, with the intention of really "giving it" to a sublime lass is adultery, entering her soul with your warped Love Rocket for mere self-serving elation; however, without weekly discharge of semen, a man can develop Seminal Backup or Epididymitis; as a result, you'll be walking with a wheelbarrow in front of you until the antibiotics kick in. Nevertheless, when releasing the seed, think of an android woman lacking consciousness or a soul--never a sentient cyborg, or it will be adultery.
Father Tribou still haunts my failures to the day. Due to Social Phobia and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder with Tics, I could not urinate or craft stool in public, forcing me to be a scholastic exile, dropping out and running away from home after merely a few weeks into my sophomore year. The strict teachers would never let me urinate during class save Brother Richard, a holy man; thus, I endured numerous urinary tract infections and bowel problems, ultimately getting Inflammatory Bowel Disease. There's nothing more weirdly cruel than having a tube shoved up your penile urethra or a spoon crammed beyond your rectum's privacy to remove shy feces. I guess I should have tried harder. I was a failure at Catholic High. Breaking two bones during my freshmen football year, fasting on liquids and solid foods, unable to hydrate or nourish myself due to mental illness. And to think @ Our Lady of Holy Souls School I was Captain of the Defense on our football team, and had more interceptions than the entire league combined. Oh well, I still can live through watching Tim Tebow play--oh wait, they screwed that guy.
So, unable to ever gel with society, I ride my motorcycle for clandestine purpose, always having the huff & puff of swift mercury to pull into an alley and relieve myself, though if caught--it would be incarceration by an ultra-conservative Nashville machine.
So, discharge is not a sin. But remember--picture an elegant android, not a fair maiden or scandalous cyborg armed with a fragile soul.
Me during my Catholic High years--short, buzz cut-like haircuts required to enter the private school:
