On Reading Daniel Defoe's
It is hard to believe that Robinson Crusoe
Didn’t masturbate even once in the twenty-four years
He spent on a deserted island off the coast of South America;
Or that he didn’t get it on with one of the female goats
In the herd of fifty or sixty goats he domesticated.
Or that he and Friday, his companion for the last two years,
Didn’t engage in a little experimentation
Even if only to compare one another's technique.
But Defoe mentions none of this, which is not surprising
For a novel written in 1720, or for that matter
For one written even more recently.
Mind you, I’m not looking for something pornographic,
Not even a temporarily-gay romance,
Just the recognition that sex is a natural and normal part of a man’s life,
And that masturbation isn’t going to make you go blind
As your mother or the local priest might have told you when you turned thirteen.
Believe me when I say no guy is going to go twenty-four days
Let alone twenty-four years without occasionally pulling his pud,
having a wank, spanking the monkey
Or whatever euphemism you care to use
For the solitary pleasure of shaking hands with your johnson
And letting the spunk fly wherever it may.