People have called me ‘queer’ ever since I was a little kid, even long before any of these same people knew that I actually was queer. Some have also called me ‘kinky’, or ‘zany’, or occasionally even ‘just plain weird’.

Me, I don’t think I’m that odd, really. I work a nine to five. I drive a Honda. I shop at the Gap. I don’t have any extreme piercings or body-covering tattoos. I’m not addicted to any drugs or alcohol, and my car isn’t covered with political bumper stickers.

I’m a gay man, but I’m not flamboyantly so. I do infrequently participate in Drag Shows, but that’s less for the statement and more for the kitsch value of it. That, and I just really enjoy lip-synching to Elton John songs.

Primarily, though, I think this perception people have of me as being ‘eccentric’ stems from my overactive sex drive. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not out humping everything that moves – quite the opposite actually. I had a pretty strong AIDS scare in college when a guy I had been pretty active with – very unsafely – for an extended period of time contracted the virus. I was checked every six months for the next two years, and it took nearly twice that long to convince me that I truly had dodged the bullet.

During that four years, I was functionally celibate. I refused to engage in any nefarious activities with any other persons because I was convinced I was a germ spreader. But, as fate would have it, I’m clean. But even to this day, I have a difficult time sharing myself with anyone. It’s like that part of me just went dormant during that four years, and it hasn’t ever reawakened.

However, despite my hesitance to engage other men in sexual affairs, the scare in no way lessened my desire to engage myself. I think that’s where some of my ‘kinkiness’ has come from.

You see, the fact of the matter is, masturbation can get old, quickly. And unless you change it up and find new ways to sexually gratify yourself, you’ll just end up terribly stale, bitter, and hopelessly unfulfilled.

But I learned early on that something so simple as changing the fabric of your underpants from cotton to satin can be enough to completely reinvigorate your love affair with yourself.

Another trick for heightening the excitement of masturbation is found in my first rule of life: It’s all about Location! Location! Location!

Beating off in the shower can be as boring as reading the TV Guide. But beating off in the confessional at St. Mary’s – well that’s just fucking hot! I’ve gotten in on with myself in a many a lusty locale: department store dressing rooms, outdoor gazebos in the park, whirlpool tubs at the YMCA, the swimming pool at my apartment complex, in my boss’ office while he was on vacation, in a hotel lobby, on the bleachers at my old high school, in the curtained voting booth, etc.

But sometimes, even that can get old. I mean, your town only has so many different venues to sprinkle with your seed, and once you’ve marked them all as your territory, the desire to branch out into other realms of self-fulfillment becomes unavoidable.

That’s when you start doing things like drawing yourself nice, hot bath, then dumping in a few dozen boxes of instant Jello and rubbing yourself off with all the slimy,