Female masturbation insecurities

It's been a chaotic week, but my inbox was hatemail-free. Does that mean Ohio State is ready to commit to a sex column?

I was pleasantly surprised my inbox was filled with requests for a male perspective. This week I'm turning my column over to Dirk as he tackles what it's like for a man to come to terms with female masturbation:

"I haven't pulled the ol' pud in quite some time. I'm talkin' months here, people. The last time I went so long without wackin' it was when I broke both hands in a horrible, violent masturbation accident that involved an electric egg beater, a vat of Crisco and an AARP newsletter. (I was 13. Gimme a break - my mom threw away the Sears catalog.)

So how does a man in his 20s get by without self-pleasurvation? Simple. My girlfriend is addicted to sex like Bobby Brown is to cocaine - she just can't get enough. In public, in private, in a Burger King bathroom, as Heavy D once said. She's the kind of girl who gives road head while she's driving. (Watch out for green Volkswagens.) Life is good, people. Life is good.

Or at least it was, until last month. I was planning a trip out of town to take care of some business in my particular field of expertise, bovine testicle examination. My little nympho told me in passing that she and her ridiculously-hot roommate were making a trip to the Lion's Den. "Be careful, babe," I warned her. "Lions are nothing to play around with." (My previous job as a big cat testicle examiner had gone poorly.)

'No, honey, I don't think you understand,' she said. 'Jessie's boyfriend is going back to school and you're going to be out of town with cow's balls in your hands. We're going to the Lion's Den to get vibrators to hold us over.'

Hold her over? What was she talking about? My name is Dirk Stonerod, for chrissakes. I drive an IROC. I devour light bulbs for breakfast and gravel driveways for dinner. I hold the future of the bovine race in my massive hands on a daily basis. I am the definition of "man." Hold her over? After the usual 90-seconds in heaven with me, she should be satisfied for weeks. If I can get by without masturbating, why can't she?

Using my highly-developed male intuition, I could tell she could sense my anxiety.

'I can sense your anxiety,' she said. 'It's really nothing to be insecure about, sweetheart. Your three-inch penis, god-awful body odor and perpetual premature ejaculation have nothing to do with my decision to purchase a giant dildo complete with penis veins and its own electric generator,' she reassured me.

What choice did I have? If I left her bound in our apartment while I was gone, she'd surely starve. If I left her sans vibrator, she'd undoubtedly find a man with a four-inch penis and two-minute stamina to pleasure her. A massive, veined dildo from the Lion's Den was the answer to my dilemma.

Am I the only man out there who has felt so insecure? I've always thought of male masturbation as a right of passage into manhood, a Bar Mitzvah with hand lotion, if you will. After a couple years, it becomes a way to kill time while your Playstation 2 saves your dynasty in NCAA Football 2007. Later in life, it serves as a lover when your wife finds you too bloated and hairy to touch.

But female masturbation has always spooked me. Men like me (insecure, poorly hung chauvinist) need to feel like they can pleasure their women without shorting out the fuse box. We need fake orgasm screams to rattle our eardrums every night. We need our massive egos to be stroked like Dr. Evil's cat.

But we also need our women. If that means mine comes with a 10-inch plastic penis, so be it. I have a four-inch plastic vagina, after all. Probably should have mentioned that at the beginning."

This week's question: What do you consider cheating?

E-mail answers to me at PenelopeLantern@gmail.com.