Have you guys ever heard of The Onan?
My husband has never heard of it. He says it’s not a real thing…but it has to be, because I’ve seen it. He masturbates all the time…so for sure, it’s seen him.
When I was 14, I began spending hours in the bathroom after school. My mother is the best mother, so of course she took notice and addressed it.
“Scott,” she said, “I know what you’re doing in there.” Her face looked disappointed, “six or seven times a day…really?” She sighed, “remember the story of The Onan?”
The Bible says that Onan was a man.
Mother says, like most of the bible, the message is correct but it’s a mistranslation.
See, in the Bible, where The Onan wasn’t a demon but a man, the man’s brother dies and it becomes that man’s duty to quicken his brother’s wife with a seed. He doesn’t want to do that though (probably a queer, like us) so he pulls out and jerks off onto her, spilling the seed on the ground.
When I was younger, this story was so poorly translated, I thought that he was planting flowers inside of her.
Mother says that what really happened was this: he was diddling with his naughty parts too much and God sent a demon, The Onan, to drag him to hell.
He decides when you’re done. When you’ve wasted enough. Knows the limit. He warns you once.
He watches everyone when they touch themselves, you know. He watches you too. But not me. Not anymore. I don’t do that anymore.
I hit my limit young.
When you stroke it in your bed he sees, or through your phone tablet or TV. When in extacy, you close your eyes, his spirit climbs out and finds places to hide. I saw him once. This was before all the technology. He must have climbed out of my ears because of the images that were trapped in my head. I closed my eyes and gasped. When I opened them, there he was.
A black spidery figure covered every inch in tangled hair with pointy limbs, articulated all wrong and long. His torso was spun down toward where I lay in horror. Elbows and knees like stalactites, hanging the wrong way. His hands and feet rested flatly on the ceiling. And he crawled toward me.
He left the ceiling, with terrifying grace. Feet lowered slowly, until he hung from above by just his hands, unfolding onto my bed: so softly that the bed didn’t sink or sag or creak or even notice he was there…But I did.
Too afraid to move a muscle, I lay frozen as he collected my seed and rubbed that part of me into some of the hair on his chest–making me a part of him. Taking a memento. Taking me with him.
He smiled an awful smile of clean mismatched teeth, stark in contrast to his midnight, matted fur.
I’ll never forget those white teeth, glowing through the darkness like a smiling light, nor his parting words:
“Touch yourself again, and I’ll kill ya.”