Wanking In 1985

I have just been up an attic. There were cobwebs, translucent red insects, and boxes. Some of the boxes contained old games, which I’ll probably post soon as part of the “wasn’t 80s box-art awesome” shit you’d expect of a fucking games journalist.
I found old issues of “The Zine”, a short-lived magazine from the early 90s, which was made up of voluntary contributions from readers. I’d got a piece in there myself: some navel-gazing paragraph about having a low libido, and how I didn’t actually want sex so quit cupping my nuts. This article was so over-written and earnest, it stank of a young bender in denial. Fair enough – I really thought, back then, that if I distanced myself as much as possible from the vile act of gay sex, I’d be acceptable to heterosexuals. I suppose I was a tiny Graham Norton.
The Zine staff were kind enough to forward me the responses to this article. There were quite a few – and the people who responded to the article were, in many cases, kind enough to touch my penis. It was here that I learned my most valuable sexy tip. Always have a reason for being shit at sex, apart from the fact you’re clumsy, lazy, and would rather be eating. What I’d written about having a low libido was frustrated and dishonest. But it gave me an excellent reason to fall off the bed, sneeze in his eyes, and spend 90% of the whole event fully-clothed and facing the wrong way. “Of course I’m rubbish,” I could validly say. “I don’t technically want to do any of this.”
Regressing further, another box from 1985 spat out my first erotic wankybook. It was the 17th Fighting Fantasy book, in which you – the reader! – played a superhero called the Silver Crusader. This was the time of my life when reading a description of a dwarf as “barrel-chested” started a randy slideshow in my head that made my immediate priorities change. Having badly drawn pictures was tantamount to hardcore. For months of my pre-teen life, this is the picture that would make me all excited and sad that life wasn’t the video for Take On Me. Seeing him again, over 20 years later, is a bit of a let-down. He just seems like a show-off.

There he is: The Creature of Carnage. The Creature had only one line, which he spoke in all caps. “PUNY HUMAN!” he bellowed, and both nuts came flying out of my gut cavity and started filling my body with spunk. “WHAT CAN YOUR PITIFUL EFFORTS HOPE TO ACHIEVE AGAINST THE CREATURE OF CARNAGE?” Very true, I thought. You’ve got Skill 12, Stamina 14, I’d be a loveless idiot to fight you. “MANY MUST DIE BEFORE I WILL BE STILL.”
It’s worth mentioning that I never really liked his curly hair. But it wasn’t insurmountable, for someone as deep as me. I just held the book in a way that my thumb covered his hair.
You might notice that I’ve coloured him in. That’s how much I loved The Creature of Carnage. I’d begun to worry that people would notice I was staring at the same page. I would get Appointment With F.E.A.R. out, just to look at this picture, and after a while this began to feel odd. So I got a bunch of crayons, and slowly coloured him in. I laboriously coloured in his skin. I painstakingly filled in the girders. And I coloured in his loincloth. I don’t think anyone will ever know how much I coloured in his loincloth. Whenever I looked at CoC, I developed arthritis of the heart.
My obsession with F.E.A.R. paid dividends, too. To this day, it remains the only Final Fantasy book I have ever completed. I was so proud of myself, that I wrote the word “completed” in the inside cover. This prevented me from reading through the book again, mistakenly believing that I was about to masturbate over a book I hadn’t finished.
This post is dedicated to The Creature of Carnage, and Vince Bunn.

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