Confessions Of A Female Kind: Discovering Male Masturbating Motorists
Exploring the sociological and psychological aspects of male exhibitionism.
By Maryam Henein
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A Startling Phenomenon
I’m at a red. The lone Honda Civic driver pulls up beside me, and I unwillingly cringe. The light changes and I casually let my vehicle lag a bit behind. Then, I gingerly crane my neck to cop a semi-aerial shot. Cool, the driver’s left hand is steering. But what I desperately wanted to know was which stick he was clutching onto with his right. Was he a male masturbating motorist, or triple M’er as I like to call them?
Some of you sitting there with your cock in your hand don’t get you nowhere, it don’t make you a man — John Lennon, “I Found Out”
For many years during my 20s and 30s, I was paranoid that I would catch a driver jerking off, his hopes of running into some slow-moving road prey answered by the unlucky likes of me. I mean, it has happened 11 times over the course of my life. Yup, that’s right. I’ve caught that many men whacking off behind the wheel in several cities across North America, including Montreal, Vancouver, Toronto, and Los Angeles.
Wouldn’t you instinctively scope out crotches too if that many male masturbating motorists had stroked your life? Fortunately, professionals seemed to think that my behavior was to be expected.
“Sometimes when a person has been traumatized, they pay more attention to their surroundings, scanning for things that have scared them in the past,” says Dr. Dean Haddock, an expert on sexually violent predators. Haddock began his career 40 years ago at Atascadero State Hospital, working with mentally disordered sex offenders.
And before you even go there, let’s make it clear that I was never been the one to inspire the men’s miscreant behavior. Their hands had cruised south to Orgasmville several streetlights before I had ever come onto the scene. ’Nuff said.
As you can imagine, the first handful of random masturbating motorist occurrences were highly disturbing — the site of an, alas, always yucky-looking man beating his boner whether I liked it or not.
Take Jerk-Off No. 1 for instance.
You Give Love A Bad Name
Jerk-Off No. 1, we’ll call him Benoit, stained my mind with lucid clarity back in 1986 — a year when banana clips were in, Bon Jovi’s “ You Give Love a Bad Name” was topping the charts, and I was but a mere chubby and nerdy 13-year-old. There I was trundling to the neighborhood tennis courts, for what would turn out to be a pathetic game, when a rusty tuna can — an’84 red Civic — huffed by. And before I could classify him a weirdo, there he was again, conspicuously close to the curb.
Inquiring minds want to know, right? So I peaked, only to find him frantically tugging between his legs at some purplish-red sausage. Ugh! I had never seen a real-life phallus before — only in magazines. In fact, I had glimpsed tons of paper penises in the smut rag collection my father stashed in his bedroom closet. But that’s another story in itself — one that involves little dogs, my grandmother, and a fat Egyptian neighbor named Habib.
Anyway, horror quickly spread across my cheeks, and that’s when he conveniently located the gas pedal. For weeks, that indelible image flashed before my eyes, always followed by an eerie jolt, much like the sensation of being startled out of sleep by a nightmare.
“You were the perfect victim,” says Dr. Renee Sorrentino, a forensic psychiatrist and the director of the Institute for Sexual Wellness. “Not only were you by yourself, you were a kid, so vulnerability was increased and detection less likely.”
Girls around the age of puberty, between 10 and 14, are the most common victims of inappropriate behavior,” adds Sorrentiono, who is also an expert in the evaluation and treatment of individuals with problematic sexual behaviors.
She was right. As a young adult, I would have yelled, kicked, called 911 on my cell (although there were no cells back then), or — at the very least — taken down his license plate number. But none of that happened. Instead, Master Bator revolted me, violated me, and used me as some sort of live ammunition in order to unload. And so did the second and the third and the fourth.
And then somehow, somewhere between the age of 23 and Jerk-Off No. 9, my paranoia climaxed into an unmanageable and morbid fascination. What the hell was it, after all, that compelled a man to whip it out on Ventura and Vineland during Tuesday morning traffic? And moreover, why was I crossing all these mobile monkey-spankers? Why was I subject to this weird-ass serendipity?
And then it became clear: I was the journalist destined to spread the news about this underground movement of onanism and the loads of men throughout the world who belong to it. My story would demystify male masturbating motorists, or Triple M’ers as I’ve grown to call them, and release the floodgates of discourse once and for all.
Come on. Humor me. There has to be a deeper reason as to why I’ve come across more cocks in cars than any of you?
Masturbatus Interruptus
To fully come to grips with the phenomenon at hand — pun partially intended — I decided to conduct an informal poll by posting an add on Craigslist. Many women I spoke to either applauded me for outing the subject matter or shared similar stories. Accounts came streaming in from San Francisco all the way to Seville, Spain, proving that male masturbating motorists were indeed an international bunch. One woman even stumbled upon a Triple M’er in a Hassidic community in Brooklyn. I actually got some responses from some male masturbating motorists, too. Slowly, I began noticing the subtle variations.
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