Critics Say Josh Hawley's New Book "Talks Way Too Much About Masturbation"
You can decide for yourself after reading the excerpt below.
The following is a sneak peek preview excerpt from Josh Hawley’s forthcoming book, “Manhood: The Masculine Virtues Men Must Erect,” that critics say is a surprisingly avant-garde tour de force that frames his narrative within an exhaustive exploration into how much gratuitous detail of sexual perversion an author can ask readers to endure, which several academics said was reminiscent of Nabokov’s literary masterpiece “Lolita.”
I care so deeply about manhood, masculinity, and the struggles boys and men face in our decidedly anti-men era because I’ve struggled too. I know firsthand how easy it is for males in this society to succumb to the temptation to waste their lives watching pornography for hours every day, and commit the sin of masturbation over and over from morning to night.
I was once a serial masturbator myself. When I hit puberty, Satan tested my soul for over a decade by raising my libido beyond what seemed natural or even possible. No matter how much I prayed, no matter how much I begged God to purify my thoughts, and no matter how much I tried to focus 100% of my attention on the suffering of Jesus during his crucifixion, I could not stop myself from masturbating 5, 10, as much as 15 times a day.
Jerking off consumed my almost every waking second and thought, regardless if I was in school, at church, at the dinner table with my parents, or even in the graveyard at my grandparents’ funerals. I planned and strategized every hour around sneaking away to a bathroom or my bedroom.
I did the deed constantly until my hands were so blistered and raw I needed to wear gardening gloves. I did it until my penis was calloused over completely, with my skin as hard as (no pun intended) oak tree bark. I did it until the only thing that could get me off was literally hard, scratchy tree bark, and I’d drill holes into trees in the woods in the park behind my childhood subdivision to hump. Or concrete bricks I’d stack up and make a little hole in between to go to town on for 45 minutes until I could finally coax an orgasm from my poor, mangled, almost sensation-less penis.
I literally could not help myself. So wholly was I trapped in the heartless, shackled prison of addiction that I could think of almost nothing else.
I’d sneak my hand into my pants during math class and fondle myself while imagining my 70-year-old teacher Ms. Kasselstein slowly taking off her thick lensed glasses, letting her hair down out of her tight, austere buns, and provocatively stripping off her winter cardigans.During Sunday school I’d ignore the lessons, and flip to the Genesis pages about naked Eve, or Lot’s daughters, and imagine them making craven love to me. I’d hide my erection under my Bible, and vigorously rub it up and down on myself. Unfortunately, I ruined dozens of Bibles when I’d stain them, and make the pages stick together. I hid from my parents just how many Bibles I defiled, and had to save up my allowance and lunch money to replace them so they wouldn’t notice. It got expensive as I began having to buy a new Bible on a weekly basis, and it led to me getting my first job at 15 and a half.
That summer after 9th grade I got hired as a lifeguard, but I of course got fired on the first day. There I was, a serial masturbator, standing up on the side of a pool watching upperclassmen girls in bikinis frolic with each other and swim around right underneath me. I was at full-mast three minutes into the first shift, and lucky I could hide it behind my buoy tube! It’s a miracle I wasn’t put on the sex offender list!
Thankfully, I found a second job as a paperboy, which allowed me the freedom to take breaks whenever I wanted to ride my bike into the woods in the park to relieve myself like a savage, wild animal, or hide underneath the bushes in the yards of some of the houses to which I was delivering newspapers and fertilize their lawns, so to speak.
In my junior year of high school I made the JV baseball team, but I volunteered to play the position of right field to make sure the ball came to me as little as possible so the game wouldn’t interfere with me flexing my penis muscles against my cup until I’d climax. I always wondered if I even needed to wear a cup after jizzing into each pair of my underpants so many times they were as hard as a rock.
I have little memory of seeing my parents between the ages of 12 and 17. I’d get off (no pun intended) the bus, and go right to my room to close and lock the door and start beating off—after first beating off on the bus underneath my backpack, of course. I was like an alcoholic blacking out years of my life in the sharp taloned clutches of the disease—the disease of masturbation.
And in my masturbatory deliriums, I would forsake God and Jesus, and commit some of the more depraved of the 7 deadly sins. I was slothful in that I didn’t do my homework, or much of anything else while incessantly pleasuring myself. Wrath because I found myself getting more and more angry as my penile tolerance raised higher and my shaft’s callouses were hardened, and orgasms became exceedingly grueling. I was flooded with rage at my acute sorrow and omnipresent guilt over my powerlessness to win just one battle against my addiction, or go a mere two hours between “sessions.” But the only object at which I could direct my overflowing fury was my penis, which I did with sadistic vigor.
Lust was an obvious sin I daily committed because of the pornography to which I was addicted, and a spectacular envy accompanied my lust as I watched all those men giving in and acting out their naturalistic sexual urges with big bosomed women, whereas I was just alone in my bedroom, a perverted, damned creature like Gollum, making a mockery of the righteous, Christian virtues my parents believed they had instilled in me. They remained utterly in the dark regarding my wretched existence in the shadows of their house as I slowly drenched practically everything they owned with my seed. When they were at work or doing errands there was no room I wouldn’t desecrate with my disgusting acts. I’d probably be ashamed if I walked through their house today, all these years later, with a blacklight.
However, I, and everyone, can rest assured, despite the degenerate depth of my years-long, rock hard (no pun intended) bottom, that I was chaste and successful in preserving my virginity for my wife. I never pre-cheated on her with a real-life woman, though I own up fully to the fact that I was a thoroughly debauched, libertine hedonist with myself. I may have watched hundreds of thousands of naked, Woke, liberal women worshiping at Satan’s vaginal alter, and I may have routinely imagined my savaged hands’ leaking blister juice lubricant was the warm moistness of those godless, soul-sold jezebels, but I never, ever did the kind of sex that counts for God.
I couldn’t begin to estimate the number and variety of inanimate objects I’ve violated, and the women I have perversely imagined making love to in my mind. I even took a few glances at some gay videos just to make sure I didn’t have to add homosexuality to my long list of deplorable sex sins, and I can verify with certainty I am certifiably heterosexual. I did watch one gay video that made me realize my stereotype impression of gay men as sassy dandies might not adequately convey the full spectrum of variety in which gay men are merely trying to find their own little slices of happiness in individual and uniquely valid ways living lives almost wholly outside my knowledge of their existence anyway, but it doesn’t change the fact the Bible says homosexuality is an abomination. Or the fact that I was a pure virgin for my wife, which I was, and I’m definitely going to get right into Heaven because of that.
So remember that I understand the struggles of being a young man in our society grappling with manhood. And what America needs is a revival of masculinity. And I will lead this crusade! So help me run for president in 2028. Get signed up now, and register to make recurring monthly campaign donations. America needs strong men again, and America needs a strong man. I am that strong man who conquered the trials and tribulations of masturbation, and will lead an emasculated, porn-addicted nation into the promised land of chastity and handjob independence.
So join me, and help me help you help me become president. In 2028. Not this year, Hell no—I’m not trying to get in the mud with Donald Trump. With my masturbatory past his sex-related nicknames would obliterate me in the primary. But by 2028 he’ll definitely be disgraced and in jail or have a heart attack, and be out of my way. And for all his fans out there, I totally love him, and he was the best president in my lifetime. So only I can continue his MAGA mission. I raised my fist on January 6th, remember? But if the DOJ is reading this, that was only to remind all those rioters that one great trick for holding off the urge to masturbate is holding your hands in fists up above your head to keep them as far away from your penis as physically possible. It really works. It’s what I had to do to not get fired at my third job back when I was desperate for money to buy all those Bibles I was desecrating.
The only job I could find after word got around my town that I was the kid fired for getting a four-plus hour boner at the summer pool and had to go to the hospital to get it flaccid again—and also the kid fired from his paper route for getting caught jerking off into the rolled up newspapers—was a gig as an elementary school bus driver a couple towns over. But talk about difficult. You definitely can’t go to town on yourself when you’re around a big group of children. Being a bus driver though makes reaching your hand into your pants so tempting because you have to keep your hands down near your crotch while handling the steering wheel. And sometimes your hand brushes your crotch when you’re spinning the wheel all the way around, and it creases your pants in a way that puts just a little pressure on your member, and it wiggles a teeny-tiny bit, and then it grows just enough to press against the fabric of your pants, and then it gets tighter and you get harder, and now you can’t think of anything else except jerking it, and you relapse back into the exhausting, sisyphean cycle of craven sexual appetite derailing your life until you briefly satiate it for a fleeting moment of respite from its eternal siren call of torment, and you pull over at a gas station, lock the kids in the bus so no one can abduct them, run into the gas station bathroom and lock the door, and then relieve yourself of the carnal urges with which your personal, penile, hell-spawned, teenaged libido tortures you. Then you have to arrive at the school late so all the children are tardy by thirty minutes, and you must invent increasingly elaborate lies for the superintendent about why your bus route is so consistently behind schedule.
So heed my call for action, America. We must save manhood. I’ve written this with graphic honesty to warn all the men out there who, like me, suffer from addictions to pornography and masturbation that they can still beat it (no pun intended) like I did, and become honorable men. Men’s lives matter! 🥃
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Is this an actual excerpt or is it satire? Honest question.
Perfect explanation of how the world revolves around the penis! The revelation we have all been waiting for, the desperate struggle for the very soul at the mercy of dicks. Bravo.