Last Time I wear my Purple Jeans

           There I was walking home from work a few weeks back, right along McVey Avenue, just shy of the Lake-Corp. building, in good-old Lake Oswego, Oregon--

--a town with more cops per capita than any other in the U.S. (not sure where I heard this or whether or not it’s true, but I’m gonn’a go with it for the purpose of giving you an approximate idea of what I previously understood to be L.O.’s relative safe/non-threateningness). 

There I was, lost in the joy of reading Jacques Derrida’s Limited Inc, the piece of continental philosophy that proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that continental rulz while analytic drulz (I just made a philosophy joke, f.y.i. Could you feel it?).

There I was, basking in the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun, which was lightly-toasting the top of my not-yet bald noggin:

There I was, minding about as much of my own business as is possible for any given human-being to mind, when I heard a “Hey!” followed by some whistling, both of which seemed to be directed at yours truly, from the bushes, to my immediate right.

            When I first looked over at my “Hey!”-er, I thought it was my friend/coworker Scott (sorry Scott...), that my friend/coworker Scott had hidden himself in the bushes to my immediate right and that he was trying to scare me like I used to try and scare my younger brother back in the day (“Boo!”). But then, after another split-second or so, it dawned on me that the person who’d said “Hey!’ and whistled at me from the bushes to my immediate right was not my friend/coworker Scott, not unless my friend/coworker Scott had taken our long-running and, admittedly, way, way, way sophomoric/homo-erotic “Show me your d*ck!” joke--used something like “meow”--just a couple of steps too far. That’s right, in the next split-second I realized (1) that my “Hey!”-er wasn’t actually my friend/coworker Scott and (2) that my “Hey!”-er had what looked an awful lot like his d*ck in his hands and that he was... MASTURBATING!
            Immediately after the two split-seconds it took me to figure out that the “Hey!” and whistling and hand-d*ck-tugging were connected to someone who wasn’t my friend/coworker Scott, but instead to a friggin’ MASTURBATOR (whom I didn’t recognize, which I’m pretty happy about, in hindsight: What if I had recognized my MASTURBATOR? What then?!?), I snapped my head back around to my Derrida text and continued walking, totally ignoring my MASTURBATOR’s continued “Hey!”-ing and whistling and d*ck-tugging and SWEET JEBUS!



            This brings us to the titular question: When you’ve become aware of a MASTURBATOR in your midst, so to speak, and that said MASTURBATOR is more than likely MASTURBATING to/for you and is, therefore, your (as in personal) MASTURBATOR, What (the f*ck) is to be done?
   

Option A: Do as I did, and ignore your MASTURBATOR to the best of your abilities; consider calling the cops.

            Option B: Take your time and get a good, long (hard?!?) look at your MASTURBATOR, so that you might know what your MASTURBATOR actually looks like (for future police-reference, perhaps), before continuing on; maybe bust--no pun intended--out your smart-phone and take a quick picture; consider calling the cops.
            Option C: Heed the beck/call of your MASTURBATOR, i.e., go help your MASTURBATOR finish what they’ve apparently started.
            Option D: Attack your MASTURBATOR, whether with fists or mace or book-bags.

Option E: Option A + running; consider yelling; consider calling the cops.

Option F: Option B + running; consider yelling; consider calling the cops.

In order to figure out which option is best for you if/when you encounter your MASTURBATOR it is important to first answer the following questions: First, do you know your MASTURBATOR? If “Yes,” sorry, I don’t think I can actually help you (see my above “What then?!?”). If “No,” proceed to the following questions.

First Question: Are you in a committed-relationship? If your answer is “Yes,” you should probably take Options A, B, E, or F. The reason Option C is excluded should be obvious. The reason option D is excluded is because your MASTURBATOR is not someone you know and, as such, their potential for a violent reaction if confronted is also not known (ergo, worth avoiding in my book because you're dealing with a FRIGGIN' MASTURBATOR!!!). If your answer is “No”...

Second Question: Is your MASTURBATOR of any of the sexes/genders/ages that you engage in sexual-relations with? If your answer is “Yes,” then feel free to pick any Option depending on whether or not meeting up with MASTURBATORS is the sort of thing that floats your boat. If your answer is “No,” consider Options A, B, D, E, or F, depending on...

            Third Question: Does your phone have a camera on it? If “Yes,” consider Options B or F, especially if you’re worried about the likelihood that anyone who’s willing to MASTURBATE to/for you (i.e., a stranger) is probably willing to do it to/for somebody else. If “No,” consider Options A or E, which I think you can decide on the basis of your answer to...
            Fourth Question: Is your MASTURBATOR someone you find physically threatening? If “Yes,” I’d say go with Options E or F (depending on your answer to the Third Question), and recommend considering yelling/calling the cops depending on the time of day and/or how far away you are from your home. If “No,” I’d say stick with A or B (again, depending on your answer to the Third Question).

            When it came to dealing with my, personal MASTURBATOR, I went with Option A: I didn’t know my MASTURBATOR (PHEW!); he wasn’t of the sex/gender/age that I engage in sexual-relations with; my phone can’t take pictures; and I wasn’t physically threatened by him. Once I got home, I called the cops and reported what happened, which caused me to wish that I’d taken Option B instead of A and gotten a better look at/picture of my MASTURBATOR’S face, both for the police and for myself (I've seen a number of people in the weeks that've followed that have caused me to wonder "Are they my MASTURBATOR?", which is a very disconcerting question to be asking oneself, I assure you)--but then there was something both undeniably traumatic, but also not exactly terrifying, about the whole experience, which is why I think I "chose" Option A.
 
            Oh yeah, did I mention that when “There I was walking home...”, I was wearing my (royal) purple (high-water) jeans?



Well, I was. Last time I wear those...