Come and gone

Alas, cum-fu master David Carradine gave himself the ol’ five-finger death squeeze last week. But we can take solace in the fact that this Hollywood icon died doing something he loved: masturbating with a noose around his neck.

Autoerotic asphyxiation. It sounds like humping the tailpipe of a Ford Probe in an unventilated garage—and it can be this if you want it to be—but this term actually refers to any solo sex act that involves reducing the supply of oxygen to the brain. And it must be said that it’s a fine way to kill some time—not to mention Bill.

I speak from experience, as I am well-acquainted with the heady euphoria that results from partial suffocation in the boudoir. In fact, I believe that no enlightened sex life should be without some occasional interpersonal choking. But when I’m alone I employ strictly safe methods, such as inhaling nitrites or squeezing my throat with my hand.

The hanging method, on the other hand, is extremely risky because if you accidentally pass out you’ll probably die. And there have been some high-profile casualties, including rock star Michael Hutchence, British MP Stephen Milligan, and now Mr. Carradine.

Didn’t Carradine know there are safer ways to achieve the euphoria he was looking for? Had Grasshopper grass ‘n’ poppers, he might still be with us today.

Then again, perhaps the danger was an essential part of the thrill. Perhaps he wanted to experience the divine eruption of orgasm at the very edge of oblivion, to die la petite mort in the heavy shadow of mort itself, to cock the line between coming and being overcome. We’ll probably never know.

But what I do know is the moment the kinky masturbation angle hit the headlines, there was an immediate backlash from The Prudes. The narrative became cluttered with calls to stop publicizing the lurid details of the death, citing “respect” for Carradine and his family.

Yes, it was just fine to speculate and sensationalize when it was assumed that Carradine died miserable and suicidal, but now that we know he died happy, doing something fun that just happened to be an elaborate masturbation act gone awry—oh dear, please don’t disclose any more details about his blissful final moments on this planet!

Clearly, masturbation still carries a huge stigma in mainstream culture if suicide gets a higher approval rating.

Here’s a strange fact I learned in my days as an abnormal psychology student. When someone commits suicide, family members often alter the scene of the death to make it look like an accident—but when someone accidentally dies while masturbating, the family often alters the scene to make it look like a suicide. (Which is to say, wipe up the semen, pull up his pants and tell the cops “yes, that’s exactly how we found him.” Thanks, Mom!)

That’s right, the shame of acknowledging that a family member was a kinky masturbator is so strong, many families prefer to tell outsiders a despicable lie—that their loved one was secretly very unhappy, and committed suicide without warning—rather than admit the truth.

Well, I’ve had enough of this sex-negative silliness. Masturbators of the world, it’s time to lube up, stand firm and tell this stuck-up world that masturbation—even kinky, dangerous masturbation—is infinitely preferable to suicide. And that autoerotic asphyxiation is actually a pretty pleasant way to die, as accidental deaths go—from what I’m told, the only thing that beats it (so to speak) is an accidental heroin overdose.

We also need to correct the record regarding the much-maligned autoerotic asphyxiators among us. They are the supersonic test pilots of the masturbation world, right out there on the edge, pushing themselves to the limit and beyond, always searching for the greatest, most intense pleasure that the human body can give itself. And they achieve heights of mind-blowing self-gratification that most of us can’t begin to imagine. They are angels wanking among us, too good for this Earth.

So let the common hordes giggle at the autoerotic asphyxiators, just like they giggle at cross-dressers and the leather crowd—the simple fact remains that masturbation martyrs like Hutchence, Milligan and Carradine give the squares a whiff of the kicks they’ll never know. And for that they will be fondly remembered.

I would like to further honour Mr. Carradine’s passing by making a few simple requests.

If I am someday so fortunate as to expire in a masturbatory mishap—which, although unlikely, is certainly not impossible—please don’t let The Prudes besmirch my legacy with the “respectful” omission of lurid details. Disrespect away. Seriously.

And if you happen to be the one who finds me, please don’t wipe up my terminal jizz or pull up my pants. Instead, I want you to stick a little Canadian flag in my urethra—I always think of the motherland when I stroke, you see—and then throw open the doors and shout:

“Fair citizenry and members of the international media, come hither and behold the lifeless, cock-holding corpse of Glen Callender, a true and noble self-pleasurer who had to depart this Earthly realm, not because he committed any crime, but because he simply wanted to come… so hard. And verily, he came so hard he never came back….”

Prudes and their prudish prudery have no place among adult adults in an adult world. So I have no hang-ups about discussing the dirty details of David Carradine’s fatal outcome. I honour the manner of his passing because I’m a fellow transcendental masturbator. I make jokes about it because I’m a comedian.

And I’m talking about it now because people—especially celebrities—need to be better educated about kinky masturbation safety.