Binge

  I gawked at the picture of the unforgivably selfish dick hoarder, and I held firm to the pages while my cousin tried to flip to the next. She was in heaven, and I was high on just her fumes. I knew, then and there, with the Battletoads music droning in the background, what my dreams were for this life and who I was meant to be.

  With an abrupt clattering, the door beads divided and my grandma shuffled in—as both of us scrambled to hide the goods. Grandma Oakley knew what was up, demanded the contraband, and began screaming in exasperation. I sat, dazed, thinking about the ineffable, otherworldly Goddess of Dick. I could not unsee what I had seen. My time with the magazine may have been short, but it left a permanent impression: I needed to see more penis.

  Another pre-Internet porn experience was during a family visit to Canada. Side note: when I was younger, Canada was the most mythical place in the world to me because they sold milk in bags instead of jugs or cartons. Seriously, so fucked up. Anyway, back to porn. I was visiting family and friends, and having a slumber party with one of their kids. He was impossibly cool—he skateboarded and downloaded music illegally with Napster. I was in awe of how much of a badass he was.

  For some reason, I thought I could impress him by claiming that I had the power to tell if a girl was a slut. To call my bluff, he busted out a Hustler magazine filled with solo shots of dozens of girls. He then made me go page by page, labeling each girl as either a slut or not a slut—for what felt like hundreds of pages. My heart was pounding because I was sure that this page-by-page test would not only prove my claim false, but also expose me as gay. By the end of it, he got bored and went back to playing Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater, and I was left exhausted and shaken. That day, I learned that with slut-shaming comes instant karma.

  Back then, we didn’t have fiber-optic or even cable Internet. Dial-up Internet was the norm—and for those who don’t know what that was, it was a fucking mess: you used your landline (which apparently nobody even has nowadays) and a modem. While you were online, nobody could use the phone. Not very discreet for private browsing, and far from fast—so video clips were out of the question. If you wanted to see dick, you literally searched penis, and that was about as good as it got. Thus, I discovered erotic fiction.

  I found a website with tons of stories, ranging from embellished nonfiction to outright fantasy, detailing sexcapades with words like throbbing and turgid, in which every person was six feet three inches, muscular, and blessed with a chiseled jaw. You could sort by tons of categories such as “college” and “athletic,” and I let my mind run wild. All stories were user submitted, and at the age of twelve, I felt accomplished enough in my English classes to submit my own fantasy. So I guess this book is technically my second time getting published. I don’t remember all of the details about the fictional story I wrote, but I do remember it had to do with a hot guy I knew in middle school coming over after school for an intimate tutoring session.

  I remember the one story I read repeatedly growing up was called something along the lines of “Fratguys Whip Out a Ruler.” It was a tale for a simpler time, chronicling four college bros who wrestle in their dorm room until they get understandably curious about who is packing the most heat. One of their names was Blake, and ever since I’ve longed for a Blake of my own. After reading that masterpiece, twelve-year-old Tyler Oakley began furiously studying for the ACT and was getting accepted to college no matter the cost.

  Even though I had only limited hours to use the dial-up Internet, I managed to save dozens of stories to my computer, expertly disguised as homework files—easily accessible, yet undetectable. Mom and Dad, if you ever saw me working on something labeled “Science Essay”—now you know, sorry.

  When my Internet connection got a bit better, I moved on to browsing official porn websites. I’d go hog wild and click on everything, something I didn’t realize would come back to haunt me. One day, I was hanging out in the office while my mom was on the computer and, out of nowhere, screams from the desk chair. I jolted in her direction, horrified to see a popup ad flashing a huge, veiny dick wiggling all over the screen, jumping from corner to corner, impossible to close amid my mom’s shrieks. Worse, my brother ran into the room, cackling, as my mom frantically attempted to shield us from the oversize meat tube terrorizing our peaceful home. “Why is this happening to us?!”

  As a last resort, my mom frantically unplugged the computer. I hurriedly assured her that viruses and hackers plagued the Internet, thriving off the havoc they wreak on wholesome families like ours. They live to force pop-up ads on us, the dirtier the better. She sighed and at least acted as if she believed me, but my flustered demeanor and flop sweat must have been obvious and telling: that veiny monster was all my fault, and we all knew it.

  Years later, I now have fast Internet and know how to delete my browsing history—but something was thrilling about the days of spending hours of my time online, downloading one fifteen-second clip and never knowing whether I would be able to get rid of the virus it left on our computer. Nowadays, your private sexual perversions are safe and sound, known only by you and, well, the government. Sigh, we had it so good back then, and we didn’t even know it.

  fecal matters

  OVER MY LIFETIME, I’ve had an interesting relationship with poop. Yes, this is becoming one of those chapters before it even really gets started.

  The rectum is a grand thing. My favorite thing about the human body is that we’re all basically doughnuts. The gastrointestinal tract starts with the mouth, goes on a funky journey through the esophagus, stomach, small and large intestines, and rectum, with the grand finale (like most grand finales) at the anus. The gastrointestinal tract is the human body’s doughnut hole, a tube within a tube. I don’t know about you, but I consider my body’s ability to shit to be an actual superpower. The path from your mouth to your anus is proof of intelligent design.

  I’d be the definition of class, if the definition of class were as follows:

  class [klas, klahs] n 1. a person who nicknames the assholes of others

  Yes, the rumors are true. If you’re one of my friends, I’ve probably nicknamed your anus. It’s not like I spend my time thinking about your butthole, but it’s one of those things where, like . . . you know how pet owners look like their dogs? Listen, I know you know what I’m talking about, stop looking at me. Though now that I’m trying to explain myself, I feel incredibly uncomfortable. Listen, your asshole is precious. It deserves to be shown love, and that’s all I’m doing. Let me live. Let your asshole live.

  Korey Kuhl is one of my absolute favorite humans and one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. We’ve known each other since the exact day I created my YouTube channel back in 2007, and we have been besties since. Nowadays, we cohost a podcast called Psychobabble, and he helps me keep my life in order in every way possible. Over the course of our friendship, we’ve compiled a solid list of nicknames for many of our friends’ back doors. If you need inspiration for nicknaming an asshole in your life, here are some that we’ve given sphincters over the years. Please take your time and allow each one to blossom fully in your mind:

  cousin it

  junk drawer

  miss piggy

  charlotte’s web

  black hole

  chamber of secrets

  boingo hotspot

  bermuda triangle

  third eye blind

  hidden valley

  boxtroll

  krustyland

  google hangout

  bloomin’ onion

  This list may be the most valuable thing I’ve ever written. Let this chapter be my legacy. If you come up with any incredible nicknames for assholes, let me know on Twitter right now by tweeting me: @tyleroakley. Thanks in advance.

  I wouldn’t call myself a particularly stingy person, but while I was growing up, my shit was not to be parted with. It’s become one of those stories my parents and siblings think are hilarious to bring up in front of friends and boyfriends, which is pro
bably why I’m left with neither after any visit to my home in Michigan. According to family legend, I was an episode of Hoarders when it came to my poop, and I refused to defecate, even if it meant I’d pass out from holding it in. I’d hide in closets, twisting my legs and clenching as hard as I could until it was no longer possible, then finally release my gift to this vale of tears. It was as if I had a personal vendetta against our home’s plumbing system.

  Because I probably can’t get away with showing an actual image of my poop in this book, please enjoy the next best thing, what is probably closest in similarity: the image of Banana, the seven-foot albino python, who accompanied Ms. Britney Spears in her 2001 MTV Video Music Awards performance of “I’m a Slave 4 U.” Actually, we don’t have the rights. Just go find the video on the Internet. There, now you know.

  My refusal to shit for days on end became my thing. Which, if you’re going to have a thing, is not the one you want. This quirk also created my completely rational fear of clogging toilets. When I unleashed my tsunami, or poo-nami, if you will, I found my foxhole religion. I’d bargain out loud with a God whose existence I normally doubted, in exchange for an incident-free flush of the toilet. As I pushed down the lever, I stood before the great white porcelain throne, ready to receive judgment. More often than not, God was wrathful, and it came to pass that the water of the toilet prevailed upward and increased greatly, as I scrambled around in a mad panic. I’ve faced many a flooded bathroom in my day, and I wouldn’t wish it on an enemy.

  When I was in elementary school, my anxiety over shitting in public—due to the probability of clogging a toilet—led to me doing something far worse. I became known in the principal’s office as the boy who shit himself all the time. My parents would stock up on underwear and leave half of my supply at the secretary’s desk. If I entered the main office sheepishly, I needn’t explain. My reputation, like my stench, preceded me. At one point during this phase of my life (I swear it’s over now), I think I was getting a little too comfortable with the availability of clean undies in the office. On one normal day of shitting myself on the playground, I politely excused myself from my friends at the swings and made my way inside. As I confidently strutted in to casually collect a fresh pair of unmentionables, the secretary looked at me as if I were shit out of luck. My stomach dropped when she told me I was all out of clean underwear. I froze, unable to speak. Thankfully, my scent did all of my talking, and she pulled out the lost-and-found box from underneath the desk. She rummaged around and eventually found some Barbie-themed pink panties. She looked at me doubtfully, but I was in no position to bargain. I haven’t worn women’s underwear since, but I do feel that if I ever attempt drag, the roots run deep.

  Eventually, I cleaned up my act and stopped shitting myself (at least until college, we’ll get to that) and began to poop on a regular schedule. But to this day, clogging a toilet is my biggest fear—because just when you think a clogged toilet is terrifying, it could always be worse. It could be overflowing. You could be at a friend’s house. It could also be during dinner, and the bathroom is right next to the dining room. There could also be someone knocking on the door. They could also not have a plunger in the bathroom. It could also have been diarrhea. How would that clog, you might ask? Enough of anything will clog a toilet. Sound far-fetched? I’ve been in all of these hells, and I never want to go back.

  When you have siblings, you wish the best for them. You also want to protect them, especially when they’re different. When I discovered my little brother had a superpower, I felt excitement, astonishment, but, above all, fear that he would not be accepted by society.

  My little brother Connor was just a toddler, being potty trained. I was in my room, minding my own business, when out of the blue I heard him screaming my name from down the hall. I rushed to see if he was okay, and I found him in the bathroom.

  “What is wrong?!” I croaked, fearing for his life.

  “Look what I did!” he said proudly, pointing at the toilet.

  I stepped into the bathroom, slowly, and peered into the toilet bowl. There, sunk to the very bottom of the water, sat a perfectly spherical poop. It was as smooth as a garden gazing ball. Peering into it, I lost myself, as the perfection of its shape couldn’t be replicated by any artisan. I looked back at my brother where he stood, arms akimbo, grinning from ear to ear. To this day, I don’t know how he did it, or if he ever was able to duplicate this magnificent feat—but I’ll always recall that day as the one on which Connor revealed his first glimpse of extraordinary talent.

  In some respects, I commend my parents for making me so self-sufficient when I was younger. I made my own school lunches, I organized my own car pools, I gave myself the talk on the birds and the bees—all while still in the single digits. I was becoming an independent seven-year-old, and all of my training felt like the preparation needed to become a real-life Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone.

  Despite my best efforts, not everything went smoothly. My worst mishap had to be when I attempted to do my own laundry in elementary school. I thought I had done everything right—I sorted my darks and lights, my delicates and my denim, cleaned out the filters, measured detergents just so, but something out of my control went wrong, and the results were dire. As I descended into the basement after my first load had washed for an hour, I was immediately repulsed by a foul smell and prayed to God it was just one of the dogs having shit on the carpet. Not until I reached the end of my descent did I realize I was in too deep.

  My sock was instantly freezing wet, and the smell was overwhelming. I looked down and saw a murky liquid flooding the basement, then groaned as I quickly made my way over to the washer. In a moment, I swung the top of the washer open to find it was filled to the brim with sewage. My delicates! I probably screamed. Shit was literally everywhere, and my clothes were in a stew of filth.

  I’m not sure how this story ends. I don’t remember how I got myself out of this. Writing now, it appears I may have blacked out and woken up in third grade. I don’t remember much else from being seven years old. All I know now is that I’d rather take my dirty clothes to the fluff-and-fold Laundromat down the street than attempt to do my own laundry. It’s not that I can’t, it’s just that I’d rather be safe than shitty.

  ladies’ man

  WHEN I WAS IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, my older sister had a best friend named Stacia. She was blond and had a raspy voice, and for some reason I was crushing hard. I was a long way from figuring out my sexual orientation, and it seemed like the thing to do. She was constantly over at our house, and I’d find any excuse to butt my way into their playdates, but I soon realized a girl in fourth grade had no interest in a boy in second grade. Older women, ya feel?

  One night when my sister had Stacia over, I decided it was time for me to make my move. It was dinnertime, and my mom had prepared a special meal of several courses of canned foods. One dish stood out to me as the key to Stacia’s heart. I asked my mom to please pass the canned peach halves. I scooped a few onto my plate and looked up to make sure Stacia was paying attention. If this didn’t capture her heart, nothing would.

  With my fork, I picked up an entire peach half, put it into my mouth, and attempted to swallow it whole. As soon as it entered my throat, I began to choke, and my face turned a deep purple as I gagged and heaved. Pandemonium overtook the dinner table, my sister laughed, and Stacia looked on in horror. My mom screamed, jumping out of her seat and making her way toward me, wrapping her arms around my rotund body and pumping it an attempted Heimlich maneuver. (Until my early twenties, I thought it was called the Heimlich remover. Which makes more sense, if you think about it.)

  With one final pump to my chest, the half peach flew out of my mouth and landed in the middle of the table full of food. Coughing and dripping sweat, I looked up at Stacia, who sat completely still, mortified. My sister rolled her eyes, took Stacia by the hand, and fled the dinner table. Interestingly enough, two decades later, I’m still gagging during my go-to attempt to de
monstrate affection.

  In fourth grade, I moved on from Stacia to Kayla Butterfield. She was the prettiest girl in my class. Because Andrew McGonigle, the coolest kid in school, liked her, I too had to act like she was my one and only. I wasn’t effortlessly cool like Andrew, nor was I the star of the soccer team like Andrew, but I had recently discovered one thing I had that he lacked: nearsightedness. With this diagnosis came a pair of brand-new glasses, bright purple and blue, with Blurple written in Comic Sans on the side.

  My Blurple glasses set me apart, and I was ready to use them to win over Kayla’s affections. One day while on the playground, I decided it was now or never and walked up to Kayla and her friends.

  “Hey, ladies,” I said suavely, attempting to be nonchalant and cool, like Danny Zuko, if Danny Zuko were to tuck a T-shirt into some pleated khakis.

  “Hi, Tyler,” said Courtney, one of Kayla’s friends.

  “So . . . uhhh . . .” I had already run out of things to say, and I was quickly panicking. Abort mission, said my mind. But my heart said, Use your glasses.

  “Look what my glasses can do,” I said nervously, taking off my spectacles. I began to bend the stems back and forth, twisting the frames to and fro by the bridge between the two lenses. When the girls folded their arms, unimpressed, I hastened the speed of my maneuver, until suddenly my glasses snapped in two. I gasped and the girls snorted, not even attempting to conceal their contempt. My eyes widened and my jaw dropped. I looked up from my broken glasses to my crush, who was laughing at my expense. Her silhouette was blurry without my corrective lenses, but her feelings for me were crystal clear.