Excerpts from book, Portnoys Complaint w. 1960 written by Jew "Philipp Roth".
Citation:
Then came adolescence-half my waking life spent locked behind the bathroom door, firing my
wad down the toilet bowl, or into the soiled clothes in the laundry hamper, or splat, up against the
medicine-chest mirror, before which I stood in my dropped drawers so I could see how it looked
coming out. Or else I was doubled over my flying fist, eyes pressed closed but mouth wide open, to
take that sticky sauce of buttermilk and Clorox on my own tongue and teeth-though not infrequently, in
my blindness and ecstasy, I got it all in the pompadour, like a blast of Wildroot Cream Oil.
Citation:
Nevertheless, I was wholly incapable of
keeping my paws from my dong once it started the climb up my belly. In the middle of a class I would
raise a hand to be excused, rush down the corridor to the lavatory, and with ten or fifteen savage
strokes, beat off standing up into a urinal. At the Saturday afternoon movie I would leave my friends to
go off to the candy machine-and wind up in a distant balcony seat, squirting my seed into the empty
wrapper from a Mounds bar. On an outing of our family association, I once cored an apple, saw to my
astonishment (and with the aid of my obsession) what it looked like, and ran off into the woods to fall
upon the orifice of the fruit, pretending that the cool and mealy hole was actually between the legs of
that mythical being who always called me Big Boy when she pleaded for what no girl in all recorded
history had ever had. "Oh shove it in me, Big Boy," cried the cored apple that I banged silly on that
picnic. "Big Boy, Big Boy, oh give me all you've got," begged the empty milk bottle that I kept hidden
in our storage bin in the basement, to drive wild after school with my vaselined upright. "Come, Big
Boy, come," screamed the maddened piece of liver that, in my own insanity, I bought one afternoon at
a butcher shop and, believe it or not, violated behind a billboard on the way to a bar mitzvah lesson.
Citation:
and once behind the locked bathroom door, slip over my head a pair
of underpants that I have stolen from my sister's dresser and carry rolled in a handkerchief in my
pocket. So galvanic is the effect of cotton panties against my mouth– so galvanic is the word "panties"–
that the trajectory of my ejaculation reaches startling new heights: leaving my joint like a rocket it
makes right for the light bulb overhead, where to my wonderment and horror, it hits and it hangs.
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"Alex, I don't want you to flush the toilet," says my mother sternly. "I want to see what you've
done in there. I don't like the sound of this at all."
"And me," says my father, touched as he always was by my accomplishments-as much awe as
envy– "I haven't moved my bowels in a week," just as I lurch from my perch on the toilet seat, and with
the whimper of a whipped animal, deliver three drops of something barely viscous into the tiny piece of
cloth where my flat-chested eighteen-year-old sister has laid her nipples, such as they are. It is my
fourth orgasm of the day. When will I begin to come blood?
"Get in here, please, you," says my mother. "Why did you flush the toilet when I told you not
to?"
"I forgot."
"What was in there that you were so fast to flush it?"
"Diarrhea."
"Was it mostly liquid or was it mostly poopie?"
"I don't look! I didn't look! Stop saying poopie to me– I'm in high school!"
"Oh, don't you shout at me, Alex. I'm not the one who gave you diarrhea, I assure you. If all you
ate was what you were fed at home, you wouldn't be running to the bathroom fifty times a day.
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Well, where is this right mind on that afternoon I came home from school to find
my mother out of the house, and our refrigerator stocked with a big purplish piece of raw liver? I
believe that I have already confessed to the piece of liver that I bought in a butcher shop and banged
behind a billboard on the way to a bar mitzvah lesson. Well, I wish to make a clean breast of it, Your
Holiness. That-she-it-wasn't my first piece. My first piece I had in the privacy of my own home, rolled
round my cock in the bathroom at three-thirty-and then had again on the end of a fork, at five-thirty,
along with the other members of that poor innocent family of mine.
So. Now you know the worst thing I have ever done. I fucked my own family's dinner.
SOURCE:
http://www.amazon.com/Portnoys-Complaint-Philip-Roth/product-reviews/0679756450/ref=cm_cr_pr_link_1?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=0&sortBy=bySubmissionDateDescending