Josh Hawley’s New Book Talks A LOT About Masturbation

An exclusive sneak peek preview excerpt!

Dash MacIntyre
8 min readMay 15, 2023


Credit: Gage Skidmore | | via Flickr (CC BY-SA 2.0)

[The following is a sneak peek preview excerpt from Josh Hawley’s forthcoming book, Manhood: The Masculine Virtues America Needs To Beat Off Masturbatory Addiction.]

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 of my life 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) 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, over-used, dead tired, 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 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.

In the 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! I’m lucky 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 a cup after jizzing into each pair of my underpants so many times they were as hard as a rock.

To be honest, I have little memory of ever 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 just 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 was further fortified, 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 I was addicted to, and a spectacular envy accompanied my lust as I watched all those men giving in to their naturalistic sexual urges with big bosomed women whereas I was alone in my bedroom 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 out at work or gone running 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 thought about making love to in my mind. A few times I even took a glance at some gay videos just to make sure I didn’t have to add homosexuality to my long list of deplorable sins — and I can verify with absolute certainty my sexual attraction is certifiably heterosexual. I did watch one gay video of the cliché plumber setup, though, and it did make me realize my stereotype impression of gay men as dandy power-bottoms 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 that the Bible says homosexuality is an abomination. Or 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 his manhood. And what America needs is a revival of masculinity. 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 his masculinity, and who will lead an emasculated nation into letting men be men again.

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 mastubratory past his sex-related nicknames would obliterate me in the primary. But by 2028 he’s definitely going to be in jail or have a heart attack, and be out of my way. But to all his fans, I totally love him, and he was the best president in my lifetime, and 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 I worked to pay for all those Bibles.

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 also the kid fired from his paper route for getting caught jerking off into the rolled up newspapers, was a gig as a daycare van 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, but being a bus driver 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 just 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 you relapse back into the awful, exhausting, sisyphean cycle of craven sexual appetite ceaselessly 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-spawn teenaged libido tortures you. Then you have to arrive at the school late so all the children are tardy by thirty minutes, and you have to 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 all of this with such graphic detail and honesty to warn all the men out there who are similarly suffering from pornography and masturbation addiction that they still have time to beat it (no pun intended) like I did, and make something of their lives.

#MensLivesMatter #JoshHawley2028

Follow me on Twitter @HalfwayPost, and follow me here on Medium for more of my comedy.

Check out my brand new poetry book Cabaret No Stare, available now on Amazon.

Also check out my book “Satire In The Trump Years: The Best Of The Halfway Post,” available on Barnes & Noble and Amazon.

And check out my comedy portfolio, my Dada news portfolio, and my portfolio of prose poems.



Dash MacIntyre

Comedian, political satirist, and poet. Created The Halfway Post. Check out my comedy book Satire In The Trump Years, and my poetry book Cabaret No Stare.