I wasn’t masturbating, but trying to relieve a hellish yeast infection. I was at my grandma’s house, in the front bedroom, with my Jordaches (this was 1982, and I’m sure my choice of jeans didn’t help the situation) unzipped and my hand stuck you-know-where. Without warning, the door bashed open and my dad’s voice said, “Put your clothes on we’re going”.
You could have fried pancakes on my face as I closed things up and followed him downstairs. Interesting bookend: that was his childhood bedroom. Entirely possible that that was a dramatic reversal. Anyway, after that he always knocked.
If Mr. Rilch and I ever have kids, I will tell her, or have Mr. Rilch tell him, that there are no penalties for masturbation; that in fact, it’s unhealthy not to. Mr. Rilch’s mom caught him once, and not only blew a gasket, but told his dad, as if he should have been punished. No way will any children of mine go through that.