Dear Christine O'Donnell,
I know you're busy hiding from that whole why-don't-monkeys-evolve-while-I-watch SNAFU, but that's in the past. Funny, but in the past.
I think I'd rather engage you on the issue of your anti-masturbation campaign - at least, at the moment.
You see, Christine, I touch myself. I do.
I touch myself. I have since I was a wee little boy. Sometimes, I've touched myself for a girlfriend's viewing pleasure.
I wring it out, I choke the chicken, I jerk off, I pull the pud, I do the left-handshake.
I do. It's harmless and carries no chance of me catching an STD. Besides - it's quite pleasurable. I've heard a heroin high described as a full-body orgasm. I'm not touching heroin, but I'll touch myself. I am, after all, Master of my Domain.
I even pinch a nipple now and then. Why, you ask? Thank you for your curiosity, Christine. I do so because there's a fine line between pleasure and pain - something you might learn if you ever touch yourself or, Godz forbid, do the nasty!
I'm busy teaching university freshmen about sex between humans and genderless species, or sex resulting in a pregnant man, polyamorous species and, y'know, so on. Give it some thought. I'm sure the release of stress and tensin alone might make you a little less - um, y'know - fucking crazy.