Hugh Hefner: The saint who pacified the semen demon

The feminist thought police are going to crucify me for saying this, but I’m going to say it anyway, especially since my wife is out of town.
Men who were boys in the 1950s, including me, will bless Hugh Hefner for helping us to get through the very difficult period of male adolescence. In case nobody has noticed, adolescent boys experience hormone changes which make them continually horny. Semen builds up inside them with no place to go. It’s a lot like having to take a poo.  When the poo builds up, it has to come out.
By providing us with monthly centrefolds of gorgeous, naked women, Hugh Hefner gave us a means of relief. Modesty, delicacy, and fear of the wrath of the prudes, the puritans, and the Pharisees prohibit me from detailing precisely how we managed this (hint: usually by manual means), but every male reader will know what I mean.
Before achieving relief, the male mind, because of seminal build-up, gets worked up into a frenzy of lust. As Aristotle perceptively observed, a teenaged boy is little better than a beast. Let the floodgates open, let the semen gush forth, and the lust immediately subsides, the mind gets pacified, the boy becomes human once more.  Mr Hyde has been expelled; Dr Jekyll resumes control. And until he gets used to the idea that this is a purely natural process for which he is not to blame, the boy is bound to feel consumed by guilt. I know I was. “I’m nothing but a beast! An animal!” I would wail.
Women just don’t get this. (At least, not for publication.) Iris Carmon tells us that they don’t want us to regard them as lust-objects; they want us to “connect with women as humans”. We can do that, and we agree completely that this is a noble goal. But first we have to exorcise the devil and get rid of that seminal build-up. This is a physical reality that is not going to go away until we get much older, and sometimes not even then. If women want to blame somebody for this unhappy state of affairs, don’t blame us: blame our semen – or whatever natural process makes it accumulate. 
Hugh Hefner facilitated our liberation from the semen demon through his spectacular centrefolds. I personally had a paper harem of them, lovingly collected over the months, until my aghast mother discovered them under the bed and consigned them to the flames. I miss them still, never mind that their human originals are now either hideous old crones or dead.
So on behalf of generations of teenage boys, I say God bless Hugh Hefner and every woman who ever posed for one of his centrefolds.
There. I’ve had my say. Now let the brickbats fly.
Horace Beasley