On the Subject of Swim Fins D.P. Beyfuss  Lately, a lot of you; one of you actually, has been asking me:  Dan, what’s all this business about swim fins?  What exactly is a swim fin?   What is it you do with ‘em? …and like that there.  Well, I’ll tell you.  But first, it’s important to understand what it is we’re talking about.  Just what is a swimfin?  I mean, I call them “swimfins”, sure, but in your neck of the woods they might be called, “swimmies” or “water wings” or, even, “floaties”.  They come two to a box (important fact, but I’ll explain all that later) and are not to be used as a life preserver.  Do a Google search for any of the terms listed above and you’ll see what I mean.  Plus, it’ll be easier to follow along.   Now, because it is my essay, and because I’m pretty sure I started this craze, I’m going to call them “swimfins”.  It’s all the same to me, whatever you want to call them, so long as you remember that any injury caused by improper use of said item as described in this essay is entirely not my fault.  That being said, let’s move on.   It’s a well known fact that a fifteen year old boy can masturbate a hundred and seventy-five times a day with a total daily stroke time of approximately four minutes.  In 1977, Dr. Marvin Berry of The Institute of Difficult Sciences theorized that the ability to harness the sexual energy of teen-aged men would not only solve Earth’s growing energy crises but also significantly reduce the amount of time spent waiting for one’s son to finish showering.   It isn’t easy being fifteen.  All you think about is having sex; and the one thing you’re probably not ever going to have any time soon is sex - especially if you were like me, with a face full of zits and the personality of an oft beaten dog.  So, in an effort to satisfy the hodgepodge of powerful chemicals churning in my newly operational testicles, never once entertaining the idea of actually “getting a girl”, or “buying a hooker”, like I would now,  I began to think of new and exciting ways to masturbate.     Now, before any of you sad fuckers get any ideas about giving me a hard time about any of this let me remind a few of you that I still remember the story of the boy who fucked the couch;  the great, “sweat-sock-toilet-paper-roll-vaseline experiment; and, of course, “your neighbors panties”.   Right.     I’d experimented with a few things…the padded end of an American Gladiators dueling baton, a horrible, liquid filled thing called a “wet willie”, a rubber woman named Flo (couldn’t afford Sally).   And I disregarded others, like the ripe cantaloupe/ watermelon technique; them being far too messy and, quite frankly, wasteful.   But I was a clever lad and I knew what a vagina looked like.  I’d seen pictures.  And when I saw those twin swimfins floating seductively in the pool out back I knew I’d soon be thinking up an explanation on why they might’ve disappeared; an explanation that would fool my six year old sister, to whom they belonged.  I could say I went out and bought her a new set of swimfins but that would be a filthy fucking lie.   I soon found the swimfin to be perfectly suited to my needs.  It was not only the perfect size and shape but also rubber and inflatable, which made it very easy to clean and store; and being a twin set, I always had a spare.     My relationship with the swimfin lasted a few years until one day, that fateful day, when I finally became a man.  A swimfin, no matter how glorious, is no match for a real live woman….especially one that’s 19 and will let you tie her up.  I made a grand gesture of throwing away all the pornographic material I’d collected over the years to show my new girlfriend that my penis belonged to her and her alone.  The swimfin, of course, was disposed of separately, and wasn’t included in that gesture because the last thing I wanted was my new girlfriend to know I’d once shared intimate encounters with a floatation device.  But the rest was thrown away in the trash; not my trash actually but rather, a dumpster behind the K-Mart, two towns over.  No reason for the trashman to know my shame.   Now, the story should end there.  I had discovered the joys of dating, I had a job and was now old enough to get hookers.  I had not had relations with swimfins or any other inanimate object for several years.  It wasn’t until I was twenty-six years old and living in Oakland, California that the swimfin once again entered my life.   My roommate at that time was Jones, one of my best friends and the kind of guy you could tell things to and be reasonably sure he’d laugh at.  Over drinks one night, I mentioned the swimfin and how it was a fine substitute for vagina in those lean times when vagina was not so forthcoming.  I don’t remember his initial reaction but it’s probably fairly accurate to assume that he laughed at me and called me names;  which is a fairly accurate assumption of most situations in which Jones is a factor.   I didn’t care though, I was long past my awkward stage and unaffected by most of the embarrassing things I’d done in my youth.  I did not think of the conversation again until I came home from work a few days later and found, to my amazement, a brand new swimfin setting quietly on the coffee table.  I picked it up and looked it over;  it still had that new swimfin smell.     Jones came out of his room with a huge smile on his face and told me he too, had discovered the special joy that can only happen between a man and a swimfin.  He even explained some new techniques I’d never imagined!  The best part was his idea to “spread the love”, as it were,  that swimfins come in sets of two, and why not share one with a friend, much the same way I had shared my story with him.       I was shocked to say the least.  As soon as I’d finished laughing hysterically, I mocked him mercilessly, and when I was finished doing that, I went and tried my new swimfin.  It was just like I’d remembered and within a week I was hooked.     Word spread fast after that and Jones was an immediate proponent of swimfin use and maintenance and technique.  He told his friends and in turn they told their friends, and before long we were hearing stories of further innovations on technique and use we’d never dreamed.   One fellow filled his with water; another took the water idea a step further and put his in the microwave to, “warm it up”.  This fellow was nearly caught by his girlfriend but quickly thought up a brilliant lie, explaining how it was a soothing remedy for a sore elbow!  Genius!     It’s been another five years since then and I have always stood up for the swimfin and the benefits of sharing a swimfin with a pal.  Not too long ago I was away from my girlfriend for an extended period; I relied heavily on the swimfin and the swimfin never let me down.  I still keep one in my shaving kit.  It makes me feel good, just knowing it’s there.