One spring day I made the world a better place by jerking off. Repeatedly. I participated in Toys In Babeland’s fifth annual Masturbate-a-Thon, a Jump-Rope-for-Your-Heart-styled AIDS fundraiser. My dad, girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, best friend, roommate, neighbor and co-worker pledged everything from a penny to a quarter for each minute I masturbated. Charity never felt so good.

Sixty minutes was my target. And challenge. Over the years I've honed my manhandling into an assembly-line of ejaculation. During a commercial break I can rub-a-dub and fix myself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.

Still, my charities needed me. So I borrowed a stopwatch and began. I would be the best fundraiser ever. Or chafe trying.

I was at a rooftop party in Brooklyn, spying the Manhattan skyline, when it began.

"Hey," my friend, Andrew, announced to the partygoers, "it's time for Josh to start masturbating!"

Give me a few secluded feet and I can do it anywhere. California's Redwoods, my parents' hot tub, an Amtrak train crossing Nebraska; I've touched myself everywhere you've traveled. But booze, while inflating my self-esteem, deflated me elsewhere. After a few floppy minutes in the bathroom, I buried my dead earthworm and did a keg stand.

Which is why Sunday morning, grade-three hangover throbbing, I railed away while hobgoblins trepanned into my skull to release last night's debauchery. It was it was it was it was. I clicked the stopwatch and downed aspirin.

On my walk to attend Brooklyn's small press fair, my girlfriend, A, called. She wanted to know my tally.

Uh-huh. I understood. It was pathetic. Of course I love you. I would try harder.

After circuiting the fair's zines, micro-publishers and poets with ponytails, I visited the cinder-block restroom outside. Stop that, A! It it it's so nasty, I imagined, my handiwork blocking the reek of stale bodily fluids. Oh don't stop. Don't. And the door groaned open, coitus-interrupting me like a policeman rapping a steamy car window on prom night.

"Bernstein, you're the Masturbate-a-Thon king," Andrew said. "You have to go back in." He leaned over to slap me a high-five, then stopped. He knew where my hand had been.

I re-entered the bathroom, dropped trousers and started rockin'. And rollin'. Rock. Roll. Rock. Roll. Rock. Roll. Ro -- "Go in, Joey," a woman said as the door opened again. "Mommy will be outside."

No, no, no -- not next to a toddler. I clicked my stopwatch. Sixty-four seconds. At this rate, they'd find a cure for AIDS before I raised any money.

Indoor plumbing was the solution. I found a bathroom inside and locked the door. Ahh, privacy. I rummaged beneath the sink for Vaseline, hair cream, anything, but found zilch. There was, however, a faucet. I cupped water, selected a missionary memory and rode my water slide. I slithered through the curves, nearing the final chute, when it happened again.

Two teenagers in green sequined dresses exited the bathroom. I entered. I performed. Patiently, I needed to pad my total. Andrew said a friend masturbated for 14 hours last year; surely I could do better than 14 minutes. But my problem was this: My technique is an Olympic sprint, not the Boston Marathon. To me, masturbation is driving across Kansas: Only speed makes it interesting.

After six minutes, my hand cramped. I finished with a flurry and pried my fingers away. Who knew charity was so painful?

"I'm gonna jerk off with your hand lotion all day, Alex," I'd told my roommate the previous night.

Alex looked at me with the eyes of a man peeking into a frightening new world. He shook his head.

And now he'd hidden the Jergens. I found a trial-size bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care. I squeezed a dollop and added nine minutes to the total. The lotion was cold.

Finally, my stopwatch announced another midnight. Twenty-four hours. Sixty minutes. Disco. I fast-forwarded and put the finishing touches on $62.14 in charity. I tucked my moneymaker inside my boxers and turned out the lights. I don't know if good things had come to an end, but I certainly did.

Josh Bernstein, who spent "eight months editing smut for a third-rate porn publisher," is a freelance writer. If you would like to respond to this Slant or have one of your own (850 words), contact Howard Altman, City Paper editor in chief, 123 Chestnut St., third floor, Phila., PA 19106 or e-mail altman@citypaper.net.