“In Sandman 14, COLLECTORS, in the original script I had a serial killer talking about obsessively masturbating, and was told that he couldn’t say that as nobody masturbated in the DC Universe.” – Neil Gaiman on Tumblr

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I am vengeance. I am the night. I am also very, very frustrated.

Ever since my parents’ murders, I’ve fought to clean the scum from the streets of Gotham City. I’m driven by a need for justice, an urge to protect the innocent, and most of all, by the raging hard-on banging against my codpiece.

Crime in this city is a disease, a pestilence. The police are either corrupt or powerless, just as I’m powerless to do anything about my massive bat-boner. Each night I patrol from the rooftops, swinging from my batrope, chafing, always chafing. And when evil strikes—or I get so worked up that I’m afraid my trouser snake is about to burst through my suit’s many layers of Kevlar—I pound some criminal’s face into spaghetti marinara.

Sometimes Catwoman and I get back together, and for a time I’m able to find some rest, some release. That is, we fuck. And it’s really, really great. Without all that lumber constantly raising an Amish barn in my crotch, I can think clearly and sleep through the night. We even take up hobbies—during our last fling, Selena and I started an organic garden together. But between her criminal tendencies and my pathological fear of losing another person I love, we can never make it work. I miss her smile, her lithe body, the curves of her… oops, there I go again. Shouldn’t think about Catwoman so much.

If only there were something I could do about my dark and brooding love muscle. But there just isn’t.

Pain and I are old friends, but the situation is hard on the Robins. Poor guys, in their tight green shorts. Over the years, I’ve had to sit each one down and have the talk: “Son, your body is going through changes, and it’s going to be uncomfortable. Sometimes it’ll be embarrassing. The Joker is definitely going to notice your little Boy Wonder and make a big deal about it. When he does, just beat the living shit out of him, or, failing that, some random henchman, and I promise you’ll feel better.”

That works, mostly. Those kids sure do love sliding down the Batpole, though. Seems like they could “practice” sliding for hours and hours.

This pocket rocket problem doesn’t just affect me and the Robins. Trust me: most of my rogue’s gallery wears spandex, which leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. The Ventriloquist gets morning wood. Riddler curves like a question mark. Penguin’s got a crotch umbrella. Two-Face is all about the twins. Killer Croc? More like Killer Cock. Clayface is… well, I don’t really want to talk about what he’s got going on down there.

And it isn’t just the villains. There’s a reason why my old friend Jim Gordon always wears a trenchcoat.

Maybe Gotham City could legalize sex work, making it safe for both workers and clients? Just a thought.

Sometimes, when I’m obsessively lifting weights until my pork sword subsides, I wonder if there’s any connection between this constant aggravation and crime. Why do so many people—men, especially—decide to dress in costumes and put into action elaborate, sadistic plans that endanger thousands of innocent lives? Isn’t there an easier, safer way for them to release their inhibitions?

Really seems like there should be. I just can’t put my finger on it.

So I don my cape and cowl, stuff my yogurt cannon into a titanium athletic cup, and rise into the night. Criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot, and so I must be terrifying, the dark shadow of justice striking fear into their callow hearts. And when my batawhang is hard enough to cut diamonds, I must pummel someone into hamburger.

At any rate, I certainly will not touch myself. Because, like going to therapy, no one here would ever, ever do that.