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Philip Roth has you guys beat on that. An excerpt from his 1967 novel "Portnoy's Complaint":
"Did I mention that when I was fifteen I took it out of my pants and whacked off on the 107 bus from New York?
I had been treated to a perfect day by my sister and Morty Feibish, her fiancee -- a doubleheader at Ebbets Field, followed afterward by a seafood dinner at Sheepshead Bay. An exquisite day. Hannah and Morty were to stay overnight in Flatbush with Morty's family, and so I was put on a subway to Manhattan about ten o'clock -- and there boarded the bus for New Jersey, upon which I took not just my cock in my hands but my whole life, when you think about it. The passengers were mostly drowsing off before we had even emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel -- including the girl in the seat beside me, whose tartan skirt folds I had begun to press up against with the corduroy of my trouser legs -- and I had it out and in my fist by the time we were climbing onto the Pulaski Skyway."
Lionel "Art Imitates Life, and Vice Versa" C.
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