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This is a question Wanking Disasters Part II

Despite the warnings contained in our previous question on The Act of Onan, you all still appear to be masturbating like monkeys in a zoo. Tell us your stories of jerking the gherkin and double-clicking the mouse.

Suggested by Mrs Entity and DaveExclamationMark, voted for by YOU

(, Thu 17 Feb 2011, 12:22)
Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

You know that myth about Marlilyn Manson?
So I'd been enjoying one of the few pleasures of puberty for a year or so now. Unfortunately, I didn't have anything to stimulate the mind other than an illustrated encyclopaedia with a naked pregnant woman in it, so I was starting to look around for more. The library was a good place to start, and after a few weeks I had managed to sneak home some art that was exciting, though only to the teenage mind. Basically I had found a magazine where the pap had snapped some drunk celebrity showing off all and everything, and a couple of books on puberty with some nekkid illustrations in.

Separately, I was also quite a bendy kid, since my joints hadn't set yet, and I was a fairly keen martial artist. One night, but not the fateful night, I was pumping away in my bed when I noticed that I could actually bend quite close to the top of my purple domed shaft, almost close enough to touch it with my tongue. This was fucking magic waiting to happen. Over the coming nights I would bend down further and further, and yes, I could give myself a damn good suck.

Now to that fateful night; I had the lust something bad, and had laid out all my dirty library pictures on my bed - there were norks as far as the eye could see, phwoar! After getting myself hard as only a young man can get, I got my head down and started slurping away. This was beautiful and Bacchus himself would have been proud of the pure hedonistic pleasure.

Now just as I'm about to cum - and yes, I fucking came in my mouth and swallowed - just as I'm about to cum, I hear a knock on my door; it's my dad asking why I'm awake at that late hour. I would tell him not to come in, but my mouth is full of dick at the time, shit! Then I cum, in my mouth, as my dad walks in.

So he sees me surrounded by the fucking tamest naked pictures you've ever seen, mouth dripping with my own boy fat, bathed in a post-orgasmic haze of shame and self-lust, and leaves.

This has never, ever, been brought up in conversation.
(, Wed 23 Feb 2011, 14:16, 28 replies)
Big Brother? Big Aunty more like...
I stayed at my Aunties flat in London many years ago , back I was an 18-year-old wankaholic.

During my first day sight-seeing I wandered alone around Soho, trying like hell to hide my perma-erection whilst practically drooling at the ACTUAL hardcore XXX VHS videos - with real erections, real penetration, real cum-shots, real anal and real everything. Back home, there wasn't even a sex shop, so it was like heaven.

I repeated this for three days trying to pluck up the courage to actually buy something. I'd not wanked since I arrived and I felt like I could explode in my pants at any moment. Anyway, by now 'the lust' had taken over my mind - I walked in to a place, picked a video from the list and made off with my first porno. Woo!

Now, most guys will tell you what happens when you get infected with 'the lust'... it distracts you, it makes you complacent, it makes you not care about consequences... and all you can think about is getting off. Simples.

I had 'the lust' bad. That night, when my aunt and her bf went to bed, I waited about 30 seconds for them to fall asleep, stuck the video in the machine, turned down the sound and started watching. Within a couple of minutes I was wanking for all I was worth, a minute later I was spent.

The thing with 'the lust' is how quickly it dissipates after orgasm. Suddenly the whole house was silent except for my heavy breathing and the fake gasping from a slut being butt-fucked. I sheepishly wiped myself down with the world's loudest kleenex and went to sleep.

The next day, my aunt came downstiars, looked at me with disgust and just said "You better not have got spunk on my new couch..." Then turned and left for work. I stood there open-mouthed and speechless.

Her BF came down a bit later "Short film was it?" He said with a wink, nodding at the TV. Turns out they had some device that routed the VCR picture to their bedroom TV and they had seen exactly what I had been watching. She had been furious but didn't dare come downstairs and risk catching her favourite nephew wanking.
(, Fri 18 Feb 2011, 14:46, 7 replies)
Filthy spunky time
The date is 2005 and I was in my final year of Uni. It was a warm autumn day in Bristol and i was alone in my room with sun light pouring through my open window. All was good in the world, and as a little personal treat, I decided to partake in a little bit of personal hand love.

Instead of a leisurely bed wank, instead I’d opt for the more professional desk wank, complete with swivel chair and pc. The event itself was none too remarkable; I coaxed one out to the lovely Brianna Banks, and given that it was a treat I decided to finish with a standing ovation, spurting my silky man fat onto the hard wooden floor under the desk. It felt good, and why wouldn't it?

About 30 seconds later there was knock at my bedroom door from one of my housemates and he immediately burst in. I had re assumed the sitting position at this point, and feeling relief that I hadn't been caught red handed and that there was no pron left on the computer screen, I instead focused on trying to cover the dying erection in my trousers, while at the same time trying to look nonchalant. I also partook in the obligatory eager and yet stilted conversation one does when trying to hide the fact that mere seconds ago i had been having an orgy of self love with nothing more that a fist and my trouser lizard.

"Mind if I grab a couple of the songs we downloaded last night?" he said while at the same time brandishing a USB stick.

Before i could properly respond he was already down on his knees, by the side of me. This in itself was unnerving; given that he was now eye level with the aforementioned, diminished, but never the less still dangerous trouser lizard. Worse still was that there were no USB sockets on the front of the pc free, and before I could protest he said:

"I’ll just stick this in one of the others round the back"

I tried to say something but nothing came out. That's when it happend, with his little face looking back at me waiting for my reply, he leant further forward under the desk, put his hand down to steady himself and immediately froze. He'd twigged. We were locked in the death stare for no more than 5 seconds but in those 5 seconds a lot was processed by both of us. He was hoping what he'd just put his hand in, wasn't what he thought it was, but it was. Each of use continued to stare deep into the others soul's. His soul crying out and trying to comprehend how this could have happened, me trying to think of a plausible excuse for my filthy act of floor spunkage.

Amazingly, he broke the silence first, the pained look on his face disappeared and he continued on his mission, inserting the USB and copying the music from my desktop, all the while acting as if nothing had happened. I guess it was a knee jerk reaction to the hideousness of knowing my potential babies were currently trying to swim into the pours of his hand. He was trying to pretend it hadn't happened while it was still happening!

He finished, got up and left, leaving us both to digest/vomit over what had just happened.

It was disgusting, an unnatural moment shared by two close friends, and despite this, i swear, just as he left the room, i saw him bring his glistening palm to his hand and take a sniff. filty cunt.

Length? a bit too much in this case.
(, Thu 17 Feb 2011, 17:17, 8 replies)
A day at the beach
Fuck yeah!
As children, there was nothing my brother and I liked more than splashing around in the freezing turd-strewn rip tides of the north sea. I fancied myself as something of a swimmer, even shaving my head so as to look more like smooth-pated man-dolphin Duncan Goodhew. I'd strut about the sands in my Bermuda shorts, proudly flaunting my fat nipples and chronic wheezing to the sexy ladies. I could tell they loved it by the way they laughed and pointed.

After one such day spent wallowing in the shallows, I returned home for a long bath. My pre-teen balls were suitably shrivelled from the cold, and as I lay in the hot water I began idly tugging at my walnutty scrotum to get it back to to that lovely, stretchy balloon-like consistency I knew and loved. Well, one thing led to another and before I knew it my mum was walking in on me having a wank.

So far, so predictable. But rather than accepting my situation and living with the shame, I tried to talk my way out of it. This led to the worst three days of my life – three days that left an indelible mark on my psyche.

Spluttering with embarrassment, I tried to tell my mum that I had, in fact, merely been inspecting my genitals for abnormalities. "Why?" she gasped, "Is something wrong?"
"I wouldn't know," I informed her haughtily. "You interrupted me mid-procedure."
"Well for goodness sake, let me have a look …"

Cue an impromptu testicle inspection. Fuck it, I thought. I can suffer the indignity of my mother preening my balls for imaginary tumours; after all, it's preferable to her thinking I'm a beastly little dough kneader. Then suddenly …

"Ouch!"

A little pain. Not massive, just a pinching sensation, like being flicked by a grumpy midget. "Ooh, that's funny," my mum said. "Your sack's a bit swollen here. Does it hurt?" I told her it did, a little. Attentive mother that she was/is, she drove us down to the GP.
The doctor carried out the same procedure as my mother, harumphed, frowned, and made a phone call. Then turned to us and said "I think this might be a testicular torsion. Basically, that's where the stem of the testicle twists round due to injury or an abnormal growth. I've booked you in at the hospital for this afternoon."

To a twelve-year old, this translates as follows:
"We're chopping your cock off and turning you into a gay."

I managed to put my brother on damage control before leaving – spread rumours, say I hurt my leg kicking a mugger in the face. The truth must not be told to anyone. If they find out that I'm going to hospital because I have freaky balls, I'll be ruined. The sexy ladies at the beach won't fancy me any more. No-one will ever teach me to moonwalk. I will be alone, forever.
He nodded obediently, and ran next door to tell them how his rock-hard little brother had broken every bone in his foot from beating a biker in a roundhousing competition.

Stoically, I set off for the hospital with my mum. More prodding, more poking, only this time by several people at once in a place that's basically like school, only you have to sleep there, you don't know anyone, and everyone's dying. "We'll keep you in for observation," a doctor said to us at last. "I should tell you, if it is a torsion, we'll need to take you in for surgery. It's ok to cry, by the way. Why, I've known grown men cry at the pain of having one of these."

Why did he feel the need to tell me that? Fuck it, I thought, I'm not going to cry. No matter how much pain this causes me, I'm not going to cry.

"Nurse, make sure he has no food for 12 hours."

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Three days and two nights I was in that bed. And for what? I'll tell you. After three days of fear, starvation, dread, humiliation, and general genital manipulation, they decided I was suffering from …

A sand-fly bite.

My brother told everyone I'd been castrated.
(, Thu 17 Feb 2011, 15:09, 20 replies)
For me battling the baby batter belching beef bazooka is a bit like committing the perfect murder.
Opportunity – check.

Consider the chance of being caught – check.

Disposal of the, errrr, evidence after you’ve choked the life out of the struggling, spluttering fucker – check.

Quick. Easy. Leaving no pesky DNA evidence for the Mrs to stain her jeans on when she settles down to watch Eastenders after getting home from work later. Perfect. Like a professional wank ninja-assassin. Only instead of a high powered rifle and a fuck off sword you’re armed with a roll of Kleenex, a dollop of Vaseline, and the genius and speedy application of the word ‘cuntflaps’ into google with the safe search switched to ‘fuck off – I was looking at the sort of porn that’d make your eyes bleed before I had hair on my ball bag, show me everything you’ve got, Mr. Internet Whoredog’.

So it came as a bit of a kick in the bollocks recently to find that I had to go somewhere and wank, by appointment only. My ninja-assassin skills stripped away. You see, since the end of last year the Mrs. and I have been doing this IVF twattery, which basically involved going to the hospital down in Euston and giving them various bodily fluids,* then waiting for the next appointment to give them more of the same.

And this is where the... little... problem... occurred.

After my last visit to have a wank (at 12:30pm last Monday), I now have to go and have some counselling. The Mrs. is absolutely over-fucking-joyed about it.

It went like this:-

12:15 pm – Get to the spunk collection department. Hand in my form to someone with a nice arse and a particularly fine pair of knockers. First problem; this is a fucking woman! I reason. I feel my cock get smaller. Fuck knows why, but I’d rather have a bloke sort my cum out than a woman. Just feels wrong giving a girl a cup of bollock broth without at least getting her phone number first.

12:20 pm – Loads of fit nurses (ladies, not men – I don’t turn gay when I go to the hospital despite what I said earlier) walk in. I smile, they smile back and walk by. The wank ninja-assassin is feeling exposed. I was here to wank and every fucker knew it. No wonder none of the nurses wanted an M & M when I offered them round.

12:25 pm – I get called up by the nurse with the arse and tits (Yep, definitely a fucking woman there), to go and strangle out a brigade of my finest bullock broth. I’m led to the room. Give a beaker with a screw top, and fuck me if the beaker isn’t ABSOLUTELY FUCKING MASSIVE. AM I SUPPOSED TO FILL THAT FUCKER? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I AM? A FUCKING HORSE?!?

12:26 pm – The door closes. No lock. Shit, this gets better. I can hear the congregation of fit nurses giggling outside and know, JUST KNOW, they’re talking about me... and my shrivelled up cock.**

12:27 pm – Unzip my fly and start stroking my helmet – the poor fella’s got serious stage fright and my nads seem to have fucking well disappeared. This is not good.

12:28 pm – Nope. This is not good. Houston we have a problem. Not even as much as a lazy lob on. And the giggling outside continues. And my love spuds, sore from five days of enforced abstinence (the bastards) feel like they’re being whacked by a pair of irate invisible midgets every time I try – Dr Frankenstein style – to batter some life into my petrified pork pelvis poker.

12:29 pm FUCKING NICE ONE!!! I remember the HUGE BOX OF HARDCORE PORN in the corner. I amble over, trousers round ankles, and negate the padded chair (probably containing more traces of cum than your average seat in your average Soho wine bar one hour after opening on any average Tuesday night). I pull out a particularly nasty BBW interracial wank mag (a phase, I’m sure), and stroke my cock. Once, twice, thr-

12:30 pm - -ice... SCRATCH THAT HOUSTON; WE HAVE AN ERECTON, SORT OF... ERRR. WELL, NO... BUT WE HAVE SOME PRECUM, ERRR, ACTUALLY NO – WE HAVE. FUCKINELL, WE HAVE SEMEN! HOUSTON, I REPEAT, WE HAVE SEMEN!!!

12:31 pm – Then I realise I didn’t do it in the beaker. In fact, I’m looking at the beaker now, the silver lid still screwed firmly in place. Empty. The last splodge of gonad glue dripping out my japs eye and onto the floor like fish-flavored wall paper paste.

12:32 pm – Fuck.

12:33 pm – Still very much fuck...

12:43 pm – Eventually I’ve managed to pull myself together. Trousers up. Hands washed. Shoes, wiped. I even had to clean my spunk off the floor having stupidly left the dog at home (the dog dog, not the Mrs., before you ask). I no longer have the post-cotial hue of a beetroot that’s been under a sun bed while pissed. I've wiped the sweat off my brow and off my arse crack. Infact, I’ve got a plan. I take the empty beaker back to the sexy nurse and explain I just couldn’t, errr, perform. She asks if I need more time, I explain: “No, nothing’s happening with me today.” And I bugger off, knowing I’ve gotta wait at least another five days before I can come back here and release the hounds.

I get home. Explain to the Mrs. I failed in my attempt to fertilize a plastic container etc etc... and to cut a long conversation short, we’re going for a bit of counselling next week where we have to talk about the emotional problems associated with IVF etc etc
etc....

...when, I suppose, all I really need is a quick five minute tutorial on how to successfully unscrew a fucking jar, stick my cock inside and do what I’ve been doing for the past ooooh, twenty-four years or so, namely get down to the serious business of some seriously sexy self love...

Wanking disaster??? I think this qualifies...

I just hope to fucking Christ it’s not a group session.***


*All I have to give them now is a steaming turd and they’ll have the full set of everything my body puts out.

** OK, maybe not – but having a tommy tank should be a private affair. And if there should be a group of nurses present, they should at least have the common decency to be paralytic, naked, and preferably wet in the axe wound and oiled.

*** The counselling, not the subsequent wanking, I mean.
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 3:38, 22 replies)
Passed out naked...
...in front of the computer, trousers round ankles, bottle of vodka still on the desk, gentleman's interest video still running on loop...

...woke up in different clothes to the ones I'd been wearing before the wank, with my dad watching over me to make sure I didn't choke on my vomit in my sleep. Apparently I'd been quite... explosive.

We don't talk about it. Ever.
(, Thu 17 Feb 2011, 12:48, 7 replies)
My first ever post goes something like this:
More years ago than I’d care to note, I travelled around Morocco with a group of friends. Amongst their number was my mega crush, Mr Hot.

After a few actionless weeks of dorm sharing, we ended up in the deepest darkest depths of the desert and yours truly found herself in the happy position of having to share a twin room with Mr Hot.

When it came to sleepy-time, we chatted a little, the chat petered out and I assumed Mr Hot must have drifted off to sleep. I, bored, sleepless and horny (not to mention a little disappointed at the absence of the anticipated night of steamy sex), decided to pass the time with a little lady wank.

I was slightly bashful about doing this with Mr Hot in the room so I made a concealing sheet-tent with my leg, so no movement could be detected and silently began.

I’ll admit, it was surprisingly difficult to get into it with an unsuspecting, sleeping Mr Hot so close by and after only a short while I gave up, only to be met with a chuckle from his side of the room.

I froze in panic. He must have been awake.

“What’s funny?” I asked. “You know, it’s actually quite light in here” he replied. I’d been fwapping with my eyes closed, so tentatively opened them and sure enough, once they adjusted to the darkness, I could see the outline of the wardrobe and beds. Gulp.

Now, due to my cunning tent, I was still pretty sure he couldn’t possibly have seen anything but I had to know one way or the other so I put my leg back up, re-erecting the tent, slowly and silently slid my hand south, looked down and oh god.

I was wearing a glow in the dark watch that was shining like a bastard searchlight through the sheet.
(, Thu 24 Feb 2011, 11:42, 9 replies)
Not quite a wanking disaster but almost a bad bad thing.
Back in 1999 and at the tender age of 18. I discovered that I wasnt a total freak out by having a few strange fantasies and a strange fetish. But, I am in the niche area if you know what I mean. For example, a Foot Fetish maybe frowned upon, but a Hands Fetish?? Well thats just different!!!! That isn't even half the story!

So junior IT Techy at work for a large company. Unlogged internet access and a private screen gave me the opportunity to do what I wanted. I had just discovered forums and websites dedicated to my little sexual niche and I was rather young and excited about it all. So I'd quite happily browse said sites and forums at work.

This isn't a "Got caught wanking in the office" post. This was potentially worse.

Engrossed in forum thread full of strange picturs of sexy women doing strange things in strange situations and people talking about these weired things. When suddenly theres a collegue coming round to my desk. In haste I went for the X, and miss clicked.. and accidently hit Print... Which instantly sent a 30 page print of this unexplainable fetish to a very large printer in a very large open plan office. This office was located 2 floors down from where I was.

I have never ran so fast in my life! Arriving at the printer, as its churning out pages and pages of smut. I'm aware of some pleb stood there awaiting his important business report.

If that printer had of been a Face Up printer, then I'd probably be typing this from a cardboard box in the rain right now. But to my luck it was page down and he hadn't discovered the wrath of infinite unforseen freak that was printing right infront of him. It landed in the wrong tray, so he didnt look at it. I managed to grab the prints and destroy the evidence before anyone saw.

Heart pounding, I thanked God for shredders. Somehow I had gotten away with it. I also thank the fact that my default printer wasnt set to the other printer which was 100 miles away.

With enough "I like this" clicks, I might reveal exactly what this stuff was. It wasn't illegal but definately isn't the type of niche roleplaying fantasy stuff you'd want the managing director to see.
(, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 21:21, 16 replies)
Telly Wank
I work for a company which does tech stuff and is very media friendly. A couple of people here regularly appear on TV and radio as pundits, usually at some daft hour of the morning or night, on business news programmes and so on.

One evening, a member of our HR department was at a loose end at home and decided to relive past glories by giving Polly Peanut a polish. She had the matter well in hand when she glanced up at the bedroom telly... and there was one of our finest, giving it his best and staring right at her. She was too far along to stop, so completed the task to the reassuring tones of matey chuntering on about Apple or Microsoft or Google or whatever, all the while looking like he was taking in the view approvingly.

She confessed this to her fellow HR ladies the next day, saying how weird it was having to talk to pundit boy. Somehow, the story got back to him. She doesn't know this. Everyone else does. At some point she'll realise that her home alone hero keeps dropping wank puns into the conversation while everyone else is just about keeping it together, and then she'll be rubbed up the wrong way.

There's no sign of it yet, though. The joke keeps on giving.
(, Thu 17 Feb 2011, 13:59, 2 replies)
When I was 15, and at school
a lad in my year had a real fixation with his genitals (who hasn't at 15) but was very 'open' about it.
He'd often flop it out in class to amuse/annoy/disgust the girls (I later learned that he did it in order to seperate the 'give outs' from the 'fridges' as he put it)
Anyways, one day he came to school and described a wanking incident that had happened to him that very morning.
He'd woken up with a 'wigwam' and so decided to knock one out before having a shower. Getting 'close' he peeps out across the landing from his bedroom, sees that it's deserted and makes a run for the bathroom whilst at vinegar stroke stage (to aim it straight into the bog, he says)
He reaches to toilet with perfect timing and ejaculates - over his mother who was sat there having a shit.
(, Thu 17 Feb 2011, 16:35, 3 replies)
A poke in the eye for him.
A friend. No, really.

Living in deepest Leicestershire in the early nineties, and being too young / innocent / monumentally blushing to buy any real pr0n from that nice Mr Jones at the newsagents, my mate Nathan was reduced to sniffing out any and every potential masturbatory visual-aid in the house. From the clinically precise line-drawings in the relevant volumes of Encyclopedias, to the minute-but-full-colour models posing for adult chat-lines in the back of his parents' magazines, he was an expert at finding inspiration for his energetic manipulations.

Cue one day, finding a small pile of photos in the corner of a cabinet in his lounge. Grainy, early seventies shots of irregular size and shape, and all featuring a gang of late-teen hippy-types disporting in minimal clothing on a beach somewhere.

Ah well, needs must: and Nathan enjoyed several adolescent moments in the privacy of his bedroom with these unknown-but-curvy beauties (some of them women).

Until, that is, his thirteen-year-old brain made the connection between one of the bathing beauties (long hair, deep tan, cute smile), and his (now much older and more sedate-looking) mumsy.

Yes indeed, without realising it, and through a combination of the mists of time and some over-developed film, Nathan had been wanking enthusiastically to an image of his own mother.

He told us in hushed tones of terrified awe, swearing us to secrecy.... Hmm.

To be fair, we did wait three whole minutes before blabbing to the entire county. Three minutes which were profitably employed in looking up the spelling of "Oedipus".

Length? His mum told him not to worry what the other boys said: she thought it was perfect.
(, Thu 24 Feb 2011, 12:45, 2 replies)
Isn't that what stalkers do?
I have always been a bit arty & creative, so I always have pens, pencils, scissors, glue, craft knives and the like hanging around.I've always been a bit pervy, so there's normally porn somewhere. And I've been a bit willing to overdo the beer and the (not so) MASSIVE DRUGS in the past.


And once, I combined the three.I'm not entirely sure what possessed me when I was drunk, stoned and horny to cut Phillipa Forrester's face out of the Sunday Supplement and stick it over that of the centrefold of the 'Club' magazine I had stashed in my first year Uni cell. Sorry 'Room'.

Well, actually, I am sure. I was drunk, stoned and horny.

Out came the craft knife and the pritt stick and, in my haze, I was pretty pleased with my work. So pleased that I decided to have a second attempt. If I remember rightly it was Kylie Minogues face that I cut out and found an appropriate size image to paste it over.

This was fun. I wanted to do more. I searched the supplement for more celebrity faces. Then I started hacking at my Empire Magazines. Then any old magazines I had laying around until until, in a blizzard of pervy creativity and scraps of paper I had my very own personalised Celebrity Wank Mag.

By then it was the early hours of the morning, my drunken high was wearing off and I was suddenly hit with the sheer...wrongness...of what I'd done. The hormones and hard on faded and I was pretty disgusted with myself. I cleared up as best I could, shoved the waste into the bin, but not quite being willing to throw away my handiwork, just chucked it under the bed and went to sleep, forgetting about it.

Forgetting about it until a week later, when in a very rare moment of success I had someone in my bed with me. No dirty wanking for me that night, I was going to get laid. Or at least, i would be if I had any condoms. Which I did. Under my bed. If she'd just reach under and get them for us...

The panic set in almost instantly but it was too late to stop me hearing 'What's this? Oh. It would be fun to read this together...'


No. It wasn't.
(, Fri 18 Feb 2011, 11:53, 1 reply)
Cautionary tale...
Im sorry to say that people too k me seriously when I said I'd never burped the weasel. Nevermind :)

My life: Making mistakes so you don't have to.

**********************************

Wanking when young was an act of desperation... It was to fulfil a need. Wanking in later years became more of an art-form: finding novel ways to achieve the ultimate goal became my vocation - and if you can imagine it - I've probably tried it.

I recently wrote about my little disaster with a napkin ring, when - though a series of errors and ignorance when it came to the workings of the erectile one-eyed trouser-gopher - I ended up on my knees, engorged and metal-clad cock in one hand and Dremel in the other... This one however falls below that in terms of horrifying moments... but none-the-less represents what must be one of man's more horrific blunders in the name of self gratification.

The phrase to describe man's needs "Warm, tight and wet" is, in honesty a bit bland, but as a teenager in love with ejaculation, my goal was to painstakingly replicate those precise conditions in an engineered form, and Fuck it. A typical week's R&D would go like this...

Hot Sponge
This proved to be too "cleaning" and I cleaned a lot of skin off my bellend. Ouch.

Hot Sponge Mod 1
With Soap!! (see, I wasn't stupid). Cleans skin off bellend, and sting more. BUGGER.

Hot Sponge with "Shammy" leather liner.
Smooooth and yummy. With added Body lotion... Better! SUCCESS!!! (but leaves weird streaks on the car)

Most teenagers are infamous for spending suspiciously long in the bathroom... I possibly had them trumped by being the only lad who'd take half the garage with him.

What I though would be the culmination of my work would the the only logical extension of the "shagging an orange" theory. Oranges are acidic, they have sharp pips and they are SMALL. We needed something less acidic and larger. MELONS!!!

The only thing that a melon naturally lacked was warmth.

My parents were out, and we had just got a microwave. Excellent. Not one to master the power settings, I plumped for "turbo". I nuked the melon in 30 second bursts, waiting until the outside felt good and warm. 5 minutes later we were ready to pork.

I retired upstairs with a Starret hole-saw and a drill and proceeded to remove a neat 52mm diameter plate of potentially sharp and hard skin.. This was going to be sublime... then, using the handle of a wooden spoon, I poked a "pilot" hole into the soft melon-flesh.... it was easy....

I was a bit giddy with excitement as I shed clothes. This was going to be fucking PERFECT. My knees were trembling and I had that fluttery excited feeling in my stomach that you get when you know something awesome is about to come your way.

I experimentally nudged my teenage boy-hood in though the hole in the skin, and the first inch of soft, warm and forgiving melon-flesh lovingly gave way. I knew that - in a moment - I was going to feel warm juices squirt back onto my balls I was drooling at this point.

~~~~~~~~ Wavy lines ~~~~~~~~

We'll take a little break here so I can tell you that later on I learned that the hardish parabolic skin of a melon concentrates the microwaves into the centre of the fruit. This - put simply - means that if the outside of the melon was warm, then the sugar-rich and watery centre was going to be literally boiling.... but - you just have to learn the hard way sometimes. *sigh*

~~~~~~~ Wavy lines ~~~~~~~

I thrust home to the hilt.

It actually sizzled.

And I walked funny for a month.
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 10:08, 4 replies)
Back in the heady days of the early nineties
the world was a very different place. As a young adolescent pulling myself *titter* through the early years of high school, I was far too awkward to talk to the terrifying and mysterious creatures that were fast appearing all around us..... girls. Girls...... with their oddly compelling wobbly bits. Girls in the 90s were much different from the 30 year old actresses they employ in high schools nowadays to portray schoolkids. They all looked different for a start. Some of them had perms! It was a confusing time indeed.

It would be at least two years before one of these enigmatic creatures would allow me to fumble with their undergarments. I was blissfully unaware of that fact, however. I was also blissfully unaware that a mere few years after that, mankind would invent a method of delivering pictures of naked ladies direct into your home with the minimum of embarrassment. Such delights were, to that scabby little guy with the odd haircut and the mother of all wanking habits, nothing more than half imagined fantasy.

This was a shame, really, as like most youngsters of that age, I'd get a lob on if anything moved within my eye line. Remember Madonna wore that pair of dungarees in the paper with her norks poking out? Nobody saw me for an entire week. Back then, in the days of coal fires, my dear old mum kept newspapers as lighters. She never mentioned if she noticed that every one was missing page three. I'd even be known to crack one off at the rude cartoons. (As a side note, I hid them in between the pages of my various beano and dandy annuals. Which my dear old mum gave to the primary school jumble sale.)

But it wasn't enough. I was thirteen now! Grainy black and white pictures of page three stunnas with Garry Bushell's face staring out of the same page could only hold my interest for so long...... I needed more. And there was only one place to get it.

My mate had a brother. And this brother was, and very probably still is, a dirty bastard, as is my mate. After a slightly embarrassing conversation, I handed over a hard-saved five pound note..... the equivalent of handing over half of Jordan's Ugg boot collection in today's money, and off he went to collect my winnings. He looked shifty when he came back in case his brother was around, as he had just raided his room, and hastily passed plastic bag to me. I grunted and tore off home.

I've already pointed out how inexperienced I was in the ways of the woman, so you would think I would have been happy with any old crap. In the days before the internet, seeing a ladymuff was tantamount to chancing across an authentic picture of Girls Aloud in a 6-way clam-jousting competition, but even I was unimpressed at what my mate had managed to swipe from his brothers box of joy. There were three magazines. Two of them were covered .... COVERED in brown, crispy stains. One of them was a.... shall we say "mature oriented" magazine. Granny porn. Loads of readers wives who appeared to be smuggling the severed head of Peter Sutcliffe between their legs. One of the magazines, however, appeared to be a recent purchase, and sufficient lady clunge was witnessed to finally assure me I was not gay. The horrific magazines were stored in a hidey hole beneath some drawers, with the half decent one on top. Over time, I forgot they were there as the aforementioned young lady decided to wobble her bits in my direction.

Fast forward eight years. I come home from work one day to find the old chest of drawers in the kitchen. The amply-wobblesome young lady had seen fit to keep me in tow up til this point, and had decided to rearrange my room one day, discovering my long lost stash of jazz-rags. Mortified wasn't the word as I started trying to ummm and errr my explanation, but it wasn't a total loss, as the saucy minx had began reading the top one and had become quite aroused at the stories (phwoooooar). Thankfully, my old mum had started climbing the stairs before she unearthed the horrific stash of granny porn, and she grabbed the whole lot and quickly jammed them under my mattress. I seem to remember that top mag got read from cover to cover in the next few days before I quickly grabbed the whole lot and stuffed them in the bin.

Not much embarrassment so far, really. I've been pretty lucky up to this point. The finger of fate played the long game before coming crashing down on my pods for being a pervy little shit, and it wasn't until another three years had passed that I finally bore the brunt. Still living at my parents house, me, the young lady (who still at this point hadn't developed into the iron skinned black-hearted hell-creature she later became) and some friends were sat in my room, which was a bit of a shambles. My ex began tidying, and decided to change the bedclothes, while I went to the kitchen to get everyone some drinks. I remember shouting "Don't look under the bed you'll find my porn stash ah ha ha ha" as I went. My ex was thorough. She decided to flip the mattress.

I returned to a roomful of stifled giggles. Only my ex glowered at me as everyone else tried to stare at the floor and hold their laugh for as long as possible. There, on the bed frame, lay a single page of a magazine, and sprawled across it like some horrific carcass was the oldest, hairiest lady I ever hope to see should I live to be 200. I can still see it winking at me, like some wild animal staring out from a hedgerow. It was a full ten seconds before everyone collapsed in fits of laughter.

My ex denied all knowlede of stuffing the bastard thing in there in the first place, too. I've still not lived that down. She looked like Nana from the Royle Family crossed with Chewbacca. I mean, they tell you to flip your mattress every few months, but seriously, who does that? I certainly never did. In fact, I had no need to.

Mostly because my mum used to do that sort of thing for me. She used to do it quite regularly, in fact. And I can still imagine her tutting and shaking her head every time she did. *cringe*
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 4:31, 4 replies)
A really bad day
I have only ever been caught masturbating three times in my life. (I'm 33, so not a bad record considering the near-millions of hand shandies I must have enjoyed).

Less impressive? All three times were by my mum.

Even less impressive? All three times were on the same fucking day.

By the third time, my reaction was less of shame and humiliation but more along the lines of 'for fuck's sake leave me alone woman, I'm in the middle of something here'.
(, Fri 18 Feb 2011, 12:12, 5 replies)
Easily distracted...
Spanky's little tale reminded me of one of my many visits to the IVF clinic to do my duty in the hope of producing a little SteamedCleaner. The clinic we used was clearly catering to couples of all persuasions as amongst the standard porn mags were a few featuring nothing but muscle clad blokes in the nud (well I assumed they were full of them, I only looked at the covers, honest). Alternatively they were catering for blokes who were in serious denial about the reason they were unable to procreate.

One particular visit I really wasn't in the right mood and spent a few minutes flicking through the magazines, trying to raise a smile. "Oh, she's flexible", flick, "She looks a right grumpy cow", flick, flick "Ah, the wonders of silicone and PhotoShop", flick, flick, flick, "Hey, an article about whitewater kayaking in New Zealand!"

And so it was that half an hour later I heard a timid knock on the door followed by a hushed "Is everything alright in there?"

"Erm, yeah fine" I replied and hurriedly put away the plans I'd scribbled on the back of the appointment letter detailing the best NZ rivers to run at what time of year and details of return flights. A quick return to the real matter in hand and I had a rather unimpressive sludge at the bottom of the jar. I'm sure whoever was on the other side of the collection hatch looked at it and said "Half an hour for that! No wonder they need IVF."
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 14:59, 9 replies)
Rememberance Sunday
In my mispent youth I felt the urge to put something back to the community and was an upstanding member of the Special Constabulary. Each year I used to police the Rememberance Sunday parades. I quite liked the old codgers, my grandad used to drop bombs on the hun, and I suppose I felt a bit of an affinity and gratitude.

One such year, I had just finished escorting the British Legion parade to the local church and was chatting up a fit WPC as I recall when we got a call to the same church for a 'disturbance' which was a bit of a turn up as most of them were in their eighties and pretty immobile.

I opened the door and looked down the isle. There was definitely a bit of a kerfuffle going on, packed with people but I couldn't see what was happening. I made my way to the front, still not being able to see what was happening, when a rather large lady in front of me in a beautiful pink dress and hat let out a yelp and span around to reveal a lovely splash line running from her waist across her ample if somewhat droopy breasts and across her overly powdered face.

Still with no idea whatsoever what was going on I looked past her to see one of the old boys in full medal regalia, immaculate pressed white pants around his ankles, cock in hand and giving me his best Fred Scuttle/Benny Hill salute. All he simply said was "I have been a very naughty boy haven't I officer" as I led him away.....

That's dementia for you.
(, Thu 17 Feb 2011, 20:32, 4 replies)
Sensitive
Q:whats the most sensitive part of you when your having a wank?
A: Your hearing!
(, Thu 17 Feb 2011, 12:48, 1 reply)
Does 3rd hand count?
Back at university, we were all sat around watching a film one night, when a rather shakey, ashen face appeared at the door, asking for Jason (housemate and co watchee).

They disappear upstairs for a good hour, deep in bloke chat.

Ashen-face leaves and Jason comes downstairs and pours a meditative cuppa.

Just like the blond guy in trainspotting, you always got the truth from Jason; it was one of his major weaknesses.

It seems his mate had had a rather unpleasant experience and needed solace. Company. The counsel of a discreet and trusted confidante, if you will. Someone to whom a secret could be entrusted of such enormity, such gravity, it would unburden the teller.

So, Jason told us not half way through his meditative cuppa. His mate and his girlfriend had been enjoying a leisurely all day shaggathon when he took a break to sit down in an armchair to enjoy a good shoulder massage. Shoulder massage turns into tickling, turns into touching, turns into a fairly gymnastic seated 69 (herein the wanking part)...


...so there he is, sat back, relaxed, getting a good noshing and returning the favour happily when a fart slips out of ladybox2, followed moments later by a pebbledashing of such terrifying ferocity he instantly threw up right into... well, shall we euphemistically say his lunch.

suffice to say that, in spite of Jason's earnest and well meant reassurance that it was 'just one of those things', their relationship was never the same...
(, Fri 18 Feb 2011, 20:33, 2 replies)
My mum was making a cup of tea
At the end, she closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet aroma of the Twinings, and by the time she opened her eyes, I'd wanked in the teapot.
(, Thu 17 Feb 2011, 18:18, 2 replies)

i had a wank once and shot myself in my eye and my eye got infected and rotted and worms came out of it and that gave my mum a fright and she jumped real high and a stalactite went through her skull and she died although when it thawed she came alive but by then dinner was burned so it was still a disaster really by the final tally
(, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 8:50, 10 replies)
They told me that if I wanked too much
b3ta would go down. I wish I'd listened.
(, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 2:31, 2 replies)
The Spanish dictator Franco attempted to ensure the survival of his fascist regime after his death by raising Prince Juan Carlos to believe in the philosophy of the Phalangist state.
When Franco died Juan was given control of Spain, but much to the surprise of the fascists he instead dismantled the one party state, organised elections and paved the way for the return to constitutional democracy.
So that was their Juan: King Disaster.


Yes, yes, I know, fuck off.
(, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 9:59, 5 replies)
To cut a long story short.
They escorted me from the election hall, and told me I'd spoilt my ballot.
(, Thu 17 Feb 2011, 18:41, 2 replies)
Mastur-what?
I must have been about 11 or 12 when I read in the Express & Star that some bloke had been found wanking in the cubicles in Central Baths. In those days the cubicles ran all round the pool and just had a curtain for privacy, so he must have liked to live dangerously.

Next day, walking to school with my best mate Steve, I asked if he'd read the same article. Wanting to act all cool and mature I said "some bloke was caught masturbicating."
"Doing what?", asked Steve.
"Masturbicating. It means wanking," I explained.
"No it doesn't, you pranny, you mean masturbating." And Steve ran off to tell everyone at school that I didn't know what wanking was.

Running after him, I shouted "Masturbating, I meant masturbating! I know what it is", only belatedly realising that everyone getting into their cars to go to work was wondering why I was boasting about it.
(, Wed 23 Feb 2011, 10:05, 1 reply)
My other half promised me a "posh wank"
but all she did was rub a keyring up and down my cock.
I think I was fobbed off.

/coat.
I'd say I was sorry for the poor quality of this joke but I've read worse already this week.
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 0:51, 1 reply)
Kays catalogue
Dad forgot his keys and stumbled in on me flicking through the maternity bra section of Kays catalogue. I later came home after school to find a porn mag nestled under my pillow with a yellow sticky note attached saying "enjoy, Dad."
(, Fri 18 Feb 2011, 13:54, 16 replies)
Ok the first real story, quick and dirty!
One of my ex's revealed the story to me of how she started on the road to masturbation. Rather than going in off the deep end, if you'll pardon the pun, she elected to find varying size objects around the house, a sort of masturbatory socket wrench set.

She started with a cotton bud apparently, I'd be surprised if that was a struggle.
Second up was a felt tip pen.
Then she hit the fridge salad crisper for a carrot, followed by a slightly bigger carrot.

The problem was she was disturbed by her parents coming home earlier than expected. She spent so much time worrying about her state of undress and her hair being out of place that she completely forgot about the fact that the kitchen floor was adorned with this trainee toolkit of titillation!

Needless to say it didn't take them long to work out what these unusually moist objects were doing on the floor lined up in size order.

Length? The furthest she got was about halfway up the big carrot.
(, Thu 17 Feb 2011, 12:37, Reply)
Close encounters of the Catholic kind.
Well what a surprise that my first post on here is something sexual...

Way way back in the mists of time, or rather about five years ago, I began my years as a sixth-form. Now I went to school at a Catholic all-girls boarding school and being an older student, I got the privalage of my own bedroom rather than sharing with five others.

Blessed (or maybe cursed) with a libido that would put Belle de Jour to shame and now suddenly with a chance of privacy, what better way to spend an afternoon by myself than to christen my new digs.

I slipped into my shower room along with my purple playmate and spent a good hour in the shower moaning like a beast and eventually coming to a climax of yelling every curse under the sun.

Dinner time approaches and I come down refreshed and with a content smile to sit with my friends. Our Sister Superior draws near and we all give our helloes to her. Older than the stars of jurrasic park she's generally good natured and lets "girls be girls" rather than being a bible-bashing bitch like some. She touches me on the shoulder as she walks behind our table and asks,
"FF my dear, were you alright earlier today?"
"Why yes Sister Superior, why do you ask?" I reply, bemused,
"You sounded to be in awful pain, I could hear you through the wall"
"Oh...yes. I...was um...sewing on my nametags to my sports kit. Very trickey to do" Presenting a plastered thumb which I'd cut two dayss ago.
"Ofcourse you were dear" she replies with a smile, waddling away and leaving me feeling slightly dirty.

I applied for a room change because I managed to find the tiniest bit of mould on the walls, which was granted thankfully. Though I could never look the Sister Superior in the face ever again...
(, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 20:14, 4 replies)

This question is now closed.

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