The wound's still fresh..
I got home from work. My son had already been back from university, with four of his friends. They'd got ready at our house for an epic night out in our home city. I thought I'd tidied up and put anything embarrassing away out of sight. Everything was quiet, as I took off my boots and walked up the stairs, I thought about what I could eat, then I saw it.

It's a very bright pink, and about 20cm tall, including the switches at the bottom. My bathroom is a soothing pale green, thus rendering the big pink "Rabbit" shaped vibrator that I left on the windowsill incredibly visible, right from the front door, oh deary deary me. I thought, grabbing my pink friend, and shoving it back into my bedroom drawer.

The next morning, my house was full of my sons buddies, so any conversation I dared to start with my son would have to be very quiet. I finally girded myself and went into his bedroom.

"I'm going to put a coffee on, want one?" I asked
"Great, I'd love one" he said, was it my imagination or was he looking warily at me?
Now or never then "Oh I'm sorry about leaving that in the bathroom, how about we don't mention it again?"
"Suits me!" He smiled with relief, but it's still haunting me a bit the next day.
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 19:14, Reply)

Bush porn
As a kid, the only access I had to porn was "bush porn". The discarded jazz mags left, for some unknown reason, beneath bushes.

When I used to find these golden treasures I would rush home to knock one out as soon as the coast was clear.

It's not the same, nowadays. The internet has ruined that innocent(ish) joy of finding a dog eared copy of Feista by inundating us with Anal Rampage 12, Spam Javelin and all the rest, available at the click of a button.

I miss those good old days, where the joy of finding these hidden treats would outweigh the pleasure that it was to bring you.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 18:11, 16 replies)

Not wanking
My good friend Ed Can Do suffers from the diabetes (seems all my stories do too). After not looking after himself too well he ended up in hospital having dead bits removed from his feet.

Like all good friends a group of us decided to go and visit Ed in hospital, stopping off on the way to buy him some supplies (sweets, fizzy pop, all the good things that a diabetic needs). Whilst purchasing all these treats one of us (probably me) let out the line that was always uttered in service stations. "Wank mag!"

Everyone agrees, as true friends we should by Ed some rhythm material. 40 plus is retreived from the shelf and Toby, who is queing to pay for the petrol and sweets, has the Frankie Vaughn shoved into his protesting hands.

When we get to Ed's bedside we give him all his goodies, including his mag. I think "Bastards!" may have been the lable he applied to us. Especially as, due to the foot surgery, he couldn't walk anywhere to dispose of the mag. So there he is, stuck in the hospital with a copy of rancid grannies quim photos that he can't dispose of.

He claims that he left the mag in the bedside table for the next incumbent/cleaning staff/nurse to retrieve and never used it for self pleasure, so I guess I'll never know for sure if this is a wanking story or not.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 17:30, 1 reply)

Has anyone posted...
Anything about ruining their fucking expensive curtains yet?
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 16:51, Reply)

Once upon a time...
...there was a horny teenaged boy who found a strange thin metal thingy with a thinner hook at one end, like a dentist might use to scrape off plaque, in the family bathroom cabinet.

One long school holiday, left at home alone, he decided to see if the handle end would fit up his japseye when he had a bone on.

It did, and he managed to get it all the way up so that only the hooked end was protruding, and spent a few happy minutes using his cock to hook small bits of lego, pick up shoes with loops tied in the laces, etc. He felt a bit sore after this idiocy, and while it was funny it wasn't much of a turn-on, so he removed it from his engorged member, replaced the tool in the bathroom cabinet, and spent the rest of the afternoon furiously twitching over the lingerie pages of his mum's Grattan catalogue.

And thought no more of it.

Until, the next morning, he awoke from his teenaged bed stupor to be faced by his mum using the very same dental tool to scrape bits of breakfast from between her teeth. Somehow he couldn't help but picture a larger, fleshier, pinker handle on it while it was being used to whiten Mummy's smile, and the whole thing didn't seem such a good idea.

So he made his excuses and left, making a small amount of sick in the back of his throat.

Dear reader, the boy was me. (Like you hadn't fucking worked it out.)
( shinyshinyscalp less a man, more a way of life, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 16:42, 4 replies)

In which I convince myself I have a skin disease.
When I was about 13 I could muster a much higher pressure, (whereas now I'm lucky if it goes any further than her premolars). So when practising my new-found hobby, I had to be careful where I pointed. Having my early morning tug, I was learning how to ride the clutch which unbeknown to me, was a sure fire way of cranking up the pressure. I reached the point where the slightest movement of my diamond cutter would push me over the edge, and I did the slightest movement. 'Thar she blows'. Jesus that was incredible, it was the first time I actually made an involuntary noise.

In the climactic throes of my me-some, I wasn't careful where I was pointing and I saw it arcing my way. I ducked to one side, but it still caught me on the side of my jaw and my neck which is a brain-curdling feeling. My first thought was 'does this mean I'm gay?'.

I looked around for something to wipe it off. I thought I might have had the towel from my bath the night before, but it wasn't there. I decided I should make a dash for the bathroom before anyone woke up. Just as I was about to sit up, I heard my mum leave her room and go into the bathroom first. Arse! I thought. Now, post-ejaculation, as any man will testify, one can get quite sleepy. I was no exception that morning and I actually dozed off, with spluff on my neck.

I awoke maybe an hour later and as I sat up, the skin on my neck felt tight. "what the hell?" I thought, before I realised.
"Ughh!" doesn't even come close. I dashed to the now empty bathroom, looked in the mirror and it looked like I had eczema.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 15:01, 3 replies)

As bad as it gets
The bastard supermodels never showed up, and my massive drugs wore off whilst waiting for them. So I drove the Honda Accord to a secluded layby and cracked one out there. But then when I shot my load it went all over the dashboard and now half the buttons on the stereo don't work because it got inside somehow.

To add insult to injury, the Honda service center reported 'ingress of fluids' which apparently isn't covered by the warranty
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 14:34, Reply)

Wanking the night away
Wanking the night awaay,
I go all soft, but I get up again
Ain't never gonna keep me down
I go all soft, but I get up again...anyway, I digress.

I've copped a lot of flack for my opinions on the reasons for this girl's shortcomings over the years, which is strange, because you'd think it was completely fucking obvious that being brought up convinced you were filthy and contaminated, and being told absolutely nothing about your...areas (shudder) except that they were unclean and vile, was the root of her (and many others' besides!) problems with sex.
The popular masturbatory conception is that in the absence of information plus the repeated insistences that it's dirty, girls emerge from their upbringings to become super freaks in the bedroom, ever hungry for more filth and cock. While still dressed in their schoolgirl outfits.
Never rung true for me. Apart from anything else, have you ever seen the uniforms at a Catholic school? Modest doesn't entirely cover it. Lots of cloth does, though.
Anyway, I was young and eager and not entirely sure of myself in the bedroom, which is probably why I didn't give up earlier. I don't know why shaven havens are so universally popular, but I know why they're popular with me.

Because once upon a time I had to carefully pick apart the crusted-together hairs in order to gain entry.

I guess not paying that area any attention whatsoever when showering is God's own chastity belt, because more than once I tried putting it in only to find that it was blocked by a net of pubes. Fuck knows why I tried going down on her more than once. I guess I was just doing my best to produce that gratifying, earth shaking pinnacle of female pleasure.
You know. A response.

Anyway, all this is to give you some idea of why it wasn't a good idea for me to tell her the truth when she phoned one evening and I didn't answer. I was hardly the one to coax her from her hangups and show the mysteries and the meaning of love, so sex was as rare as it was dull, and my balls had long since gone past blue to a sort of tense, straining off-white. Regular and exuberant thrashing of the foremost fellow was absolutely necessary. Don't get me wrong, I liked her, but I also liked ejaculating, and I wasn't about to stop cause the phone was ringing. So when I was done, I wiped down my face and called her back.

Her: Why didn't you answer?
Me: Sorry. I was...let's just say I was busy shall we?
Her: Doing what?
Me: (sensing that telling the truth might be foolish) Guy stuff?
Her: I hope you don't mean you were playing with yourself.
Me: (Yup! :D Twice!) Well, yeah...sorry about that. I'm paying attention now though. How's things?
Her: (screaming so loud that all I hear down the phone is static)
Me: (drums fingers, waits)
Her: *static*
Me: (waits)
Her: (finally intelligible) What the hell's wrong? Am I not good enough for you?
Me: (No) Of course, of course. It's just one of those things. it doesn't mean I don't fancy you.
Her: It does it does it does too.
Me: Um. Don't you masturbate?
Her: NO!!! God no! That's revolting!
Me: Look, forget about it. I, uh, won't ever do it again, not at all, no sirree.
Her: I'm not talking to you.
Me: Oh.
Her: Goodbye. *click*
Me: (goes off and wanks again, is single and alone for the next three years)



(I also count this as a disaster, because it's so blatantly unfair; after getting her clitoral hood pierced, Falstaffette can now achieve orgasm by sitting funny. Maybe has to wiggle slightly. She takes great pleasure in informing me of this afterwards:
"Hee hee; I just came three times on that bus journey."
"What? You sly minx!"
It's not the same though, because I don't grudge her it...much.)
(Falstaff's Spiritual Successor, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 10:40, 13 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
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 8:50, 10 replies)

In the Navy - A story about a young sailor.
There is no privacy on a Navy ship - just bunk beds and curtains. Now for many who like to juice the goose to magazines, you don't want to put them down on probably a grotty toilet floor.

Anyways, hubby was in the loos and hears the sound of one hand fapping. Both came out of loos at the same time, except one of them had a coat hanger contraption around his head. Hubby, "What the hell is that?". Fapper, "That is my magazine holder". Hubby said is what like a wire halo around his head, dropping down to a base like a sheet music stand. Said it was like a piece of artwork with intricate knots in metal that any sailor would be proud of.

So wankers, be mindful of germy floors and proud of architectural wonders.

That is all.
(boozehound is drinking your bar dry, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 8:03, 2 replies)

They told me that if I wanked too much
b3ta would go down. I wish I'd listened.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 2:31, 2 replies)

The question you should never ask
After the second little Hedgetrimmer came along, my partner and I decided we'd had enough of having our sleep patterns ruined and our social lives destroyed, so I volunteered to make the ultimate sacrifice (since Mrs Sonic had been through childbirth twice, it seemed only fair - and, no, what I had to go through is not comparable, I mean it).

So, after the longest twenty minutes of my life, during which the anaesthetic wore off (early on in the snipping of the second bollock) and at the end of which I had to walk home because the traffic was awful and there were no taxis to be had, I was sterile and in considerable discomfort (which at least got me out of the childcare for a couple of days).

Anyway, it stands to reason that if they've just cut off your means of reproduction they have to make sure they've done the job properly, so that you can safely look at the condoms on the chemist's shelf and think, "no more of my pocket money wasted on you, you smelly, rubbery, fiddly little buggers!" As part of this process I was required to produce a 'sample'. Since I lived a very short distance from the hospital, I decided to produce the sample at home and rush it to its destination while keeping it warm in my pocket. I had no desire to go into the little room and attempt to perform with only the stimulation of ninth-hand jazz mags, all the time trying not to think of all the men outside in the waiting room, waiting for their go (that waiting room has all the atmosphere of a funeral parlour, as the men in attendance try very hard not to catch each other's eye).

But I digress. It was first thing in the morning, and I'm not a morning person under any circumstances. In the bathroom, barely awake, under pressure of time, the sound of the kids downstairs adding to my self-consciousness and a silly little plastic container stuck where a woman ought to be... let's just say I wasn't primed, poised and ready to pump. What could I do? All the usual fantasies were failing to materialise in my addled brain - I was too tired to think straight (or even think gay).

I suddenly recalled a visit to my dental hygienist a few days previously. She's not my type - not ugly, but certainly not pretty. No tits or arse worth commenting on. No sexual chemistry between us. No atmosphere in the room when I visit her. No previous fantasy involving her. Why had she popped into my head as I tried to pop one out?

Well, I never found out why, but the mere surprise of thinking about her, of all people, crouching over me as I lay on the big padded chair, slipping off her trousers, grinding herself onto me, etc, etc, supply the details yourself, did the trick - and I slobbered out a trickle of 'sample', enough to form the basis of a decent and reliable analysis. A few weeks later, I found out that all was well and good and the results showed no tadpoles swimming about in the primordial soup of my scarred vas deferens; so I can safely shag any bird I like knowing that she's not going to call me in nine months' time.

The point of this story is that Mrs Sonic knew I had to produce this sample and had been keeping the kids away from the bathroom to give me time and space to perform without her (had the kids not been home, I'm sure she would gladly have offered to help). It was some weeks later that she asked me the question you should never ask.

"When you had to produce your sample... what were you thinking about?"

Ladies, do NOT ask your man what he thinks about when he's practising with his lightsabre. There is only one correct answer - "I always think about you, darling" - and it's not true. Even if it is true, you won't believe him, or you'll demand details about what you're doing in this fantasy and you really don't want to hear those.

I just said, "you should never ask a man that", and to my great relief she smiled knowingly and left it at that.

Apologies for length, but twenty minutes is long enough for anyone in that situation especially with a long walk home after.
( Sonic the Hedgetrimmer doesn't care what you think, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 23:08, Reply)

This morning I was thinking about having a wank...
...and as I lay in bed half asleep I stretched, and got a terrible cramp in my back.

That stopped that. I've been hobbling around today like The Mummy. No idea what I did to my back, but I do know that I won't be wanking anytime soon.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Sat 19 Feb 2011, 22:36, Reply)

Pearost, but who cares...
As a young uncurcumcised boy with perhaps one pubic hair, I remember being told about wanking and had a little fumbling fiddle in bed one night. Problem was that I always had a rather tight foreskin (threeskin maybe?) and after a few minutes of fiddling my foreskin retracted and out popped the bell end. I'd never seen it before and so I thought I'd broken my penis. To my young mind it was like an internal organ such as a kidney finding it's way out of my body. I cried myself to sleep convinced God was punishing this little Catholic for his sins. Woke up the next morning and found "it" was back to normal. I really believed from that moment on I had become a real man and used to flog myself to the picture sleeve of Jane Birkin & Serge Gainsbourgs "Je T'aime (moi non plus)". Heady stuff indeed...
(emadex thinks the world will end on, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 22:22, 4 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.
(Boom- Clicks on NSFW links at work., Sat 19 Feb 2011, 21:21, 16 replies)

Not my disaster, well I wasnt wanking for once
A good few years ago I was on a night out in Oz. As a cheap backpacker I was frequenting a rough pub and was pretty far gone by the end of the night. Our group had mostly disbanded and I ended up drinking with two strangers. We thought going to a porno theatre would be a good laugh, or something like that. It was for the first couple of minutes, as we shouted total nonsense at the large screen of filth. As these places are very dark and I had been drinking for hours, it seems natural that I fell asleep. No idea where my new friends went too, or how long I had been sleeping for. When I woke up I noticed there were a few more folk in, that didn't suprise me. What did suprise me was a chinese chap sitting three seats along from me. He was staring intently at me while wanking furiously, my puzzled expression doing nothing to extinguish his intent.
Needless to say I left pretty damn sharply. Fucking drunk bozo. I've learned my lesson, don't drink to excess near them places.
(muzzvsworld, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 20:35, 3 replies)

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...
(Femme Fatale, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 20:14, 4 replies)

Tale of touristy ladywanking
I was visiting London in September, and paid a visit to the British Museum. Whether it was the stimulating effect of the artefacts (doubtful; I enjoy history as much as the next girl, but not THAT much), the day spent doing lots of walking around, or the incessant rain (insert joke about being wet, or something… I can’t be arsed), I don’t know, but I suddenly found myself with a distinct stirring in my nether regions. It wasn’t a minor stirring, oh no: this one demanded immediate attention if I was going to continue my perambulations and focus on anything. So I took a break from my tour of the museum in favour of a self-guided tour of my ladybits, and popped into the closest ladies’ toilet.

I’d like to take a moment to say that the washroom designers of Britain should be commended. Unlike their inferior, material-shy cousins in North America, they know the value of privacy, and the doors in the stalls in the toilet I’d chosen were full, floor-to-ceiling affairs. I chose one in the corner, which had three tiled walls – I was desperate, but I’m not an exhibitionist by nature, and I thought I was safe enough.

And I was. There's no tale of woe; sorry to disappoint. I successfully cracked one out, and went on my merry way. I’m pretty proud of the fact that I despoiled one of the world’s greatest repositories of history just a little bit, and it was certainly a unique (I would assume, but who knows?) London touristy experience.
(BlackArmadillo Avoided writing that article on, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 18:29, 8 replies)

A third-hand-told sex disaster rather than a wanking disaster
A friend once told me that the second most wrong conversation he ever had was with some bloke who somehow brought the conversation round to rimming his boyfriend, during which he said "if you ever feel something in your mouth, it's best to just swallow and not think about it".

God, I still want to vomit. He wouldn't tell me what the first most wrong conversation he'd ever had was, and in hindsight I'm glad he didn't.
( Doctor Fruitbat wishes fruitbats could really be doctors, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 16:04, 5 replies)

A good fingering
"Roll over onto your side" he commanded forcefully and I knew there was no disobeying him. The other woman watched with large eyes from across the room. I breathed in deeply as his large manly finger slid up my back passage with force, liberally applying lubricant to my clenched chocolate starfish. Only seconds later there was an urgent thrust as his large cylinder entered my straining ringpiece and it seemed like an age, years, eons passed, stars were born and died and were reborn before it was all over and he gently removed it. He left me breathing hard on the bed with lubricant gently seeping out over my bumcheeks.

"Ok, get dressed, clean yourself up and we'll discuss your blood test results and treatment options," said my doctor as I nearly fell off the narrow bed with my jeans tangled around my ankles and the nurse acting as a chaperone politely excused herself. "Yes, there was a lot of inflammation and blood, likely to be an infection or colitis, take 2 of these 3 times a day and come back in a week." I limped uncomfortably out of the surgery and back to my flat for a much needed shower.

How many wanks did I just ruin? :p
(Petite chien is going to do science to it, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 13:37, 7 replies)

Not strictly my story, but worth repeating I think
One Sunday lunchtime, half a dozen of us were sitting in the pub
drinking pints of Spingo, when somebody asked the question :

"What's your most embarrassing moment?"

My friend Mark was straight in.

"Oh, that's easy. Around 20 years ago, when I was about 18, I was
sitting downstairs in my parents' living room late at night in my
undies watching a mildly erotic film and cracking one out. I heard
someone come into the room, so I grabbed the nearest thing to me and
shoved it in my lap to hide my embarrassment.

If my brother was sober enough to remember it, he's never mentioned
it. Still, how do you actually ask someone why they were sitting
near-naked in the living room with your pet whippet on their cock?
Anyway, that's my most embarrasing moment. Who's next?"

Nobody spoke. We just sat there looking at Mark, then at each other,
then at Mark again, as he tickled the ears of his new whippet.
 
( finnbar has officially retired, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 10:42, Reply)

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.
( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 9:59, 5 replies)

This one time
at band camp ...
(weaselinajetengine, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 9:46, Reply)

If onanism is your game
& you're looking for some fame
best post your tome
about getting caught loosing your love-foam
Whether it's being busted by your mum,
putting something up your bum.
Or having your dad walk in
whilst committing the 1 handed sin
you got caught, your life was fraught.
In the end
you learnt that when they say "It's only natural."
that's not entirely factual,
when they catch you
polishing your bell-end!

NB: Apologies to the bean-flickers for not including you - I have no clit!
Also remember that they (parents, grandparents, relatives, friends) used to wank too. Once upon a time...
Even this arvo.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Sat 19 Feb 2011, 8:09, Reply)

The Granny wank
Its when you masturbate in the bathtub with your wrinkly hand.

straight from sickipedia
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 4:57, 3 replies)

My mum walked in on me.
Not so much as a knock on the door, and she stormed in on me to tell me that she'd caught me with cigarettes. And it was just made that much worse by the fact that as she burst in, my pants were about my knees and my hand furiously flying in the usual manner. Learned a couple lessons that day. Always lock the door behind you and only undo your pants just as far as you need to.
( Ithyphallophobia, Sat 19 Feb 2011, 3:05, 3 replies)

I'm sure we've all met at least one person
where the disaster is, that they weren't a handjob.
(Falstaff's Spiritual Successor, Fri 18 Feb 2011, 23:01, 5 replies)

Chilled to the peabone
I had a self love session once and when I reached my goal I could feel the most massive amount of stuff shooting forward. Awesome I thought, I'm getting good at this. Then I looked down....

Blood in my semen. Lots of it. Lots.

My body just went cold. Damn near made my heart stop.

Took me several day before I had the balls (haha I made a funny) to go and get it checked out.

Had the scan and stuff and it turned out to be a burst blood vessel and not cockrot. But it was a while before I was game to test my kit again.

(Strangely, thats the one time I was glad I'd had a pull instead of getting a headjob)
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Fri 18 Feb 2011, 22:38, Reply)

Red handed
Fourteen was a good age for me. For kicks my friends and I vandalised a derelict old hospital where, on one occasion, we came across a ragged damp pile of porn magazines that had been left by a tramp that squatted in the derelict site. Needless to say, we took one of the magazines and skim read it.

We took it back to my home (my home was parent-less most of the day), lost interest in it, and left it on the dinner table. Later, whilst playing resident evil 2 with two friends, I went to find out where my other friend had gone; why did he not want to shoot zombies?

Opening the living room door revealed my friend, hunched back double on my cream coloured sofa, pumping his tool with the magazine laid out in full display on the coffee table. A cocktail of horror and disgust flushed through me. Screaming I ran to the bathroom to throw cold water in my face in a futile attempt to wash out my scarred eyes. My other friends ran to the scene of the crime to see him sat there--trousers up--smiling on the sofa; he outright denied it.

With respect, through, his tool was bigger than mine.
(joedoggyuk, Fri 18 Feb 2011, 22:38, 1 reply)