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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.

Public transport is the worst.
Every single morning there's at least one filthy bastard, openly using an iPhone.
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 16:19, Reply)
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)
Now I don't post very much round here

because I'm 37 and way too advanced to indulge in such juvenile potty humour (lie) but every so often I feel the need to share or at least impart a story as I often find this place providing giggles when bored.

I'm going to tell this story as a story and can't believe no one has posted it thus far as it is without doubt, THE LARGEST wanking disaster to affect any human in the history of recorded wanking and it is TRUE... facts and links posted afterwards....

we begin.

Neil was on fire. He was the co owner of the largest radio station in Irelands second City and was known as 'the voice of Cork' for his morning talk radio show. He was abrasive in the extreme and held a very high moral highground over... everyone... The kids were all on drugs, obscene, and had no respect, the unemployed were milking the state for everything they could, immigrants were ruining our pure nation, The self employed paid no taxes, etc. etc.

He also co owned a restaurant which he shamelessly plugged for free using his role on the airwaves and so it was that he was attending a dinner meeting in London with some other restauranteers and journalists and naturally having a few drinks. However, Neil had a bit of backpain and started hitting the neurofen (this was his excuse) and the wine and the evening progressed along in that fashion.

An evening flight was booked back to the emerald isle and was duly boarded by Neil and one of his reporter colleagues (female, allegedly hot) and so the flight began. More neurofen and alcohol was consumed and Neil found himself sitting at the front row and facing two seated , probably pretty air hostesses. They must have been hot because in mid flight Neil decided, while seated and in full view of the cabin crew and those passengers beside him to whip out his lad and start fwapping away with gay abandon.

Apparently it took some amount of persuading by several people to get him to see his folly and he was arrested on arrival. His colleague sat beside him must have had a score to settle as the story was leaked to the national media and the man had to come on air and personally address the nation and apologise for his solo application to the mile high club.

Did the public feel sorry ? Did they fuck.... if ever someone had there uppance more appropriately served I'd like to hear about it !

anyway just google Neil Prenderville wank and you'll get no end of info validating this story.

the backlash and following media commentary was beyond reproach ...
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 13:47, 5 replies)
My mum walked in on me once, I was just about finished but managed to stash the porn before she opened the door - should have put my cock away 1st though really as she then spent a few years worrying about the fact that she'd caught me watching a Chesney Hawkes video on Top of the Pops whilst wanking.

There was a very visible sigh of relief from my folks when I brought my 1st girlfriend home and I'd like to think that this is why they never were that bothered that we spent the whole time in my room whenever she came round (I was only 14 at the time).
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 13:25, Reply)
not quite caught...
...the 1st time I met one of my (now ex) friends was when he and my friend (still friends, sort of... can't find him as he got married and seemed to give up all his rights to communication unless via his missus) walked into my room after a brief knock.

I'd just had a brief knock myself and had managed to forget to gather anything to catch it in, looking around whilst in the vinegar strokes I spied a canister from an APS camera film. I managed to grab it and take the top off it before depositing my load therein. Popped the lid back on and put it next to me on the desk.

Then the door opened, my flies were still undone and the film canister was adjusting to the warmth of the stuff inside and made a weird creaking noise... we all looked at it...

nothing more was said, an awkward (for me) handshake was shared and after a while they left, at which point I could do up my flies and go about getting rid of the evidence. I never told them (why would I?) but I did tell my wife, and she will not let me forget.
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 13:21, Reply)
Toothpaste makes a terrible lubricant
That is all
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 11:43, 16 replies)
The other day, I was having a wank over some pictures of the Queen of the M.I.L.F.s, Carol Vorderman, and I came so hard that I actually ejaculated myself inside-out.
I'm now typing this with one of my optic nerves, and part of my spleen.

Does that count?
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 11:37, 2 replies)
Blue shampoo.
While I was at university I didn't have the predilection for fine bathing products that I do now. It was mostly whatever Smartprice, Tesco Price and Aldi Nasty Value shit I could get a hold of.

I'd decided to 'smoke' some 'massive drugs' as I'd been told a stoned wank was rather good, ie your brain thought it lasted longer and you ended up a sticky dribbling mess for a number of hours, so why not.

One half-bottle of Smartprice blue shower gel later as a lubricant and I've done the deed and I fall asleep on my bed in a drugged haze for some hours.

I woke up with my skin tingling a little - there was an ultramarine slime all over the sink, carpet, bed, my torso, hand and crotch, and it felt a bit like sunburn. One shower later and it still burnt. My hand was red raw and it hurt to walk.

A couple of days later my skin is peeling like nasty sunburn, my cock is on fire, my skin is still blue, much like getting orange fingers from the sticky ribs in a chinese takeaway.

I finally went to my doctor and admitted I'd had a shower with it and must have 'scrubbed a bit hard', he laughed and gave me a week of E45 cream and sudocrem.

I learnt my lesson by not wanking stoned with the cheapest blue shower gel I could find. Take care, kids.
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 11:32, 1 reply)
Whittling my fuck fungus to an imagined bacon-and-mayo bap
I've always been sent into a froth of salty fitfulness by colourful and creative terms for filth organs and acts of sweaty depravity. So imagine my joy when I stumbled upon a website full of over-embroidered stories of both real and imagined onanistic gymnastics. Clutching my thrashing gurnard in my feverish cunt-fist, nightly I wallop a spunk-rainbow into my faithful chlorine-mop. All this, of course, when the house is in darkness and no-one can discover me, Hawking-contorted and turning my Fireman Sam hat into David Cameron's poppers-face. Once someone nearly caught me as I was about launch a jet of cum-krill over the description of someone's ex-girlfriend's iced chest-haemorrhoids, but I think I got away with it. Sorry for the shaky typing.
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 10:24, Reply)
It's the wee hours of the morning over here.
I woke up about 3am out of a nightmare, one of those anxiety-inducing ones involving not having paid the mortgage or forgetting a job interview or something else possibly realistic that makes you wake up with your heart trip-hammering, and was unable to get back to sleep without going straight back to the nightmares. So I did the only sensible thing- quietly came downstairs to get online to distract myself until I could go back to sleep.

After a half an hour I was wide awake, and thought, "Hey, I know what will make me sleep!" and went in search of something inspirational. I finally found myself on MyFreeCams, admiring a properly curvy Romanian girl with her norks out shaking her pert round butt, and was getting into the mood of things when someone else in the chatroom posted an animated graphic. I glanced at it, frowned for a second, then realized that I had seen that graphic before- in fact, waitaminute, I think I know where I've seen it-

www.totalleh.com - click to visit

Yup, b3ta has gone viral again.

Suddenly the gyrations of the Romanian girl seemed a little less inspiring, as all I could see was this goddam bouncing mouse next to her bouncing norks. It instantly went from erotic to comical.

Arse. And now I'm still awake.
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 10:21, 3 replies)
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)
I haven't ever been caught having a wank
However, I did once tug one out to Helen Daniels from 1990's neighbours. It was kind of like getting caught by yourself, as at the end, I couldn't help thinking, what yer doin that for!?
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 9:56, 11 replies)
I like to think that I am THE wanking disaster
as I have been known to conclude an argument with male workmates with 'Oh, and I KNOW you'll be thinking of ME when you have a wank!'

Never heard back if they did, but they wouldn't tell me now, would they?
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 9:51, 9 replies)
I don't have a story
But I do have a song about something which inspires more masturbation than any other single cause. No matter how bad things get with recessions and double dips and feeling skint, it's alwasy possible to get some free entertainment.

To the tune of "Food Glorious Food", from Lionel Bart's "Oliver!".

Is it worth the working for?
If I live 'til eighty four
All I ever get is tax bills!
Ev'ry day I say a prayer --
Will I find the cupboard bare?
Still I get the same old tax bills!
There is not a groat, not a penny I can find,
Can I beg, can I borrow, or cadge,
But there's nothing to stop me from getting a thrill
When I just close my eyes and imag...ine

Boobs! Glorious boobs!
Hot women are mustard!
Now I’m in the mood --
I’m getting all flustered!
Filthy pillows and low-cut tops
What next is the question?
Standing out like organ stops
I’ve got an…

Boobs, glorious boobs!
I’m anxious to try ‘em.
Just shout out “wahey!” --
And from brassieres pry ‘em

Just picture a great big rack --
Pert, medium or huge
Oh, boobs,
Wonderful boobs,
Marvellous boobs,
Glorious boobs.

Boobs, glorious boobs!
Don't care what they looks like --
Small! Oversized! Crude!
Don't care what the cup’s like.
Just thinking of ladybumps --
My senses go reeling
One moment of knowing that
D-Cup feeling!

Boobs, glorious boobs!
They’re why we invented computers!
I waste six hours a day
Surfing pictures of hooters!
What is it I Google for?
What fills my search history?
Hours of looking for, that
Female mystery!

Boobs, glorious boobs!
What wouldn't I give for
That extra bit more --
That's all that I live for
Why should I be fated to
Do nothing but brood
On boobs,
Magical boobs,
Wonderful boobs,
Marvellous boobs,
Fabulous boobs,
Beautiful boobs,
Glorious boobs!


I think I need to get out more.
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 9:47, Reply)
bank robbers
you know how you felt up jane hawkins when you were a young teen and ever since you've been able to pull her into your depraved fantasies while rubbing one out and then you see her in the real after 20 years and she is a bus. well fuck that. if you ask me people like jane hawkins the ex fantasy fwap queen of decades and now big lump of mashed potato shoved into a tiny onion bag should be arrested. wankbank robbers! trust me, you can not go back to that sexy ideal you had stored and lets face it someone should pay. thats a measurable loss of pleasure right there. thats a decrease in the quality of my life. thats a removal of my rights as a human being. worse than spiders. and something should be done. rob my wank bank, expect justice to be served.
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 9:35, 7 replies)
Thank GOD you're here!

(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 9:25, 5 replies)
Obligatory "caught" story
I was watching a bit of the old blue movies on my laptop when my dad knocked loudly on my bedroom door and politly asked me to wipe the screen when i'd finished.
Turns out i'd forgotten to plug the head phones in thusly waking the whole house with the screams of some big titted tart being taken roughly from behind by some german fellow with a tash bigger then phallus.
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 8:41, Reply)
You bastards!
All that wanking is like the butterfly/chaos theory and you started an earthquake in New Zealand.

Way, way too soon.

(Sorry to anyone caught up in it).
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 7:01, 4 replies)
I was not!
I was...massaging my colon.
(, Tue 22 Feb 2011, 6:33, 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)
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-


12:31 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

...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)
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.

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)

Once, I tried having a wank.

Ended up in a fucking dustbin! Long and short is, well, just don't trust a pair of dwarves with a roll of gaffer tape and a cheese grater.

I'm sure you all see where I'm coming from. Never again.
(, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 23:34, Reply)
Oh my golly goodness, it's sooooo long ago...
Have it at yee!
A roasted pea!
It was 30/31 years ago.
So here we go.

"» Dumb things you've done

as usual i thought long and hard before posting this...
when i was about 10 or 11 and just finding out what fun a stiffy is...
for reasons that still remain a complete and utter mystery to me...
i pushed a 10mm steel ball bearing down the japs eye of my erect todger...
and wondered why it wouldn't come out...
for 2 days...
had to use a magnet in the end, or should that be on the end...
and got metal splinters im my cock into the bargain...
it was very frightening indeeeeeed, especially when rusty stuff came out next time i had a wank...
and you are the first people i have ever told and that was 28 (now 31!!) years ago!!!

and in reply to the questions raised...

couldn't pee it out, wanking was so painfull you wouldn't believe and in true scaredy-cat style there was no way i was going to tell anyone what i'd done. i mean, a steel ball bearing up the japs eye? you've got to be having a laugh???

as for length, not quite as long as it is now, give or take a couple of inches but i gave up measuring it years ago...
(Tue 1st Jan 2008, 17:14, More)"
(, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 22:52, 2 replies)
secret sauce
a bit of a pea, but it's all i've got.

many years ago, alone in the house with my brother and his friend, dear brother decided to entertain us. there were 3 sausages on a plate in the kitchen, part of my dad's dinner. my brother took one of the sausages, slipped it through he zip of his pants, then danced into the living room, waggling the sausage and pretending to wank it. for a good ten minutes, he paraded his fake meatstick about the room, rubbing it and flicking it in and out of his pants. he didn't wear underpants back then, so i know it was rubbing against his juvenile junk.
when his act lost its allure, he replaced the sausage on the plate and sat down to watch scooby doo or somesuch.
trying to keep a straight face as we watched dad eat those sausages wasn't easy.
not so much a disaster but, if dad had found out, it bloody would have been.
(, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 22:40, Reply)
Juan Quar, have you posted to this tailor made QOTW?
I once met a fellow in Sydney who did have the unfortunate name of Wayne Carr.

In the Navy you have the ranks of Seaman and Leading Seaman. Yes, I have met a Seaman Staynes and a Seaman Seamen. Shits and giggles over the PA for a Seaman Staynes.

A few years back there was a Minister for Racing in NSW whose name was Richard Face.
(, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 22:16, 12 replies)
Caught by Mum. And then it all went wrong.
A mate of mine (we'll call him Nick) was living with his parents in the late eighties. 'Risky Business' was on TV. He recorded it.

At about two in the morning he crept down into the living room in his boxer shorts and quietly rewinded the VHS to that scene where Rebecca De Mornay gets her tits out in a subway.

He got going.

About a minute in, the door opened and his Mum walked in.

She took a look at her only son kneeling before a wobbly freeze frame of a topless woman reclining, his boxers concealing an obvious erection.

Then she said "Nick, what are you doing?"

There was a pause.

And then he came.

She took a look at the large growing stain on the front of his boxers and said "Nick, what's that?"

He left home about a day later.
(, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 21:55, 2 replies)
Paper Route
I was in Middle School and I had a paper route that took me into an apartment complex. It was a fairly large complex, with dozens of massive buildings. And each trip, as a kid, I'd nose around the large dumpsters to see what useful items the residents might be throwing away. One day, along my way, I came across a typically productive dumpster only to find a stack of magazines, neatly stacked and tied with packaging string sat directly next to the dumpster. Not IN the dumpster, mind you, sat right next to it.

I caught the image on the top mag and noted it was an extremely naked woman...and the words "OUI" were printed large along the top. I had heard tale of a nudey mag called "OUI" but surely, this was not an entire stack of girly mags?! The stack was placed there by it's previous owner as if waiting for a young'un like myself to come along and scamper off with it...which I did...immediately and sheepishly!

I began my own cottage industry, providing nudey mags for all my little friends....at a cost of course, and the raunchier the mag, the higher the price. I took my time perusing them to give each one a "Raunch Rating."

Months go by and, to my great fortune, I had been able to take delivery of one other neat bundle, in the same exact location. My bubble gum and video game money was pouring in...and then, I hid them where noone would ever look...or so I thought.

My Father had this great big Radial Arm Saw sat on a cabinet. I figured I would put my girly mag collection under that. A brilliant hiding place, right up until the day my Father asked me to come give him a hand moving the saw so he could vacuum the sawdust from behind it. I was busted. Got a good thrashing by the Old Man and for 2 months, was driven around on my paper route to try to make sure I wasn't squirreling away more girly mags. You would have thought my Parents would have appreciated my capitalistic approach. But no.

So, while the story is not about my personal wanking, I provided loads of young me with plenty of wank bank materials for half their cover price!
(, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 20:16, 3 replies)
How long had she been there?
Staying with friends as all the bedrooms were taken I got the dining room floor. There are glass panelled doors between the dining room and the living room. Sunday morning woke up at 6am and as no one usually surfaces before 8 thought I may as well fill a few minutes with a wank in my rather rustley sleeping bag.
Decided to have the first coffee of the day. Walked into the lounge to drink it and found one of my friends sat in an armchair reading a book.
(, Mon 21 Feb 2011, 19:29, 1 reply)

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