As a young man
I was always a bit kinky, and almost inevitably, as I got older and experimented a bit with my sexuality, I drifted a bit towards the odder side of things and ended up meeting a girl who was a few years older, more jaded, and into BDSM. I was nervous at first, but I found that I got a huge kick out of being the submissive partner. We started with a bit of spanking, foot worship, and the like, and then things started to get a bit more extreme.

Over time, things became progressively more extreme, by most people's standards, anyway, but I was aroused, in love, and totally in her hands. I found I got a huge kick out of the whole thing, and the kick increased with the physical pain and the sense of danger.

One evening, which I'll never forget, I ended up strapped to the kitchen table in her flat, being flogged with a cat of nine tails, before she disappeared and returned to the room with a hammer and some nails. My first thought as 'fucking hell, she's going to crucify me', but she saw my look of panic and assured me that she wasn't.

Then, to my mounting excitement, she pulled down the PVC thong I was wearing, placed the wooden board underneath my scrotum, and began preparing to nail my dangly bits to the board. I understand that this is not to most people's tastes, but by then I was heavily into this whole thing, and heavily into her, and I have to admit it was an incredible feeling of anticipation, as she reached for the hammer and nails.

And then, as she was setting up for the blow, it all went wrong. I began screaming out the safe word, and she quickly put everything away and released me from my constraints. I was immensely relieved. Horror had been averted by the merest of margins.

Crazy bitch hadn't warmed the nail.. I mean... fucking hell.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 8 Mar 2013, 17:12, 12 replies)

Never in the history of everything
has the phrase "not me, but a mate" been said with more relief.

Kids are always hurting themselves. Bones snap, skin is flayed off on sharp things, eyes come perilously close to being put out, and yet, years later, we remember so few of these brushes wit death or how they happened. Only the very worst ones, the ones that leave scars, or possibly bits not working any more, tend to stick around to become tales to tell the grandkids.

So, when one of these memories is not your own but someone elses, you know it must have been a bad one. My eyes still water and my legs still feel all wonky when I think of this.

Thankfully, for my own mental health, I wasn't there. The tale was told to me later on by my friend who had witnessed the sad event. For it was he and another mate of mine who had happily been playing at commandos or some such nonsense on summer day, when they decided to make an assault course. One of the obstacles involved climbing onto the shed, leaping and catching onto a branch and swinging over the fence to the park beyond. My friend did this and all went well. Then came the turn of my other mate. He ran along and made the leap for the branch.

It's probably a good time to mention that the fence was one of those horrible council affairs, you know the ones, like a row of thin stakes held together by wire. A nice long row of sharpened stakes with the innocent young goolies of my mate swinging by a few feet overhead.

Well, of course the branch snapped. You knew that was coming. My mate didn't, but just as he was discovering the branch was unsuitable to support his weight, he found he had many much greater problems, the most pressing of which was a sharp wooden pike being driven right up his biffin's bridge. At the time, it was described to me in the most gentle of terms as having "went right up his arse", but I later found it was much worse. It had missed his barking spider and nadger sack, and planted itself firmly twixt the two. My friend said he first "lifted himself off" the fence (a phrase which still makes me think I might pass out) and then proclaimed "I NEED TO GO HOME!" and proceeded to mince along the road to his house. My friend, understandably concerned with just having seen him being buggered by a garden fence, accompanied him, but decided it was best to beat a swift retreat when he got home, as our mate whipped his old man out and proceeded to shout for his mum as he was pissing blood everywhere.

Several days in hospital and presumably a fair amount of worry followed, but he made a full recovery, thankfully. It is to his credit that after he got home, he couldn't wait to tell us that a gorgeous nurse had toouched his knob, but he was gutted because it they had numbed it at the time.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 2:02, 2 replies)

Dennis and the Corner
About a year ago my employer held a sexual harassment seminar. It seems one of the mouth-breathing Sales idiots had made yet another attempt to put his hand on as much of one of the rather friendly reception staff as possible, and a complaint was promptly made. Enter the HR drones, and for some reason this incident meant that the rest of us were sent on some idiotic "Sensitivity Seminar", or something like that. To add insult to injury the Sales group didn't even have to attend: "Stop Groping Your Colleagues, You Awful Disgust" apparently being deemed to complex a notion for them, and they were sent on a different seminar, presumably a crash course in "Walking And Breathing At The Same Time."

Before I go on, I do want to say I abhor sexual harassment, and I agree with the notion that the perpetrators should be encouraged to mend their ways. But what I do not understand is why this means that you need to punish a whole host of totally innocent people, including the victims of said harassment, by forcing them to give up their Saturday morning to a full round of condescension and downright creepiness.

For it seems that your average HR mindless, in their haste to correct the matter in as bureaucratic a manner as possible, doesn't stop to consider the possibility that, just because someone runs a sexual harassment seminar, doesn't mean that they themselves aren't a horrendous sex pest.

And so it was with Dennis. Short, fat and balding, he talked like a cross between Anne Widdecombe and Mr. Bean. In those hours 'twixt ten and three, when we weren't being put through a regimen of moronic "self actualisation" exercises and frankly creepy roleplaying scenarios, we were treated to a truly breathtakingly brazen array of gropings, pawings and feelings-up, as he clumsily pretended to manouvre us into the appropriate positions and stances for his "exercises". The HR minions missed all this; having introduced Dennis, they promptly fucked off, presumably to eat a few live kittens.

I was not pleased at all. I'd forgotten all about it and had launched myself on a proper Guinness bender the previous night, and had basically been mainlining coffee all day in an attempt to keep myself conscious.

When he wasn't feeling us up he was giving what I'm sure he thought were rousingly motivational speeches, pacing up and down the front of the lecture room at a substantial pace. It was during one of these scuttling orations that Dennis had a little calamity. Striding briskly forward, he suddenly stopped, his face slowly reddening, sweat beads forming on his brow. He puffed his jowls out as he looked down. He'd managed to walk straight into a tall metal waste-paper bin set next to the whiteboard. Dennis being a squat fellow, the sharp corner of said receptacle had met him squarely in the left bollock.

Time stopped. At last, the pain signal appeared to finally make its way to his brain, and he looked up, taking on a thousand-yard stare as the sweat tricked over his ruddy cheeks.

"WHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?????????????????," he pleaded.

That was too much for the room. We erupted in gales of laughter, none more so than me. Feeling truly wretchedly hungover, and with the memory of his hand burning its shame into my right buttock, I stood up and launched my verbal assault.

"HAHAHHAHA! HA! HAHAHA! Take that you fat pervert! You appalling revolting! It's no more than you deserve! Drink your lesson! Drink it down! That will teach you to STAY ABOUT FROM MY BIUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH," I bellowed as my backside gave way to the rectal explosion that was last night's true comeuppance.

"AUGHHH?" I pleaded as my knees gave way to the laxated blast and I fell down, weeping into my own shame.

And that's why we don't have harassment seminars at work any more.

The following week I got chilli on my bellend oh that did not feel good I can tell you!
(Frank Snow, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 0:33, 6 replies)

Years ago...
...there was a big crowd of us in the pub one Saturday night. My mate Lee comes back from the bar with a newly purchased pint and sits down.

At exactly that moment, three things happened:

1. The track currently playing on the jukebox ended
2. There was one of those natural lulls in the room noise, so everything was very quiet
3. Lee let out a blood-curdling scream, causing the entire pub clientele to look at him in some alarm

He explained a moment later that as he'd sat down his jeans had creased right across his balls. It wasn't that funny really, but the perfect timing still makes me chuckle to this day
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Fri 8 Mar 2013, 15:16, Reply)

That's gotta hurt!
A few years back I found myself in Manchester (there's a first - and in this instance, a last time for everything). A crowd of us had come up for the game and we went out on the piss on the night before matchday.

I'd managed to get myself separated from my mates and was staggering along some godforsaken dank, dark northern street, when out of nowhere a skinny, stinking, skag-addict type jumped me from behind.

He pushed me up against a wall and demanded I hand over the mobile phone I was holding - which I'd been frantically using to try and locate which bar my mates had ventured onto.

I was drunk. But not drunk enough to act tough and say, no. So I meekly handed it to him. He grabbed it, examined it and then declared, in some almost unintelligible regional dialect, that he'd only get a tenner for it down the pub.

Admittedly it was a shit phone, an aging Nokia well past its sell-by date.

'Sorry mate,' I said, 'that's all I've got.'

'Fooksake, I'll fooking take it anyweh.' He mumbled.

Happy to at least having avoided being stabbed or attacked with an aids-infested needle, I then began to pluck up some courage.

'Er, would you mind awfully if I kept the SIM card?' I asked in my best home-counties accent. 'Only it's got all my numbers on and I really could do with not losing them.'

He looked up at me and maybe he took pity on this poor, lost southerner, as he nodded in acceptance and began to fiddle with the back of the phone.

With hands violently shaking he managed to remove the battery cover, which he then proceeded to place in his mouth for safe-keeping and then started to fiddle with the SIM slot. This huge effort of manual dexterity now held 100% of his concentration.

And then I had a monumental moment of clarity - I was actually in control of this situation. I'm not a violent person and I haven't been involved in any psychical altercations since school, but the red midst descended like it never has before. Who the fuck was this dirty manc demanding MY phone? How dare he treat a tourist like this? A tourist who was pouring much-needed money into his shithole of a home.

So whilst he stood there with his head bowed, trying desperately to separate my SIM from my phone, I took my opportunity and kicked him as violently and as hard as I fucking could, right between his legs.

I connected perfectly and the rock-solid point of my Chelsea Boot must have sent his bollocks right back up into his drug-addled brain. His head shot up and his eyes opened fully, staring me in the face, not initially with a look of pain - but with a look of genuine surprise and hurt that I'd actually done this to him, especially as he'd been so kind in allowing me to leave with my SIM card.

His face then contorted into a picture of agony and he doubled-over and started to emit a low moan. I grabbed my phone (deciding not to go near the saliva-stained battery cover), looked hastily around and then bolted onto the busiest street I could find. After a few minutes I realised he obviously wasn't in a position to give chase, so I called my mates and got directions to the bar they were at.

Fucking northerners.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 8 Mar 2013, 11:54, 31 replies)

He had it coming
Many years ago in a maths lesson, my friend Alex thought it would be a funny game to put my pencils across his lap and break them by punching them. He had just progressed from one at a time to five when I decided that I had had enough, and casually removed them. Just as his fist began its descent.

I should point out that Alex is the strongest person, for his size, I have ever met. At the age of sixteen he could max out every machine in the gym. And all of his strength was now headed, in the shape of his own fist, directly towards his man-sausage. His expression had time to change very slightly before contact was made.


We both got detention. Him for the noise he made, and me for being physically unable to tell the teacher what had happened due to laughter.
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 7 Mar 2013, 19:18, Reply)

No pain involved...
But it is about my gonads.

So, aged sixteen, my dad was going on and on to me about whether I could pull my foreskin back. One of his ancestors had died of knob rot because he was too embarrassed to tell anyone, and my dad also had loads of problems with his cock, so I suppose it was on his mind. (You've heard of athlete's foot - well, for years my dad had athlete's cock. I think he had toadstools growing out of the end of it.)

Anyway.

So one day I tried to pull said foreskin back. It was really tight, but I managed it. By this time, the end of my cock was the size of a golf ball, the rest had the diameter of a frankfurter and the end was getting purple. Try as I might, I couldn't get it back.

The following day, I went to the doctor. He tugged at my cock for ages, and gave up. He phoned the hospital, and if I remember correctly, got me in the following day. (This obviously wasn't the UK, otherwise I'd still be on an NHS waiting list to get onto the waiting list.)

So I went to the hospital. The specialist was an old bloke. He asked me to drop my trousers and pants. After taking one look, he invited me across the corridor to another room. Here I had to lie on a table thing. This is where it gets surreal. There were two (female) nurses present. I swear one was chewing gum, the other was sucking on a lollipop. The old doc tugged like mad at my teenage love truncheon. One nurse removed the lolly from her mouth, and said "Do you want any lubricant?" "Nah" said the doc, still yanking on my pork sword. Honestly, it was like a Channel 4 sitcom. In the end he succeeded - I can't remember whether there was a comedy "plop" noise or not.

He looked down and said "Hmm... that'll have to come off." For a split second, I thought he meant to amputate my willy.
That proved not to be the case, and the rest of the story is pretty boring.
(Bob the Builder killed Captain Alex, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 19:49, 6 replies)

I did this to the tank of my bike using my crotch when I crashed it 3 and a half years ago


Fuck knows how it's all still in working order, although having said that I could be sterile, I've not been tested
(wehttamman via B3ta for microwave, Fri 8 Mar 2013, 4:12, 19 replies)

Not mine, but someone else's
A P.E. lesson. We were 14. The teacher (universally known as The Shower Prowler, but that's another story) hands me the volleyball nets and says "go put these out!". So with a look round at - well, let's call him Arnie - and a mutual nod of the head, we set off to do just that.

Arnie tries to attach the net to the hooks top of the post, but it's just too high. He looks round at me and says "hey, give me a lift up, will you?"
So I grab him round the waist, and lift.
He gets the net attached, and says "right, put me down!"
So I let go, and back away.

Arnie does not back away. Arnie stands there on tip-toe, looking like he's stuck and in some pain.

The posts were multi-purpose, with hooks at various heights for different games.
Arnie's shorts are caught on a hook just above waist height.

The rest of us, of course, burst out in braying, pointing, laughter.

Arnie's shorts rip. He's still stuck. His underpants are also caught on the hook.
Our laughter intensifies to hysterical levels. This is comedy GOLD! We're going to be taking the piss out of him for this for YEARS!

Then Arnie's underpants rip. He's still stuck.

Suddenly no-one is laughing anymore.

With an awful lurch, a grunting pull of himself up the pole, and a collective deathly silence, he manages to his most tender skin off the hook. He bends double, and limps over towards the teacher, clutching his damaged parts and bearing a look of abject horror. And rightly so, for there's a growing trickle of blood and ... something else running down his leg

"Sir, I've .... I've cut myself"

"Where?"

He pulls his hands away.

"There!"

The teacher goes white, stammers out "lets...lets get you upstairs...", picks him up and carries him out, leaving an entire gym hall full of shellshocked kids.

After many stitches, Arnie made a full recovery, and is happily married with several kids now. He's even teaching at the same school.

I, on the other hand, never lived it down. The story passed into the realms of urban legend, spreading far and wide, and being distorted and exaggerated with each retelling. But it's true. I was there. It was me. And no matter what you hear from anyone, it wasn't a gang hit, it wasn't a hazing ritual, it was an accident.
( Young Master Ploppy, Thu 7 Mar 2013, 17:00, Reply)

(Pearoast) My son will not forgive me for telling you but ..

at the tender age of five he dropped the wooden toilet lid it's full height on his knob. The noise he made was like the death throes of a warthog. The bruising it left was spectacular and remained for a good couple of weeks. The sound of muffled adult laughter lasted almost as long.
( number5 has been fighting tramps and losing., Thu 7 Mar 2013, 13:43, Reply)

Caught on camera...
A couple of years ago I was on holiday in Scotland. The in-laws had come along as well, and one afternoon we were all on the local beach, mucking about with a Nerf thing - a sort of foam rugby ball with a tail. I was trying to catch some action shots with my camera. One of the results can be seen here -
picasaweb.google.com/116606307677157600117/RandomStuff#5853127650653130354
If you look carefully, you can see the Nerf thingy, just up and to the left of my father-in-law. Because I was concentrating on taking the photo, I wasn't paying enough attention to the trajectory the ball was taking, and about a second after this was taken, it connected very solidly with my testicles.
I am told that I was in the foetal position before I even hit the floor, much to the amusement of everyone except my young daughter, who came running up to make sure I was ok.
"Are you ok, Dad? Dad? Dad, why won't you talk? Dad, did it hit you in the dangly bits? Dad, what *are* the dangly bits? Dad? Dad?"
(Captain Coffee Break, Sat 9 Mar 2013, 0:17, 1 reply)

I get to post this again!!! Gents - cross your legs.
Many moons ago, when I was but a lad (about 18 and discovering the joys of inappropriateness with the leydees) I suffered from a condition called Phimosis - feel free to google it but it's basically a foreskin that is too tight to retract without causing pain and swelling.....

One evening, lubricated by a number of pints of the lunatic special at the Old Man and Scythe I managed to get lucky with a lady and managed to "do the deed". It hurt like hell but somehow the old fella managed to perform and all was good.

Until later that night. If you can imagine the scenario - the foreskin retracts but decides to shrink around my bellend. Basically I was priapic with a persistent erection and my helmet was turning an angry purple and getting larger. I managed to live with it for a few hours until the pain became too much to bear.

Now the object of my affection that evening was a nurse and thought (due to the effects of being shitfaced) that it would be a simple process to relieve the pressure until I could seek professional assistance. So we commenced the operation...

Nail scissors sterilised in a ligher flame, ice liberally applied to the offending area to numb the pain and the banjo string and the stubborn ring of foreskin around the base of the helmet is cut! I was very surprised how tough human flesh is, even in the most delicate of areas.....

All was good for about 30 seconds. The pressure subsided and things started to look normal then the pain decided to kick in together with copious blood flow. If didn't know I could bleed so much and live. It was everywhere, the sink, the bath, the floor, the bathmat, towels - you name it, it got a soaking.

We decided at that point that a trip to casualty was in order.....the member for Quimborough was wrapped in a towel and the ambulance was called.

It was worth the embarassment of the consultation as the next day I'd had an emergency circumcision and a few weeks later (once the stitches had disssolved/been picked out) I discovered the true joy of sex.

Absolutely true and the most painful thing I've ever encountered but worth it in the end.
(penrose your dog's got tits, Fri 8 Mar 2013, 12:33, 8 replies)

bored
I have spent the last year working away from home, which sounds quite exciting but in reality is truely boring. It has given me the opportunity to experiment quite a bit with the deeper recesses of my imagination, and so in a fit of complete gungho idiocy, I decided to buy one of those ab toner belt things and attach it to my genitals. I thought this might be a great way of automating a process and providing some much needed help during my internet fuelled 2 hour long masturbatorium sessions.
Turns out it's really fucking painful, and exceptionally difficult to switch off in a blind panic. I suspect I detached a retina screaming...
(kaptinkurtz, Thu 7 Mar 2013, 13:47, Reply)

Battle scars galore..
There are really so many, so in chronological order:
1. Woke up one morning, got out of bed and collapsed to my knees with the most excruciating pain in the nads I have ever experienced. Down to quack at 10.00, referred to hospital, on the slab and under the knife for a suspected tortion at 13.00. (It was only an infection.)

2. The next day at a large toy store, bofkin (aged 4) at the top of a slide decides to come down standing up. I am standing at the bottom, he speeds down, flies off the bottom and nuts me in the sack. Back to the hospital for a re-insertion of a loose bollock and stitch replacement.

3. About 1 year later, the decision was taken for the snip. Turned up at clinic and joined the queue. The guy before me was very very nervous. Trying to calm him, I made light by saying that at least he had the enjoyment of having his partner shave him. Nope. He had not even done that... the numpty. I go in and I recognise that is the same surgeon that did the tortion (1 above). Brief chat and in we go. Apart from a slight problem. Having done the right one, he started on the left before the anaesthetic kicked in. As he finishes, "This'll feel cold and this'll feel hot" did not prepare me for just how hot. From cool to sweating like Lee Evans in 5 seconds.
Anyway... all done, I make to leave. Walking through reception I find the guy who was in before me lying on the marble floor. Did he need help? Nope. Could I give him a lift home? Nope, he had a taxi coming. So I left him. Checking the time, I hadn't been out of home for more than an hour so I went for a couple of pints before returning. (I wanted it to look as if I had been through hell and back)

4. Years later and divorced, I meet a younger lady. I'd explained my situation to her re the snip which she accepted it, but watching her with her nephews and nieces, I decided that it was not fair of me to deprive her of something that she would be marvellous at. So 16 years after the cut, I have a reversal.
No problems during the op. Getting home, I told Mrs Bof that the doctor had suggested gentle manipulation of the scrotum and contents for at least an hour a night. Compassionate as she is, every night for 3-4 months Mrs Bof took matters into her own hands whilst I tried very hard not to laugh.
When I did tell her I had lied... she bit me... hard.

I didn't return a sample to check whether it had worked, and after a few years we thought all hope was gone when suddenly a Bofkin was on the horizon. Since then a further Bofkin appeared just before Christmas (2012), and I am thinking of having the reversal reversed.

It is only a piece of your body (OK a sensitive piece) but nothing to get too worked up about. I do know guys who have different experiences, but for me, it is no major deal.

Addition
Just remembered...
5. As a result of Claudication (a blocked artery) in my groin, I needed to have an angioplasty. Duly prepared by Mrs Bof, I go into theatre where the nurse determines that the prep work wasn't good enough and proceeds to dry shave between the sack and the thigh with a scalpel blade. Now that was uncomfortable, and when they tell you during the process that it will feel like you have wet yourself. Yep. You certainly do.
(bof, Wed 13 Mar 2013, 14:33, 11 replies)

Hot vagina
A few Christmases ago, I got given a bottle of mega-hot sauce. The sort where you could dip the end of a cocktail stick into it and the tiny droplet on the end could make your gob incandescent for a good half hour or so.

I'd brought it into work one day and we were trying it out when we'd gone for after-work refreshments: there were some red faces after a few of the hard cases decided to throw caution to the wind and take a teaspoon of the stuff at once.

Later on, in a state of more advanced refreshment, some of us went up to Orchard Towers. Just for a few extra drinks you understand. I was busy trying to talk to my mate and of course the local hookers were coming over and trying to make the usual tape-loop conversation. "Hi how are you". "What your name". "Where you from". "How long you in Singapore". "I love you long time". Repeat.

I was more interested in finishing telling bullshit stories, yet there was of course a stream of hookers trying to get our interest. Eventually a more aggressive one turned up and decided that she's dispense with the usual patter, preferring to just grab my hand, ram it against her minge and grind away. She lasted about a minute before she shrieked and ran off to the bog, and I figured at the time that she'd just given up and decided to flounce off. We stayed for a bit longer and exactly the same scenario repeated itself with a different hooker. Curiouser and curiouser.

But later on when I got home, I was taking out my contact lenses and chanced upon a rather different theory due to my eyeballs immediately starting to hurt like buggery. Even the next day after a good rinsing I just couldn't bear to put them back in. I had to bin the lens-case too. Obviously the earlier horsing around with the hot sauce had left plenty of traces on my fingers, and yes I had first washed my hands after having had highly diseased clunge on my fingers from earlier.

Probably not worth using it as lube...
(airbiscuit last dropped a meaty one in the lift on, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 13:07, 1 reply)

Touched by Lord Voldemort
I was on a mountain biking trip in Wales and I was going down a hill really rather fast (think "weeeeeeee") when my waterproof trousers caught in the chain causing it to lock. This sent me head first over the handlebars and off the side of the path into a small stream. Everything was slow motion and i was already in an incredible amount of pain when the bike then landed imbetween my legs. I'm still not entirely sure how it happened but....

I now have a scar down the length of my penis and ballsack which looks very much like a lightning bolt and enables me to make jokes about being touched by lord voldemort as a child.
(markqfmd, Fri 8 Mar 2013, 16:54, 1 reply)

I'm surprised it still works...
As a kid of about 13, showing off on holiday i traversed the slippery concrete bollards that seperated the kids pool from the adult pool. One foot went one way, the other foot the other. Naturally the whole of Spain saw and pointed and laughed for the rest of the holiday.

As a goalkeeper I have lost count of the amount of times my bollocks have come between the ball and the goal. And it never seems to get any less funny (for everyone else)

Only yesterday I was whacking clove oil in my mouth to try and numb the mother of all toothaches. Turns out, it has a similar effect to chillies on your bellend. My mother in law is staying at the moment and she seems to camp out in the bathroom, and as (bad) luck would have it, she was in there at the time. So I had to use the only remaining sink big enough to fit my arse and burney bits in, the kitchen sink. It was about 15 minutes before my wifes laughter subsided so I could explain why she found me with my pants round my ankles with my arse in the kitchen sink with an post orgasmic buck-toothed grin on my face.
(Fridgy, Fri 8 Mar 2013, 12:53, Reply)

Poor Mr Palmer.
Mr Palmer was our maths teacher at prep school, and liked to walk up and down between the rows of desks as he spoke; he'd dash back to the whiteboard to solve equations and then resume his slow, incessant tramping.

One day, my classmate Jessica had a cold; she was sniffing and snorting and coughing, and sat in a desk next to the aisle so she could frequently go and dump her snotty tissues in the bin. Poor Mr Palmer started his latest dash to the whiteboard just as Jessica, leaning slightly forward into the aisle, did an enormously violent sneeze and headbutted him in the knackers. He fell over, and then stumbled to his desk, where he taught the rest of the lesson sitting down and regaining his breath.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 8 Mar 2013, 11:07, 1 reply)

during a sternuous
attempt to return to the womb I managed to stab the penile frenulum on the tip of a girlfriends coil.

a certain ammount of annoyance was taken on her part at what she thought was male distaste at her lunar disturbance, till she realised that a thin spray of red fluid was jetting from the newly pierced member.
(ceebs, Fri 8 Mar 2013, 1:09, 10 replies)

Super Jonny!
Late primary school, maybe 12 years old. An asphalt playground. A friendly though competitive game of ball tig (if you're hit by the ball you become 'it'). I was a small thing back then, still a good 5 years before I made a sudden transformation from short-arse to lanky-git.

With your wits about you, ball tig is not a particularly challenging game. If you're paying attention it's possible to sidestep all but the swiftest throws. Apparently though, I wasn't being particularly bright. My best friend/worst nemesis Josh (delete as applicable) threw the ball at me, on target but unusually slow. Somehow my cunning solution to the situation was to run directly away from the ball, perfectly in-line with its trajectory.

The ball was slow, but I was slower; I wouldn't get the hang of running for another 10 years. The way my friends tell it I was oblivious to the gradually closing gap. Eventually the ball gently trapped itself under my left foot mid-stride.

I fell. No, I flew. As adrenaline made the world, gloopy and slow as treacle I managed, strangely, to lift feet and arms. My body arched forwards, crotch thrust prominently in the direction of travel; an almost balletic flight; a super-hero taking off.

I landed that way. My tenderest parts took the full brunt of gravity and hard asphalt. I wince to think of it even now. The initial white hot pain; the teary sick-bay embarrassment of explaining what I'd done; the days limping around off school; the weeks before my poor bruised little scrotum fully recovered. I did gain a spiffy new nickname though, my short flight christened me Super Jonny; not without some irony I'm sure.

Long time lurker, first time poster. Didn't feel too long at the time.
(MrPiglet, Thu 7 Mar 2013, 21:52, 2 replies)

More testicle action
I knew a bike mechanic who, whilst lifting an engine onto a truck caught his testicles between the truck and the engine. This is a bad place to put your testicles. It tore his ball bag and his testicles fell out. After being driven to hospital holding his precariously attached testicles the Dr's diagnosis was that 'his shopping had fallen out of it's bag'. Whilst the diagnosis was clumsy the treatment was down right barbaric, his ball bag was stapled back together(this needs three exclamation marks) !!!
He offered me a look, I declined.
p.s. his testicles took no long term damage (look away now as more exclamation marks are coming) !!!
( spingers, Tue 12 Mar 2013, 17:25, 3 replies)

Sledging....
Years ago, sledging involved finding anything shiny and slippery and throwing yourself down the nearest hill whilst trying to balance on it instead of buying a large plastic plate from Tesco and dribbling down the same hill at walking speed.
It was snowing, so obviously my mates and I wanted to throw ourselves down a hill and get wet and muddy. We all had a variety of home-made sledges, from tea-trays to quite serious '30s looking wooden sledges.
I, however, had found a length of tin about 4 foot long and 2 foot wide and only slightly thicker than the type of silver foil you'd wrap your sandwiches up in.
We all climb to the top of the hill and procede throw ourselves down it.
It comes to my turn.
My 'sledge' was stupidly fast, being all shiny and new and that. Unfortunatly, it was also impossible to steer. That fact only started to dawn on me as I was heading at break-neck speed towards a fucking great big rock...a rock that I duly hit head on, and whilst the 'sledge' stopped dead...I didn't.
I did however tip sideways on top of the extremely thin tin and, like a razor, it cut through my trousers, through my y-fronts and......yes, through my bell end.
Blood everywhere and agonising screams eminating from an 8 year old boy bought quite a lot of attention.
A crowd had started to gather and there was lots of 'oooooh's and 'aaaaah's - this from other kids who normally would have been taking the piss. That's when I knew it was bad.
A grown-up had also joined the crowd and looked - and sounded - quite alarmed.
"What's happened, little boy" she asked.
Not wanting to swear in front of an adult, I barely breathed the words, "I think I've cut my willy"
It got worse from there on.
The lady asked where I lived and told me she would give me a lift home. This was after my protestations that I shouldn't get in a car with strangers. I also informed her that my mother was visiting my grandmother at the time, which she was. She asked where my grandmother lived and as it happened she knew her next door neighber. She took me there.
The next hour or so - it felt like years - was quite easily the most horrifying time of my life (or so I thought at the time).
I had to stand in the kitchen at my grandmother's house with my pants at my ankles with my mum, nan and granddad all looking at my cock and pointing and saying things like "oooooaaaccchhh", and "ooooooooh", before my mum finally bandaged it up.
Thankfully it's all better now, but I think I may be mentally scarred for life, it's my only saving grace that it was only mental scars!

tldr: Went down hill in the snow on a bit of tin. Sliced bell end. It bled.
(dchurch bah, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 11:29, Reply)

Buster Gonad
Apologies for the pea, but vaguely relevant!

After polluting the gene pool with 4 children I decided to have the snip, all went well....

very pleasant experience, very jovial doctor - typical b3tan sense of humour, I actually spent the time joking away watching You Tube clips (this was just after the Cadburys Gorilla advert came out, and laid watching this clip - was hoping and praying the doctor didnt air drum with his scalpel!!)

After this, caught the bus home, every single pothole... lots of pain!!

To cut a long story thankfully short, my left bollock decided to swel up to the size of a tennis ball, which is all very well in the lunchbox department unless you are 6'4 and sell luxury furniture for a living.. my height meant my bollocks were just above dining table height, so when stood talking to a customer it looked like I had laid them on the table ready for carving!

This also meant that I had the tendency to catch them on table corners quite regularly.. which in the showroom I work in meant a very polite smile, then a walk to the toilet to bite the doorframe as the excruciating pain subsided.....
(the_icks has the sweet essence of giraffe, Sat 9 Mar 2013, 21:58, 2 replies)

Like most men, I spend a lot of time wondering whether a transscrotal piercing would suit me.
Naturally enough, I thought I'd try to recreate the look with the help of some neodymium magnets.
It looked alright, in a bolt-through-your-knackers kind of way, but quickly began to ache as the unrelenting pressure of the startlingly strong magnets continued to crush my nutsack.
After some unfocused and unsuccessful gouging as I tried to get some leverage with fingernails, it occurred to me to try using pliers to remove the magnets.
I waddled and winced my way round the house, managing to locate one set of pliers and one rusty old monkey wrench.
The pain was becoming quite worrying and between dizzy spells, I found myself wondering quite what I'd say if I ended up having to go to casualty.
After a couple of attempts where I managed to grip some skin along with rare earth metal, I finally got a good hold with the monkey wrench.
By now, there was a fair bit of blood so getting a decent grip on the other magnet with the pliers was far from easy but I did it and finally managed to extricate my pods.
The bleeding stopped within minutes and the swelling was almost gone after two or three days.
So if you’re ever wondering whether this piercing would suit you, now you know how to find out.
( 4Q just lurking, Fri 8 Mar 2013, 21:41, Reply)

A real ballache
After the birth of Fister Jnr II, I decided that enough was enough and it was time to go for the walnut whip. My appointment eventually came through and as luck would have it, it was for the day of Fister Jnr II's 1st birthday.

I was, by my standards at least, fairly brave and drove to and from the hospital myself. On my return, the house was filled with young mums and children of various ages and the birthday party was in full swing. I waddled into the lounge where a seat was cleared and I was ushered to it with sympathetic words and a cup of tea.

I gingerly sat down and let out an uneasy sigh - the sigh of a man who had just had his ball-sack hacked open and who forever more would be firing blanks. My son - 3 at the time - had obviously missed his old dad and appearing from seemingly nowhere, launched himself feet-first into my lap with a massive smile and a shout of 'DADDY!'

I cannot adequately put into words the excruciating level of pain that I experienced. Trying not to swear in front of half a dozen young mums and their offspring doubled the agony. Even now - 12 years later - I'm typing this with knees firmly locked together.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Thu 7 Mar 2013, 16:45, 17 replies)

Panic sets in,
We'd climbed the scaffolding on the front of the Sheldonian in Oxford to claim another new roof joint (oxford university roofs are surprisingly accessible, and garner great views) and had smoked a couple of spliffs and finished the bottles of beer we'd brought. Perfect, just time to climb down, run across to the Purple Turtle for a quick drink, and head home. We peer over the top to make sure of our route, and at the bottom of our climb, university security and a cop car. Bollocks. Don't really want to have to deal with this. Must be another way down. So we go exploring.
Perfect, one side of the building has a fire escape ladder stair thing. That'll do, once we're on the ground we'll sort the next stage, if it's a fire escape it must have a way out.
We clamber over a couple of bits of nice architecture and drop on the the stairs. Well, I drop on to the stairs, T drops one leg on to the stairs, and one not. Right on the rail. Right on his man undercarriage. The sort of screech that sends birds flying from their nests in films comes from his throat. And I panic. They must have heard that round the front. We've gotta run. But, after easing his errant leg on to the right side of the rail, all T can muster is a stumbling gate.
So we run/stumble down the stairs, towards a gate that I have convinced myself is open as, who locks the exit from a fire escape? The University of Oxford apparently.
It's not a huge fence, so I give the slowly recovering T a leg up, and scramble after him. I don't know what happenrd next, maybe I lost my grip, or it was wet, or whatever, but just as I am about to make it over, BOOM, balls meet gate. It's white hot agony. But somewhere, in the back of my mind I remember we're escaping. And I panic, adrenaline kicks in, and we're suddenly lead actors in a ballache - great escape. We sort of painfully run back round to the front, past the security van, and make our way up the broad and to Boozey victory at the PT. We make it at about 2, waved in by the bouncer who knows us, grab 2 bottles of beer each, and sit, drinking one, and cradling the ice cold second beer next to our slightly throbbing balls.
Victory.
( Windy Pig I'm naturally quite suspicious about the moon., Tue 12 Mar 2013, 2:18, 27 replies)

Royal Lifesaving Society Bronze course
I was the youngest guy there. There was a point where you had to remove a drowned person from the pool by gripping his wrists and hoisting him over the side. The acting drowned person was much bigger than me and I only had the strength to just get the bulgy part of his Speedos over the edge of the pool before I dropped the poor bastard back down, scraping over the tiles edge.
(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 17:03, 3 replies)

Snap Crackle Pop
The only tale I want to contribute to this lot involves my brother.
We were up country, doing a little twilight shooting for rocks, and gate latches and prickly pear plants (dangerous game).

As dark closed in, in that rapid way it does when people tell stories like this, the urge to make water overtook my brother. We pulled over in a paddock, next to a fence and he jumped out.

A few seconds later the quiet country night was broken with the sound that most men usually make only a few times in their life, followed by dramatic moaning and swearing.

Apparently the paddock was under quarantine and the fence, tuned up electrified (leaning on it feels like being hit in the back with a pool cue in half second pulses). He had pissed on the fence (obviously) and received a few solid jolts. He described the feeling as being, "like lit up from the inside with hot barbed wire.

True story! (That's why it's shit)
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 12:47, 5 replies)

I think I've told the story of my former housemate before but it's worth a re-heat
On paper, he was a genius with the highest academic qualifications from the world's best universities. In real life he was, not to put too fine a point on it, not the sharpest tool in the shed. For one, he was a subscriber to the popular internet bullshit theory that circumcised men are less likely to catch STDs and having had the operation for religious reasons, considered himself all but invulnerable in that area.

So imagine his surprise when (due to a girlfriend who thought it perfectly acceptable to go back to France and have sex with her ex in the middle of their relationship) he found himself saddled with not just Chlamydia but HPV - the very infection that all the websites claim is unheard of in the Jewish community thanks to the magical shield-like powers of having a bit of your cock cut off. Anyway, he had to trundle off to the Marlborough Clinic and have hundreds of warts frozen off his cock and balls with liquid nitrogen, which left him somewhat impotent and depressed for a couple of months, during which he only got back with the girl he'd got them from once or twice at the most.

Eventually he came out of his deep funk and resolved to be positive about things and also not to see her again. About a week later, he went out to a party and didn't return until the following morning. We went for lunch with friends in a pub around the corner and he regaled us with the story of how he'd met a Peruvian girl and gone back to hers to make the beast with two backs. He boasted that he'd put it in her arse and that he didn't even have to use a condom. Around the table, faces hit palms. When I suggested that this might be an awesome way to catch HIV, he said he wouldn't catch it as he was circumcised. Again, another round of facepalms. He said she wouldn't have caught anything anyway, as she was a nice girl from a wealthy family.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 11 Mar 2013, 10:51, 63 replies)

caught by a whisker
this painful tale was related to me by my cousin, a nurse in a very busy A & E department.

late one busy friday night, a middle-aged man walks in, helping a woman who is clearly having great difficulty walking by herself. he steered her towards the front desk and told the staff member there "she needs help", then buggered off. the lady(whose name i was not, of course, told) couldn't sit down and was obviously in a lot of pain, but was very reluctant to tell nurses what was wrong.
after finally getting her into a cubicle and fetching a doctor to look at her, the reason for her pain and discomfort was revealed.
it seems her boyfriend, the man who'd brought her in, had decided to introduce props to sexy time and had shoved a balloon whisk up her doings. then he'd twisted it. this, sadly, had trapped a piece of her insides in some way and a minor(but very embarrassing) operation was needed to remove the whisk. she was there for a couple of days and, from what my cousin said, her boyfriend didn't show up once.
i've heard of playing with your food, but fucking with your utensils is going a bit too far.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sun 10 Mar 2013, 14:36, 12 replies)