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This is a question The thing I've been most ashamed of doing with a penis

Confess. Female b3tans may need to improvise.

(, Thu 12 Mar 2009, 12:13)
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This question is now closed.

Dirty dirty...
Back at some point in 2006, I visited a gay club. I'm not gay - but my friend of many, many years had recently come out and was constantly demanding my presence on a 'boys' night out.

He insisted and insisted that I joined him, citing as precedent the countless times he'd been 'bored to death' in straight clubs watching my futile attempts to pull.

He kind of had a point. Even after he came out, my mate still accompanied me to bars / clubs etc and acted as a great wing man. So I figured I owed him and agreed.

So on Saturday night we arrived at the appropriately named 'Hoist' located somewhere in deepest Vauxhall. This wasn't some fluffy camp Kylie love-in - more a dark and festishy affair under a railway arch, set to relentless nosebleed techno.

I didn't like it.

But I drank on through and soon I was shirtless and throwing my arms into the air, eliciting grins from leather clad, hairy-biker types and overly pumped body builders.

Soon I need a wazz. My mate kindly agreed to escort me and we fought our way to the bog. The toilets were your standard layout of 4-5 cubicles and a massive 15ft long, old-skool iron urinal. But this pissoir had an added feature that I'd never seen before in London's clubland.

When I say this urinal was long, it was deep too and came out about 3ft from the wall. I squeezed my way to a spot near the middle and was just about to unzip when I noticed the 'added feature'.

There was someone lying IN the fucking urinal.

In it.

Lying splayed out, wearing nothing but some sort of lycra bodysuit, covered in piss, fag butts and god-knows what else, was a human being, a person, a real live man. And he was lying in the piss in the fucking urinal.

In it.

'Oh how funny' said my mate, 'there's a Piss Boy here tonight, this you've gotta see...'

I stood down from my pissing position and looked on aghast as my mate and everyone else in the line peed freely over the bloke squirming in front of them. The regulars seemed non-plussed but I fought my way out of there.

My friend followed and tried to explain away what I'd just witnessed. 'It's a fetish,' he said, 'quite a common one too and this IS a fetish club.'

This was too much. So I adopted my earlier defence mechanism and tried to drink through it. I had three pints of strong lager in quick succession. I danced a bit. I smoked a lot. And then the inevitable happened. I needed to go. I really needed to go.

So back to toilets I stumbled, desperately trying each of the cubicles before I had to face that urinal. They were all full of ketamine snorting, fisting oddballs. So I turned regretfully to the pisser. It was quieter now and there was only the one bloke - who'd already started to pack his meat away and leave.

So I took my chance. I walked over. I looked down. I looked down into the eyes of the piss-drenched maniac and I started to pee.

I pissed in his mouth. I pissed on his hair. I looked him straight in the eyes and then I pissed directly at them. I pissed in his ears. And I pissed up his nose.

He blubbered and gurgled appreciatively, his eyes never leaving mine as I continued, for what seemed like hours, to empty my full, foul-smelling bladder all over the freak.

And that, is the the most ashamed I've ever been (penis involved or not).

C'est tout.
(, Wed 18 Mar 2009, 16:07, 21 replies)
Questions during sex
How shall I put this...

This happened to me once with a girl with an incredibly deep voice.

We were moving through the gears, I reached into her pants and was confronted by the largest clit I've ever had the pleasure of rubbing noses with. It was fuckin massive.

Later, when we're getting down to it I started to wonder if this enormous clit was what the doctors had turned into a clit from an old unwanted bell end. I mean, she did have an INCREDIBLY deep voice. I looked down at her boobies and they were holding pretty firm, they looked a little bit fake to me. Then a question sped through my mind like a bolting horse while I'm mid-thrust:

1) I wonder if she used to be a man???

Quickly followed by:

2) Should I ask her if she used to be a man???

And then:

3) Would it be rude to ask if she used to be a man???

I was floppy within ten seconds. Really puts you off your stride if you think you're shafting a shemale. Ashamed of a penis? I was fucking mortified.

Oh, and the answers to my questions:

1) Not sure

2) No

3) Yes

In that order -

Unfortunately I found this out afterwards, after she'd threated to get her brothers to "fucking do me" and dump my corpse on the railway tracks. It was very disturbing.

(, Wed 18 Mar 2009, 15:24, 6 replies)
what girls prefer
Circumcised? Uncircumcised?
I'll take them as they come.
(, Wed 18 Mar 2009, 15:03, 27 replies)
Three cheers for Tim
My mate Tim is now a respected academic type.
T'was not always so...

Back when he was a student he'd spent a day on the lash. Come the evening he needed more booze, so off to the off license it was. As he bimbled there he was passed by a white stretch limo filled with a bunch 21 year old girls who screamed "Show us your cock!". As he was pissed he was too slow to react and whip out his John Thomas.

So he gets to the offie, gets more booze and then saunters on home.
To his delight he sees the white limo come round the corner just ahead, so he turns his back and prepares himself.
There's a high pitched squeal from the girls as the car pulls level, so he spins round cock in hand and goes "Blaaaaargh!".

Except it's a different white stretch limo and the high-pitched squeal came not from the hotties, but from two 10 year old boys who are slack jawed and pale faced at the sight of a grown man learingly waving his penis at them.

I did mention he's all respectable now?
(, Wed 18 Mar 2009, 14:25, 7 replies)
Incredibly long one here. Ahem.
I got circumcised a few months ago (at age 26). And below is the blog I posted to tell the tale.


The reasons? 1, my wife is a Muslim, and as part of getting married to her I have to undergo a few changes. 2, I live in Bali which is a really hot country, and for hygiene it's a rather good idea. No one wants to talk to someone with that kind of itch.

So the appointment was made for 10 am. I canceled my private classes for the day, and sat down to have a really good think about something else

I have an extra 2 hours to wait because they forgot to book me in. I'm trying not to think about the whole situation as you might expect, and a delay at this point is not something I'm pleased about. Finally the time comes and we get into a taxi. We drive for about 10 minutes, and then turn down a little side road and pull up outside a house. A house - not a clinic, but an actual house. This is when I really start to worry. It's exactly the kind of little side of the road Doctor that you see all over Indonesia's cities. Just somebody's garage, usually.

My mind is awash with a plethora of images. I expect to be taken off by some guy that looks like a grubby, short-sighted Gandhi, and led into a darkened garage. Coils of hose pipes litter the floor, and there are small piles of screws and nails and metal scratchings over any available surface. Rusty power tools come to mind, and then I see them too sitting off in one heavily stained corner of the room. There's an arid smell to the air, and it's so thick that I can taste it. Then I notice an area that has been hastily cleared, and an old, well-used wooden chopping board. It's stained. It looks like someone was cutting some fresh steak on it, but then forgot to clean up for several weeks. That doesn't bother me so much as the rusty steak knife that's lodged in it. The knife changes as I look at it, the image varying as my fear conjures up even more original and exciting method of torture. There's a clever, and then a katana; even a circular saw at one point. But my imagination finally settles on a rather brutal looking machete. All of these are rusty, of course. Just underneath the edge of the table is a small pile of what I can only describe a distressingly organic 'scraps'. Gandhi tells me not to worry. "I be doing this 80 years long Mr Toxo" he says, whilst looking me directly in the right ear. My eye is drawn to movement. In another corner of the room is a pile of...something, underneath a tarpaulin. There's something sticking out of it. Something familiar. What is...is it..is that..? Is that someone's elbow? "Very high rate success" Gandhi says. What does that mean? I look over at him and without realising it, point to the tarpaulin. So looks confused, and then shrugs saying "Not worry Mr Toxo. 3 times is charming, yes?".

I'm shaken out of my meandering by my wife, who's getting bored of waiting.

"What's up?"
"They have a powercut. So we're waiting" (I'm thinking that a machete doesn't need power)
"So what now?"
"They're going to take us to the clinic to do it"

Well, thank God and sonny Jesus for that, thinks I! No more machetes. It'll be the laser, like it was meant to be. Yes, that'll put me off ever watch Goldfinger again, but at least it 'sounds' modern and hygienic!

So we wait a bit more. There's not much to do, so I glance over to the Indonesian language newspaper of the table, despite being unable to read Indonesian. Practice makes perfect right? And I need something else to think about. The Radar Bali, it's called, but I soon stop when I realise that it's choc full of words with 'c', 'o', 'c' and 'k', roughly in that order. The last think I need to be reminded off. So instead, I close my mind to everything, and just think of nothing.

The sound of a clock gently ticking has always been a comfort to me. I've often suspected that it's because of the sound. To me, it's always sounded like an axe. As a child I found this a comfort. My Dad is a tree surgeon, so the sound of an axe hitting wood reminded me of him. Possibly. Well, whatever, I like the sound.




Argh! Suddenly I'm not so comfortable. MUST THE WHOLE WORLD TAUNT ME!?! Finally the guy comes to take us to the clinic. Another quick 10 minute drive to the clinic. The clinic doesn't have a/c, and I've just spent an hour in a house with no power in 30+ degree heat, on a day when sweating is inevitable. So we can't do it there then. No matter! We'll do it at home on the bed! Lovely. And I can watch a DVD while we do it. Deep Joy.

We get back home, and I'm told to lie on the bed. The Mrs is now asking (repeatedly) "Do you want me to stay? I can stay if you want me to. I can go if you want me to". She end's up staying. There are two doctors here to help. "You can put on a DVD to help you relax" one says - to Mrs Toxo!

Out comes the anesthetic. Down go the shorts and pants.

"Oh! You haven't shaved."
"It's OK, you can do it afterwards"

Brace yourself Toxo. Here comes the injection. Que three injections - not as bad as I expected. I knew it wouldn't be. Happily, the psychological trauma that leads up to the event more than makes up for it. There are three injections, mind. And then comes what I can only describe as the "rubbing". To get it all into my system. At least, I hope to Christ that's why he did it!

I feel strange. There's a strange whining, ringing sound in my ears, and every thing starts to look a little faded; edges of objects in the room have gone blurry. I feel a little dizzy. And then my heart...explodes. It feels like the time I drank 5 red bulls in a row. It's like a crazed, homicidal manic that's been locked up in HMP Belmarsh for 30 years desperately trying to break free through my rib cage. In short, I feel shit.

"The anesthetic should have made you feel a little funny" says Doc 1.
Thanks for the head's up. 'Should have'? You couldn't have told me before it happened?
"It should feel OK after 3-5 minutes".
Indeed it does.

I get a second round of injections which "shouldn't hurt as much as the first round". LIES!! It's still no worse than an inoculation, but still. After another 15 minutes of acute 'rubbing' it's time to get down to it.

Que a deep sense of dread.

Out come the clamp, which look rather like the long nose pliers my Dad used to use when fishing. Everything is moved into place.

"Do you want to watch? You only get the chance to see this once" asks Doc 2. That's fine and all, but once may be too much. I do look though, because I'm cursed with curiosity. Looking at the clamps I think - and may have said - "that should hurt". Out come the scissors.

"Hang on, what about the lasers?"

That's just the name of this method. There aren't really any lasers"

False advertising, surely?


And I swear, it was the most unusual mixture of feelings. Horror; fear; sadness; the ever-present curiosity; surprise at the lack of pain. They're all there for the trip. And then the scissors go down. Just that one tiny snip? Something's missing...

My Mum loves her arts and crafts. Every year we get birthday and Christmas card which are hand made - and I must admit, very well. She has this really odd tool for cutting polystyrene. Essentially, it's a bit of fuse wire that's connected to a 9v battery. It heat's the wire, and then you can use the wire to cut the polystyrene.

Now imagine the same thing, but connected to the mains. This is what is known as a 'laser' in the exciting world of 'having a bit of your willy cut off'.

I don't know if you've ever smelt burning flesh, unless there's a large percentage of anomalous Vietnam veterans among my readership, but it's not pleasant. When you know where the burning flesh is, and it's something 'close' to you, it's a whole lot worse - believe me.

Guy Ritchie's Snatch is loaded and started.

And then it was off. The Mrs asks if she can keep it, and thankfully is told '"no" (this doesn't stop her trying to tell me that she's put it on my pizza later). And then I'm stitched up which takes another hour.

All in all, the whole process took 90 minutes - not the 30 minutes I was promised. The anesthetic lasted for another 4 hours, and then it started to ache, and then just feel sore. Wearing trousers is about as fun as stabbing yourself in the eye with a pencil.

I'm told it'll take 5 days or so to heal. During this time, I have to put up with something that looks like Frankenstein's monster in my trousers.
(, Wed 18 Mar 2009, 12:23, 27 replies)
A little Caledonian humour
A Frenchman, an Italian and a Scot are discussing the act of love.

The Frenchman says: "When I make love to my wife, I grind the base of my manhood hard against her. It makes her crazy with desire."

The Italian says: "When I take my woman, I tease her with the tip of my member. It makes her wild with lust."

The Scot says: "When I shag ma burd, I wipe ma noab on the curtains. It drives her fuckin mental."
(, Wed 18 Mar 2009, 12:08, Reply)
Thinking of moving to this quaintly named Bavarian town...

Just one question: Are there any Wankers out there who can tell me what its like?
(, Wed 18 Mar 2009, 11:10, 3 replies)
A gay friend of mine
This can be summed up in four words
Glory Hole, Mouse trap.

To be ashamed of already.
He told us, all of us.

I still shudder at the thought
(, Wed 18 Mar 2009, 9:12, 6 replies)
I haven't been able to sleep the last few nights. This is bad, because I haven't really been in a fit state for lectures the next day and when you've got a man with a russian accent thicker than Ron Jeremy's piss stick talking very fast about differential operators, you need to be on the ball.

Never mind. I've had a jolly old night by myself so far. Let me share the mirth with a story from the halcyon days of this past summer as the sun stretches out and yawns in gentle anticipation of the next one.

Oh, what a summer it was, dear reader. It started, for me at least, on June 28th, the day of my final exam, the ferocious STEP papers for cambridge mathematicians. I came out feeling encouraged - I didn't think I'd met the grade I needed to get in (turns out I was right, and am now in the lovely city of Bath) but neither had I utterly disgraced myself as I fear I might - considering I was from a state college and the odds were therefore against me, I thought I'd accredited myself very well and my hard work of the previous few weeks had paid off.

Anyway, from then on, it was more or less non-stop having a good time. Which is pretty good considering I had only £100 in my bank account at the beginning of it and only owed £70 to various friends at the end some three months later. It's amazing what fun you can have on a budget.

Every weekend in July was spent with my band, more or less. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, the seven of us would jump in our big blue transit and jaunt off round the country meeting people, playing gigs, getting high and just generally having a laugh. One moment you'd be in Andover crashing at the house of a currently away man who has a collection of knives and apparently knows how to use them ('oh it'll be fine for you to stay here, he probably won't get back till tomorrow evening. If he does come in, explain you're with us'. Suffice to say I was jolly scared), the next you're in a field in the back of beyond in North Wales en route to a festival at four in the morning, quite drunk and stopping for a piss, then your drummer is throwing turnips he mysteriously procured from somewhere and shouting, in his finest west-country accent 'TURNIPS!', while gurning. It was odd.

That was freedom, though. Freedom like I think most people don't get - we literally had nothing to worry about other than showing up somewhere cool at a vaguely appropriate time then making music. And that was hardly a worry, it was a privilege.

Weekdays would be spent bumming around in the Sun with various small groups of friends, maybe driving up to the top of Portsdown Hill in the evenings to listen to some jazz, maybe a big house party somewhere, maybe just a nice pub somewhere (I am wondering how I managed this all on £170).

Anyway, in case I'm starting to bore you with the reminiscences (there's more, so much more), I'll progress the story. On August the first, we began our seventeen day UK tour. I remember it well, the Sun was hot, the air shimmered, life happened noisily everywhere and I could barely contain myself with excitement. It'd be like a two week weekend! I packed all my clothes, my saxophone, some cutlery, as we were planning to cook on a little gas cooker out the back of our van in servise stations along the way, which worked very well if it did engender some funny looks (I don't know why, but I decided to pack five forks, two spoons and four knives, much to the mirth of my bandmates. It did seem to makes sense at the time), then hurried to the station with a spring in my step. A ten minute train journey later, and I was in Bedhampton, about a twenty minute walk from our singer's house. The walk somehow managed to last one hour and twenty minutes because even after two years of walking it I still don't know the way, so I arrived sweaty and with an arm absolutely on fire from lugging my suitcase, but with enthusiasm undamped. It turned out our drummer had taken four hours to walk here because A whale was stuck under Hayling bridge and no buses were running. Strange times.

Anyway, tour was as stupidly good as you'd expect, the stories from it are for another time but most of them sound made-up anyway.

Tour ended back in Havant, our hometwon gig. We played with a band from all the way up in Darlington we'd befriended a few gigs before who actually ar the most insane people I've ever met, so we took this opportunity to throw a massive, massive party with our two bands and all our friends, in our band practice room. It truly was the party to end all parties.

So, through all my ramblings, we arrive at the penis bit of a story that deserves to be written so much better, but it is four thirty in the morning so cut me some slack. I've mentioned these chaps from Darlington were insane. They liked getting naked. A lot. The first time we met them, they showed us pictures from their trip to the gig. Apparently not content to sit in a traffic jam on the motorway passing the time idly, they instead got out of their cars, undressed, and capered naked through the becalmed traffic. They really did. The best picture showed a little girl in a car staring at their nude forms with the biggest grin on her face.

One of them had one really, really big testicle, with which he did a trick he liked to call 'the millenium dome'. It involved him covering his other ball and his cock with it, and indeed, it did resemble a fleshy, hairy, waste of govenment money.

Anyway, back to the party, which was now in full swing as about fifty people, in age between sixteen and maybe 25, got very, very drunk and very, very stoned and danced to some very, very good music. Predictably, our nothern friends were starkers and making some really very crude jokes. We were outside at one point, just a few of us, possibly having a joint, when their naked bassist asked us all if we'd kiss his penis. I don't think anyone from my band knows this, though they probably will now [hello Doug], but kiss it I did. Not deeply, or passionately, but I was chemically stupefied enough to give it a little peck. I'm not actually all that ashamed, it was all very much in the spirit of the night that ended with one of them with one of them passed out with a glass bottle an appreciable distance actually up his bum.

Anyway, at the end of this really quite shit ramble, summer 2008 - I salute you. If summer 2009 is even half as good, I'll be a very happy man.
(, Wed 18 Mar 2009, 4:51, 9 replies)
Does shouting the word 'Cock' count?

Especially as I'd just spent the last 10 minutes crafting a rather erudite pun and then when I click 'preview', I get a "Page cannot be displayed' style error. and my work is lost for ever.

To summarise though, it went on about a friend who plays medieval woodwind and dresses in 19th century attire. Damaged hearing meant he was run down by a bus whilst on his way to a recital. The punchline being:

shawm deaf dying with pince-nez.
(, Wed 18 Mar 2009, 0:31, 1 reply)
im not ashamed but probably should be...
i stuck mine in a dyson airblade hand dryer. i thought it was genius, the other patrons of the gents didnt.

vaguely tickled but still the best [only] blow job i've had to date.
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 23:22, 5 replies)
Ah yes...
There was a time when all passing women were graded by the (clearly juvenile) mates I hung around with with the following:
"What about her?"
"Her? I'd have to say on a scale of one to ten... hell yeah! I'd give her one!"
Fnar fnar fnar.
Or Alternatively:
"What about that one?"
"You're kidding! I'd rather stick my dick in the snow!"
Which, when you live in Sydney next to a beach, is a fairly horrid thing to contemplate.
Fast foward a few years (inserting Scooby Doo squiggly lines here):

And we're all on a skiing holiday, sitting at the bar.
"What about her?" someone asks.
"You're kidding! I'd rather stick my dick in the snow!"
"Go on then, there's plenty outside!
And so I did.
I do not recommend this to anyone.
The minute or so of kudos you get from a bar full of people who find it hilarious to see you groin down in a snowdrift in no way justifies the shame of when you get up to run back inside - in front of the aforementioned cheering crowd - you have a knob the size and colour of a blue cashew.
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 22:54, Reply)
Its not so much a penis story, but testicles.
And its not so much embarrassing as it is angering.

I was passed out in a tent after a lot of alcohol, and my mouth was gaping open.

Long story short, I was rudely awakened by someone dangling their salty fucking balls in my mouth.


I got him back by kicking them later, but it still didn't change the fact that earlier that morning, I had licked balls.

But the worse thing is, the absolute bastard, I got a pube stuck between my teeth.

I was livid.
I haven't spoken to him since.

EDIT: Upon doing the adequate research, I can confirm that this action is known as the salty breakfast. Well, it provided me with none of the nutrients and proteins I need for the rest of the day. Although it did give me one of my 5-a-day - Grapes! *da bum tiiiish*
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 22:08, 5 replies)
The thing I've been most ashamed of doing with a pen is ...
... writing all that angsty no-one-likes me stuff in a journal as a geeky reclusive teenager. I thought I would be the next Rowling. Looking back, it's hilariously bad. The 'poems' are the best.

Length? years and years of the stuff.
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 22:03, 1 reply)
A friend from back home (shame by association, or something)
was given to sleepwalking when he was young. Apparently one evening his parents had friends for dinner, and while they sat in the kitchen/diner having after-dinner coffee, he came downstairs in a dreamy daze, opened the oven, pissed in it and went back to bed.
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 21:25, Reply)
drawing eyes on the end and making it talk....
and then kissing it...

No, I am not that flexible, It was my ex boyfriends.


(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 20:52, Reply)
Boy meets girl...

Boy creates family play-room downstairs...

The press turn it into something seedy.
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 20:26, 2 replies)
weeing in the kitchen bin as a toddler instead of going upstairs...
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 19:31, 3 replies)
more detail on my Mrs Thatcher story
I once rubbed my belly banana all over Mrs T's new spectacles before packaging t5hem up and posting to her Opticians. When I posted this story first, some months back, a request was made for more info.

My Friend Steve was the owner of an Opticians in the general area of Kensington. I was the National Sales Manager of a large Spectacle lens supplier. For obvious reasons I can't be more specific.
Steve told me how The Evil old hag had persuaded him to open late for her to visit for test and new specs. He bitched that this meant he didn't get home to Swindon until stupid o'clock, and the value of specs was not sufficient to cover his costs in staffing the place for the extra 2 hours.

Upon reciept of the frames, just before the cut lenses were fitted into them, in front of the glazing dept I rubbed my pride and joy all over they would be cleaned special attention was paid to the area on the inside of the rim which the fitted lens would cover and prevent from de-smegging.

Steve giggled upon telling the tale, and it has been worth a pint or two over the years.

length? its more of a grower than a shower.
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 18:32, 3 replies)
I don't have a penis
but I'm fairly ashamed of what I did to my little brother when he was a toddler.

Mum used to let us help bath him (my sisters and I are 7, 5, and 2 years older than him), and he loved it when we pulled on his foreskin and then let it 'sproing' back into place. Funnily enough, now that he's 19, he doesn't like us to mention this to his friends. Luckily, neither do my sisters and I, as we are all a little bit ashamed of ourselves.

I'm slightly less ashamed of this: www.b3ta.com/questions/pythonshame/post387273 as my mother doesn't know about it.
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 18:23, 1 reply)
A disgusting Cut And Paste Job....
....but what do you expect with a question like this....at least it's on topic!

pea begins:

One bright balmy summers evening, I'm reclining on my couch recieving a spot of togerlingus from my filly (a rarity in itself!).

As I approach the Billy Mill roundabout, I suddenly remember that this particular young lady is neither a spitter not a swallower - nay, she's more of a move out of the way and say 'oooh that's horrible, look at it going everywhere' type.

Noticing that there is nothing to hand with which to shield my tee shirt and indeed my soft furnishings from the imminent (and now irrevocable) baby paste fountain, and also realising thatin my supine position I'm never gonna catch it in my dirty little mitts, I decide to clamp down on either side of the glans with thumb and finger, trapping the Oil of Goolay inside the truncheon until I can shuffle off to the water closet.

Don't do this kids. I burst my dick. At least internally. There was a nasty feeling of pressure, and then an even nastier feeling of internal rippage which quite took the fun out of the proceedings. With much panicked yelling, I let go (firing man batter up the tee shirt), and ran off to the loo.

To cut the rest of this sordid and graphic tale short, having your jap constantly drip blood for 2 days straight, and not daring to pee, let alone wank for nearly a week is not something to stick on your to-do list. I'm not even counting the vague feeling of shame going to work with half a bog roll wrapped round your cock like Mumm-Ra's sex aid so blood doesn't run down your leg and into your shoe.

Still, returned the favour recently and split the bitch.
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 17:04, 11 replies)
Second year of uni.

I'd managed to secure a fantastic house; three housemates with whom I shared a mutual love for getting as apocalypticlly drunk, and a mutual hatred for excessive tidyness. The living quarters themselves were equally fantastic - minutes away from lectures, enormous rooms and not one, but two dishwashers. Everything a student could possibly want.

My bedroom was on the bottom floor, with the window facing onto the main road along which around half the students in the University would walk to get to/from lectures or nights out. I also had net curtains. Those of you who have experienced these bizarre creatures will know that during daytime, they're fantastic - you can see out, and nobody can see in. At night time, however, you have to be quick to close the curtains as all and sundry can peer in when the lights were on. I can say with near certainty that at least fifty strangers must have had an eyeful of my genitals from me forgetting this fact.

It does get worse however. One evening, whilst incredibly drunk I somehow managed to pull. Myself and the (it must be said, rather hot) lady headed back to mine to commence the formation of the beast with two backs. We get going, and are both having a pretty reasonable time when I hear an odd noise, and look up. To see around ten people stood outside, clapping, cheering and banging on the window. I had both left the lights on and the curtains open. Oops.

After resolving the above issues we tried to continue operations, but due to the distraction and shock (and also almost certainly the alcohol) I was left in a state best described as 'trying to stuff a marshmallow into a piggybank'.

I'm still thankful that nobody either took pictures, or was witty enough to whip up scorecards.
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 16:51, 2 replies)
Exposing my rash...
One year, my friends and I went on a short camping trip to Abersoch, Wales. All was going well and we started mingling with a female group of friends who had the same idea of a weekend away in the sun (or not).

With not much else to do in the empty field we all headed to the beach. We were having a kick around on the wet sand with all the boys doing their best to show off their best Brazilian skills and all the girls either joining in or attempting to catch the suns rays.

On the walk back up to the tents, well and truly knackered from all that running, I noticed a stinging sensation in my pants and after a subtle dip of my hand to investigate I found clumps of sand underneath my foreskin, uncomfortable but not in too much pain I carried on the walk not letting on to anyone my current situation and trying my best not to waddle like John Wayne.

When I got back to the tent I examined thoroughly my now bright red bell end and became quite worried. I wasn’t bothered with the redness all over but more with the strange bumps that had arose like when a cartoon character gets hit on the head, and it had became a hell of a lot more painful. I called my mates inside the tent for a second opinion (what a friends for?) and when I whipped it out they all recoiled back with a hiss as if they felt my pain. “G” my bestest pal in the whole wide world reached out to feel the contours on my lumpy manpiece and as he does, all the girls burst in to let us know the BBQ was ready. Cue 6 boys, one with his pants down turning round like rabbits in headlights.

I’m standing there in our 8 man tent with all my 5 mates bent over within a few inches of my penis, examining it in much detail and with "G" stroking it with his little finger…

We didn’t get any that weekend. Well, except my painful mini-stroke wank off my best mate, does that count?

Definite apologies for length…
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 16:18, 2 replies)

The rented Laguna had borne witness and survived a myriad different methods of torment inflicted upon it during the five hour journey to Minehead, but Scatman John was probably the most cruelly inhuman imaginable. At least that was how it felt to me, sat in the back and watching the driver use the rev limiter as a cruise control for the last 235 miles to the soundtrack of such musical low points as Alex Party and De-Lacy. I wanted to Huh-Huh-Huh-Hide-away-hey anywhere but there, before my eardrums ruptured in disgust.

However, that torture was nothing compared to what the three car loads of us had planned for our livers that weekend as we rocked up to the dilapidated and faded glory that was the town’s very own Butlins, resplendent in dirty, streaked concrete.

Jubilant, we gathered bags from the boots of our cars and trudged toward the crumbling, gravel clad monstrosity that housed our chalets for the weekend.

“Where the fuck’s me clothes?” piped a voice from the back of a well travelled Vauxhall Carlton

The diminutive stature of Simon appeared, shrugging his shoulders. All he had for the next seventy two hours were the clothes he was wearing. A quick phone call home revealed that he’s managed to leave his bag in the bedroom before heading out. However, between the eight of us with spare threads, we cobbled together some changes of threads for Simon. Despite me being a clear six inches taller than him, I donated my prized black Levi jeans in the aid of a mate in need.

With that, the debauchery started in earnest as the first of many cans of Luftwaffe lager were handed round as young men jockeyed for queuing position at one of the bathrooms of our two chalets. The place was a squalid dive even before we got there, the sobering tang of disinfectant didn’t quite mask the mouldy odour accumulated from thousands of weekenders over time. Mattresses were covered in sticky rubber covers that rendered them uncomfortable to all but the comatose, which no doubt compounded the need for weapons grade cleaning products. Doors and frames showed grey wood underneath flaking varnish. Terry Waite had known better quality housing than this.

Amongst this dishevelment, young men preened and splashed themselves with aftershave and coats of extra strength gel. Simon himself managed to retain much of his usual sartorial elegance he often used to such devastating effect. Oh yes, if there were ladies here then they’d be ours by the end of the weekend. We toasted to our success and trudged gamely to the nearest bar.

Six hours later I’d hit my wall, my absolute limit of endurance and I’d had to call time on my evening. In all honesty, I’d lost count of how many plastic beakers of warm, fizzy lager I’d imbibed. I’d thrown in the towel, capitulated with barely a lone maiden’s lipstick on my collar and retreated alone to a warm bed. Even if I had managed to slur my way into a lady’s boudoir, I was as likely to get it up as Prince Phillip after a cellar full of vintage port. It would have been like playing billiards with a tow-rope.

Bleary eyed, I managed to get my key in the correct door on the fourth attempt, shed my clothes in a pile next to the bed and marinated my brewing hangover. I’d have to face the mocking interrogation of my comrades the next morning and I wanted a decent night’s sleep.

And with that, my lovely young head hit the pillow.


What was that? It was coming from the front of the chalet. Someone was playing music no doubt, I could hear the thrumming reverberations of someone else’s bass.


Curious as to where the party sounds were coming from, I leaned out of bed and opened the window.


In the still, autumnal air I made out the sound of voices nearby. Some none-too-quiet breathless female tones were making themselves heard.

“Oooh, oooh God…. Ohhhh”


My eyes now had a reference point to zoom in on. Vive le sport!

In the dim light I made out the chubby pale thighs of the voice's owner wobbling in rhythmn while she being plugged enthusiastically from behind, leaning against our doorway for support, which explained the source of the "thrumming" noise at any rate.

“Oooooh, ooooooh…. Won’t chew go down on me. Please!” continued the voice in a distinctly Welsh lilt.

“No” replied the chap behind her, who to his immense credit, carried on thrusting away gamely as if nothing happened. I knew that voice...

Wahey! It’s Simon! Well done ol’ fella!

Well played old chap, he’d managed what I couldn’t. I’d have called out words of support and admiration were it not for one minor detail.

The bastard was still wearing my prized Levis.
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 15:55, 3 replies)
I once had a little issue with Veet hair removal cream.

I like to keep myself nicely trimmed. Men take note.... women if you are that way inclined, and indeed other gay men prefer a nicely trimmed cock and balls in their mouth, than something that is festuned in corse hair.
Pubes between your teeth is not a good look while attempting to be sexy! I digress...

I decided that it would be labour saving to try some of my step mothers leg and airpit hair removal cream on my gentleman area, rather than my usual method of ball bag trimming with clippers and razor...I also thought (wrongly) it would be safer.

So there I was naked covering my parts in Veet egerly awaiting the smooth clean looking result that awaited. I finished applying the cream and then decided to read the instructions....it said something about leaving it on for about 6 mins or so...so i thought give it 10 mins to be on the safe side, and I'll wash it off.

Well I got a little side tracked watching Murder she wrote or something similar and sort of forgot. Forgot that is until the slight tingling sensation which I at first found to be almost horny, suddenly became well, a burning pain which felt like battery acid had just been poured over my scrotum.

I ran to the bathroom, and jumped in the shower, the smell from this stuff by this point was vile, so i grabbed at the shower head and directed it at my cock and balls......OMG!!!!!! The fire that was now raging in my pant area was unbelievable. I had to turn the shower to cold, and very carefully washed this eveil goo off myself.

After about 30 mins of 'hosing myself down' I emerged from the shower a broken man.

The Veet had done it's job...It had removed my scrotal hair, but it had also removed most of the skin on my scrotum and imediate area.

I was red raw. The pain was almost overwhelming. Thank god for Sudocream!

I had to get a 2nd opinion, to see if I should seek medical help from my friend who is a nurse. She advised me just to keep it clean and covered and use plenty of Sudocream.

Fortunately there have been no lasting effects from this, suffice to say I have gone back to the clippers and razor, as this method seems to be a hell of a lot safer!!
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 15:33, 17 replies)
with my penis
I was appointed to the Canadian cabinet as Minister of Tourism and Recreation on October 1, 1990.

Peter North.

Wait...I think I told it wrong.
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 14:10, Reply)
Oh Lor!
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, a young barmaid called Sparkie worked long, but honest hours in a local hostelry, dispensing ales, jokes and merriment. Then one day her boss went away,leaving his mad brother in charge. Boss's brother was always full of stories, including how he got away with a five-stretch 'cos the gun wasn't really loaded, how his 2nd wife divorced him on his wedding night, and also, how he knew a bright young prospect in the world of cricket, a young man already playing for his county, and also making himself a 1st choice for England "A"..

Yeah right, we thought, wrongly..For that Friday night, yeah verily, boss's bro did indeed appear at said pub, in the company of the cricketer. This cricketer took a shine to our fair Sparkie, and demanded that she went out drinking with him, after her shift finished, and after much smiling and girlish giggling, Sparkie, impressed by a man in touch with his feminine side said yes.

And off they went, the soon-to-be legend, and his new friend, into the night, well as far as the bar where a jolly lock-in was in progress. After further giggling and drinking, (During which, Sparkie unwisely decided to revert to Snakebite) She turned to her new best friend and said "I'd love to shag your brains out, but I'm to pissed to make a decent fist of it, can we reconvene tomorrow?" and like the Gentleman he was, he agreed with her and walked her home, where she presented him with her G-String, as a token of her esteem which he wore about his neck back to the boozer to continue, she presumed.

Next morning came a knocking on her front door, she came to clutching a pair of silk boxers, and shrugging opened the front door to see the cricketer, looking just as handsome when she was sober, in the daylight. This was too good an opportunity to miss so she dragged him upstairs to her bedroom where they tore their clothes off and did unspeakable acts to each other, which was OK, but she had forgotten what cider can do to a person. And what that smelled like, until after escorting him back into the light, she returned to her bedroom, which now bore an olfactory resemblance to rotten apples, stored next to satan's latrine.In Hell. Oh yes...

Sparkie is very very ashamed, partly because of her runny eyes, so his must have been as bad, but mostly because the cricketer has vanished completely from first class cricket. He played for England one minute, and then disappeared, after Sparkie! If it hadn't been for my appetites we could have stood a chance at international cricket at some juncture...

I can only apologise, but I never did get my pants back....
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 11:47, 15 replies)
My love was on a 2 week sponsored silence...
...to raise money for degenerative illness care.

Over this time period, she couldn't speak, read or write.

Nodding, cavorting and being disturbed in the night were firmly on the cards, however.

Before getting our heads down one night, we had a very sexy canoodle after a day of winding each other up something chronic. It wasn't climactic for me so to keep it short and sweet for her took all my powers of self-control. I was going to sleep with hormones raging through me like a swarm of hungry motherfucking hornets. We've all been there.

Apparantly, during the night; in the middle of a deep sleep; my body decided it was getting relief from this ordeal anyway and proceeded to masturbate so furiously that the instrumental love-elbow bashed repeatedly against her ribs with it's own brand of boystrous vigour until she was rudely awoken, to confront me in the middle of what had amounted to be the most belligerent, yet utterly unconscious wank of my life.

The shameful part was the next day when she was trying to mime the scenario to me in the kitchen with her flatmates. I sweated the awkward cusp of finding it completely hilarious, yet being with genuine concern that long term psychological scarring had probably occured. I had to wait until her silence was over before I could be certain that I hadn't gotten the wrong end of the stick.
(, Tue 17 Mar 2009, 10:21, 2 replies)

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