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Old Man’s Last Wank

I miss Joanie. She left me suddenly. We went to bed early that night. She wanted to ‘connect.’ That’s what we called it. Hugging her with my hard penis buried deep in her pussy and falling asleep together was something we had done from the day we were married 45 years earlier. Actually, we had been doing that even before we were married, but that was our little secret. Somehow, we never grew tired of that, and did it almost every night. Many times, we didn’t even orgasm, and that was fine. We kept finguring one of these days I’d stay hard after falling asleep and remain in her, but it never happened. My penis would soften and fall out. Sometimes she’d be asleep by then, sometimes not.

A couple of times, our kids came into our bedroom when we were connected. We quickly pulled up the blankets if necessary. I don’t think the children had any idea what they were interrupting. We’d always laugh about it once we got the kids back into their own beds.

So that night was like any other. The next morning she seemed especially silent. Not moving. I sensed something wasn’t quite right. I rolled over and put my hand on her shoulder. That’s when my heart jumped into my throat. She was cold, room temperature actually, and stiff as a board.

I knew immediately that she had left us. In a wild panic, I called my son. “Jason, what do I do?” Through the tears, his and mine, we called his sister, and then he made the arrangements. I was too messed up to contact anyone.

It was so unexpected. But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that.

It’s been two years. Now, I’m laying here in bed kind of idly masturbating, and remembering the good times with Joanie. I remember when the kids were small, not a doctor and a manager like they are now.

I try not to remember Allison. She was our youngest. She discovered heroin and cocaine, spent a couple of years trying to maintain some sort of chemical-induced balance, during which we sprung her from jail a few times, our TV and household cash disappeared, and she crashed her car, twice. As quickly as we’d put her in rehab she’d be back on the streets. Despite it all, we offered to let her live with us, but she was too proud. She died on a cold November night in the dumpster area behind a Safeway, curled up in a ratty old sleeping bag.

Instead, I’m remembering Joanie. The good times, the deep intellectual conversations, or so we thought, and the laughter. I’m idly touching my penis, as I think about our sex life. Oh, we did more than ‘connecting.’ We were really quite open about our likes and dislikes. She loved sucking my penis. What she got out of that, I don’t really know, but she did enjoy it. I’d reciprocate by licking her vagina to a whole series of rapid-fire orgasms. I fully understand what she got out of that!

As I’m reminiscing, my penis is getting hard. Oh, not as hard as it used to before my prostate surgery, but it’s OK. I continue to rub, and soon that orgasmic feeling starts to build. You’d think after seventy-some years of orgasming it wouldn’t be so great. However, even though nothing comes out any more, the orgasms are still as delightful as ever.

I’m feeling sleepy. I’ve got a slight ache in my left shoulder. No surprise for someone my age, right? I’m kind of dizzy too. It’s the third night in a row that I felt that strange ache and light-headed after jerking off. I’ll bring up this up the next time I see my doctor. I’m really sleepy now. Well, I think I’ll just go ahead and get some sleep…

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Boy’s Embarrassing Tape Incident

I was an eight-year-old boy. Like most kids of that age, when I had some private time in my room I played with my little penis. On this occasion, I thought it might be fun to wrap some Scotch tape around it just behind the glans. I applied the loop of tape and all was well. However, when I was ready to do something else, the tape had to be removed, right? But there was no way I could get it off. I couldn’t pull up the end with a fingernail because the tape was too thin and stuck together well. It also stuck to my skin, so when I tried various ways to peel it away, it simply wasn’t happening.

In tears, I ran out to my father in the living room as he was reading the newspaper in his recliner. My mother and sister were in the living room also. I showed my dad what I had done. Without chastising me, he simply got some lighter fluid, poured it on the tape around my penis, waited for it to weaken the glue, then removed the tape. I seem to recall that for the whole time, I was erect.

Thinking back on that all these years later, I have three thoughts:

1. I wonder how that affected my father. Did it make him horny? Was he embarrassed to have to deal with such a situation? Was he terribly disappointed in his kid? What about my mother and sister? What were they thinking?

2. Why did I remain erect? You’d think with all that worry and embarrassment, I’d have gone soft right away.

3. I wish I had more information about boys’ sexuality and masturbating back then. Of course I couldn’t yet ejaculate, but obviously I was interested in my penis. I wish something like Boy’s Guide to Masturbation.was available back then.

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Uncle Don Broke My Penis

My grandfather died when my father was 22 and his brother, my Uncle Don, was 24. Grandfather was a drinker, and managed to kill himself in a fiery single-car collision. He had some money that my dad and Uncle Don inherited in equal shares two years before I was born.

Uncle Don convinced my dad to lend him his half of the money so Don could buy a mobile home park. Somehow, Dad was never able to get repaid even after Don started accumulating wealth. While Don eventually owned three mobile home parks, Dad, Mom, and I rented one of Don’s homes. It was the only single-wide trailer in the park. To get technical, our’s was a mobile home. Anything made after 1974 is called a ‘manufactured home.’ Dad worked as a bus driver.

Mom ran off when I was twelve. The story goes that Don sexually assaulted her, resulting in her having two broken teeth. She took him to court, but lost the case, since there was no proof that he had done anything. Fearing for her life, she disappeared.

When I was 18, I decided to learn something about business so I started attending City College, which was quite difficult financially, even though I still lived with Dad. I had this notion that I’d like to own a mobile home park someday, seeing how profitable they’ve been for my uncle. Unlike Don, I’d treat my tenants right. I figured I could learn enough about business to manage my own park some day.

I was still in my first year, when something went wrong with the circuitry in our trailer. Without electric, there was no heat.

Don said he’d send his handyman, but knowing Uncle Don, that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. Don was well-known for treating his tenants badly, even my father, his own brother. After all, his tenants have no choice. Their mobile homes are fastened to the ground. It would cost them tens of thousands of dollars to move.

Uncle Don did invite Dad and I to stay in his place until the electric got fixed. I stayed in Nancy’s room, and Dad stayed in Ned’s room.

Those were my late cousins. Nancy committed suicide at 16, and Ned had taken up drugs and drinking. Soon, Ned was hopelessly addicted. Don threw him out. He was seen around town from time to time, barely hanging on. One day, he had fallen asleep behind a dumpster that was in back of Safeway. The next morning, a garbage truck picked up the dumpster, emptied it, and set it down right on Ned. But that may not be what killed him. According to the police, he might have already been dead, either from a drug overdose, or exposure to the cold. The poor guy had a cast on one leg when he died, so I can only imagine what his last weeks were like.

My first night at Don’s, I went to bed around midnight. It was warm in Don’s house, so I figured I’d jerk off on top of the blankets before falling asleep. I was just about to orgasm when the door burst open and the light came on.

“I’ll have none of that in my house!” Don shouted. He was obviously drunk as he staggered toward me. He was carrying something that turned out to be a tennis racket. He took a swing and hit me right in one testicle and the side of my still erect penis.

I crumpled up in pain as he wobbled out of the room. My balls, my left testicle in particular, hurt so bad, I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was choking as I lay there with my hands between my legs. Ten minutes later, I could breathe normally, but the pain was still unbelievable. I couldn’t even get off the bed to turn out the light.

An hour went by as I just lay there, not only in pain, but freaking out that I was badly injured. The testicle pain started to subside, and then I noticed that my penis was in pain also.

I pulled my hands away and took a look. My penis was as large as if it was erect. In fact, it was bigger in diameter than I had ever seen it, but it was soft and squishy. It had a big black lump on the left side, and curved oddly to the right, much like the picture below.

Not knowing what else to do, I yelled for Don to come take me to the hospital. After probably 15 minutes, he came back to my room, evidently a bit more sober. I showed him my penis. He refused to take me to the hospital, saying “It’s not that bad,” as he walked out, closing the door behind him.

The only thing I could think to do was call an ambulance. That’s how I got to the hospital. While the ambulance was on its way, I tried putting on my underwear. I couldn’t straighten up enough to do that, so I ended up putting on my sweat pants. I stayed barefoot.

After two painful hours in the waiting room, still barefoot, during which my testicle pain went away, but my dick started aching worse than anything in my life. My dad arrived and sat with me, occasionally swearing under his breath about Don.

When I was finally called into a treatment area, the doctors and nurses all took a look at my penis. I wasn’t embarrassed about them seeing my junk due to the condition I was in. How could something like this happen to me? My fear was such that my heart had been beating really fast for literally hours. A urologist was consulted. It took him another hour to arrive. He looked at my penis, held it gingerly, shifting it this way and that. Man alive, did that hurt!

He quit examining me, and sat on a stool to tell me the situation: I’d need surgery, which was to be performed later that morning. My testicle was fine, but Don had literally broken my penis. The side of the tennis racket, hitting my erect penis like that, caused a fracture of my left corpus cavernosum, the spongy tissue that holds blood when one is erect.

They were going to do something called ‘degloving’ to reach and stitch up the affected area. The idea totally weirded me out. Frankly, it scared the shit out of me. The surgeon was going to detach the skin of my penis all around just behind the head. Then, they dissect and peel the skin away all the way down, so the skin is piled around the base of the penis. That gives them access to the broken area. They’d do the repair and then finally, they would pull the skin back up, and stitch it back in place under the head.

Even with the medicine they gave me, I didn’t sleep much during the few hours left of that night, and was still in considerable pain.

The surgery happened, and my recovery was painful, but uneventful. When a nurse changed my bandages the first time, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was circumcised! I so totally didn’t want that. When the urologist came in for a consult, I asked him why that happened. He said, “I thought you’d like that.”

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

The afternoon after my surgery, when I was still woozy from the drugs, Don stormed into my hospital room, and started yelling at me about the $2,700 the ambulance company charged him for the one-mile ride to the hospital. Two orderlies came and took him away.

I woke up a couple of times every night with sharply painful nocturnal erections. For days, I wanted badly to jerk off, but that fully wasn’t going to happen.

A week later, the stitches were removed by an attractive young intern. She had flaming red hair. I thought she’d use anesthetic, but she said, “You won’t need it.” That scared me, until she started snipping and pulling the stitches out. She was right. It didn’t hurt a bit. I became erect, and was remarkably embarrassed about that. She only said, “Aw, it’s fine.”

I noticed that my dick was quite numb as she was working on it.

Finally, after three weeks, I was starting to get back to normal and was way overdue for a good wank. Ever so carefully, I tried moving the skin up and down. It was totally numb. I could feel my penis between my fingertips, but the dick itself felt like a broomstick. There was no sensation at all. Still, I was able to jerk off and cum. What a relief!

The numbness worried me very much. I asked the urologist, and he said the feeling would eventually come back. It did, but it took six months. It took even longer than that to get used to being circumcised. In fact, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. At least the terrible sensitivity of the glans has gone mostly away. Just touching against my underwear was like an unbearable tickle for the first few weeks. To this day, my penis feels weird when I rub it, like there are little lumps under the skin.

Meanwhile, a friend of a friend had a father who was a lawyer and suggested I sue Uncle Don. The case dragged on for months. Meanwhile, I was back in our trailer with Dad, and back in college. In a courtroom appearance, pictures of my penis were shown. It was terribly embarrassing. First, the horrible picture of my black, lumpy, bent, fractured penis. Then my penis with stitches under the corona, and fully erect. The urologist had injected something called Caverject to make me artificially hard to check his work.

To my amazement, the lawyer won. I was awarded 1.5 million dollars. The lawyer got $500,000, leaving me a cool million. I was planning to buy a mobile home park of my own.

The only problem was, the money hadn’t been transferred yet. Don was pulling some legal shit that was slowing the process.

Just when I was figuring I’d never see the money, something unexpected happened. Don had gone out drinking, and somehow drove his car right into a bridge abutment. He messed up his innards something terrible. He languished in terrible pain in the hospital for three weeks before he died. I shouldn’t say this, but I was secretly happy. The world is better off without a guy like that.

I figured that was the end of my million dollars, but even more surprising was the call from Don’s lawyer. My fucked up uncle had written a will. He had left two of his mobile home parks to my father, and one to me. Mine was assessed at over $5 million.

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Create Your Own Story

Hi Folks! Jeremy and I would love to hear your stories. Please write a story in the comment area below, or you can send direct to me using jenelle@prowank.com.

You do not need to identify yourself but you can if you wish. Your story can be a true memoir, how-to information, fiction, or whatever you want. It would be great if you could let us know whether it’s true or fiction, however. It can be from any perspective.

The length can be anything from a sentence to a complete ebook.

If you’d like to include video or pictures, that would be great. Email them to us.

Please don’t send any copyrighted material unless you are the owner. Don’t send pictures of anyone without their full permission, and the knowledge that their pictures may be copied throughout the Internet. Once a picture is posted on a website, it can be impossible to get rid of it.

Let us know whether it is OK or not to edit your story.

We can’t pay anything for your submissions, and do not guarantee to publish every one, but we’ll do our best to publish anything that’s of reasonable quality.

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Loser Motorcycle Guy

Loser Motorcycle Guy

I was driving to work on a hot summer day, as usual, with my windows down, when a motorcycle passed me going at least 90 miles per hour. It was a Harley. Instead of mufflers, he had amplifiers. It was so loud that if I had a gun, I would have shot out his back tire, just out of reflex. I mean, shockingly, deafeningly loud. It really pissed me off. As he rapidly sped on up ahead, I saw something glitter in the sun. What was that? It seemed something fell off the back of his bike, or more likely, out of his pocket. It caught momentarily in the wind, then came crashing to the pavement, and shattered into dozens of shiny pieces, glittering in the sun. I was delighted! I figured it was probably his cell phone, and the asshole deserved that, at least in my opinion at the moment.

As I was working that day, I was kind of puzzling over just what fell off the guy’s bike. Was it a cellphone? Or something else? So the next day, I left for work five minutes early, so I could pull over where it happened, walk around, and try to find some pieces to see exactly what the guy lost. It only took me a moment to find the place where it happened. Some of the pieces were still reflecting sunlight, although the action of passing cars had swept most everything to the shoulder. Sure enough, it was an Android phone, and by the looks of it, an expensive one.

But, what was this? There was his mini-SD card, intact, except for a fairly heavy scratch in one corner. The guy’s phone must have been one of those that can take an external memory card. I put it in my pocket.

When I got home, I found my mini-SD adapter and hooked it to my computer. I found the guy’s photo folder right away, and started snooping around. All there were was the usual photos, pictures of him and his dog, some family group shots at what appeared to be a birthday party, you know, that sort of thing. I was just about done snooping when I found gold!

There were five pictures of him, and a young woman, sitting on what appeared to be a back porch, stark naked. And there he was, slight pot belly, balding, apparently around 40-some years old, sitting in a lawn recliner, bearded, and hairy all over, except for his crotch, which was shaving as smooth as a child. And he was sporting an erection, sticking straight up. His penis wasn’t large, kind of small and skinny actually, with a flabby, not particularly full scrotum, but his cock was fully erect. Rock hard, I would say.

And the girl! Well, she couldn’t have been more than 20 years old. Just a slip of a thing, skinny, short, with small breasts, but with long, straight, dark hair. Her crotch was also shaven smooth. She was sitting on one of those lawn recliner chairs right next to our motorcycle guy. In one picture, she had her legs spread wide, as if she was purposely showing the inner folds of her vagina.

Now call me crazy, but I think she was the man’s daughter. She had the same nose, same forehead and somehow just looked related.

All the five pictures were slightly different, but nearly the same, as if they were taken a few seconds apart. At first I thought it was done with a self-timer, but wait, in the upper right corner of one picture was a dark beige-brown shadow – obviously a finger in front of the lens.

So what was the story? What were they doing? And who took the pictures? Was it the man’s current girlfriend? Or boyfriend? Was it his wife – the girl’s mother? Was it one of his buddies? Maybe the man’s son and therefore the girl’s brother? Another family member, perhaps? And what were they doing. Remember, our guy had an erection – not what you normally see in family photos. What happened before the pictures were taken? What happened after?

I’m tempted to upload those photos here, but I won’t. Maybe the guy deserves it for blasting his loud motorcycle exhaust all over the place, but does the girl? I think not, so I won’t show the pictures to anyone. But it is fun to think about showing the pictures.

We’ll never know the story, but I can tell you one thing: I have jerked off to those photos a dozen times!

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Integration

Middle school integration sexual experience

Wait ’till you hear my integration story! There’s a surprising sexual part, too, a little later on in this rather long-winded post.

At twelve years old, right before I was to start seventh grade in middle school, our school district was federally mandated to integrate at all costs. In this case, the cost being the welfare of the children.

In their great wisdom, they took an all-black high school, and turned it into a combined junior-senior high school. And how did they do that? They brought in all white seventh and eighth grade children, and left the older, bigger black kids as-is. This was in a major city where many of the parents of both races had taught their children to hate people of the opposite color.

Instantly, from the very first day, the little white kids got pounded by the big black kids. In very short order, I learned to bring a lunch, not lunch money to school, because it was taken every single day. I was assaulted constantly, as were hundreds of other little white kids.

I complained to the teachers, the vice principal, the principal, the school board, and my parents. In every case it was, ‘We can’t do anything about it,” which I interpreted as, “We don’t really give a shit.” In fact, my parents chose to believe I was making this up. In retrospect, I understand. If they let themselves believe it was real, they’d be heartbroken or worse, knowing what was happening to their child, and not being able to do anything about it.

I was given a city bus pass. I’d ride right past the local school I should have gone to, head north to downtown, wait at a transfer station for a second bus, then take that southeast to my school. It took ninety minutes each way.

Twice I was accosted on the buses. In one case, I had a broken glass bottle held against my chest. In another case, a knife against my stomach. I wasn’t actually cut in either case, but it was super-scary.

Then there were all the assaults at school. My wife says I have traces of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) to this day. One kid I know from that school was hit so hard – knocked against the corner of a table – that he required brain surgery, lost the sight in one eye, and had a very weak grip with one hand.

Toward the end of the school year, it was a hot spring day. The school did not have air conditioning. A riot broke out in the cafeteria. It wasn’t the first time, but this riot became much more severe than any prior to that. Immediately all the teachers ran out of the room. Many children were injured. Kids piled up against the doors so hard no one could get out. Chairs, trays, food and silverware flew through the air. I saw one girl get smashed in the face by a flying chair. I did not see her for the rest of the school year.

I knew the pattern could not be repeated for eighth grade, even if I myself, with no attributes other than any other 13-year-old, had to do something about it. So, I showed up the first day at East High School, the one in my own neighborhood, claiming I hadn’t received a schedule in the mail. Actually, I had wadded it up and thrown it away.

They assigned me temporary classes. For the first two weeks I was sure they’d figure out what I had done, and I’d be in big trouble. But they never found out. Unfortunately, East High School had been integrated in a similar way. Now, I was almost the only white kid among all the 8th graders, and was hated for that. All the older kids were white, but that didn’t help me any. Approaching 14 years old, my body was starting to grow, so I was less of a target.

But that’s not the worst of it. Back in seventh grade at Madison High School, the phys ed department was absolutely horrible. In my massive class of more than sixty kids, we were of all ages. I never understood that. Why not just seventh graders?

The three ‘teachers’ sat in a glass-walled office just off the shower room reading paperback books. One of the gym teachers was remarkably heavy set, just the opposite of physically fit.

If the weather was fifty degrees or above, the sixty of us would be shuffled out into the school yard, and we had to figure out for ourselves what to do, as the gym teachers stayed inside. We might play an inning and a half of softball until the time was up – with three kids on bases, a pitcher, short stop, and maybe thirty kids in the outfield and thirty more waiting to bat.

Now, it starts to get weird. For some reason, we all had to take showers before we went out into the field, or into the gym on cold days. It was a common shower room, with shower heads all along the walls. We were expected to get stark naked in front of all the other kids, which for me, and no doubt many of the others with conventional, conservative upbringing, was exceedingly scary and embarrassing.

We’d have about fifteen minutes for our little bit of softball or rope climbing, or dodgeball or whatever it was, then back to the showers AGAIN. Again naked, we all showered together.

Then, the water would be shut off, and the three teachers came out of their glass-walled office, had all the naked boys line up, and would slowly walk up and down the line, pointing out a kid here and there with dirty ankles. I’d look at the ankles of kids who were singled out, and didn’t see the evidence the teachers were claiming. These few selected boys would be held back while the rest of us put our clothes back on. I never did find out what happened with them, but have my suspicions.

I should point out that the kids in this gym class were integrated. Many of the little white kids, such as myself hadn’t grown any hair yet, and had little peckers. Some of the older black kids had the whole works, with glistening curly black hair ‘down there.’

At one point in the year, we had swimming. All the naked boys were shuffled into the pool room. It was a tiled room, with a high ceiling, and no windows. Yes, we swam naked. Now, I’m told this was fairly common in the 1950s and maybe the 1960s, but this was the early 1970s. Perhaps ours was the last school on Earth to do that. I don’t know.

We were given no swimming instruction. I don’t even recall the teachers being in the room. We just splashed around in the pool. Those who could swim, did so. Those who could not, hung along the wall at the shallow end just shivering and conversing a bit.

One day, a big black kid start swimming near me as I hung against the narrow wall, standing about chest deep in the water. He came really close to my dick several times, then squeezed behind me, between my ass and the pool wall, pinching my ass as he passed by. He then rose out of the water, and commanded me to meet him behind the cafeteria after school.

After school that day, I never ran to the bus stop so fast in my life! I was scared for days that he would find me and along with several of his friends would pound me to death. I was so scared, I dropped out of gym class. I just quit going, wandering around the halls, or escaping out of the building until the period was over. Again, I was scared to death that I’d be in big trouble.

I was never found out, and my report card showed a B for gym class every time.

Very occasionally, a kid might have an erection. At one point I was one of them. I wrote that up in a bolder version of this story here: Middle School Madness.

My own take on all this was of several sorts:

1. I was terribly embarrassed to be naked with the other kids.

2. I was scared to death by the bigger kids. Without clothes I felt even more vulnerable.

3. I was somewhat sexually excited. I had started secretly masturbating at home, had no access to any sort of porn, so this much nakedness, even if all young and male, was ‘interesting.’

4. I knew however, that springing wood would be real trouble, and somehow managed not to get erect during any of those showers or swimming ‘lessons,’ except one time. When I think back on it, it’s just amazing that as a kid of that age, I had that much control.

So that was my seventh grade gym class. That, at least, was better in eighth grade at East High School.

During my Madison High days, I, who had been open-minded toward black people, learned to hate them. Over the years, as if by slow-acting magic, I became more balanced in my reasoning, knowing that black people, if given the same opportunities as white people will excel to the same degree. I met black people who were empathetic, lovely individuals, and so finally came to a much better mindset.

However, I seem to maintain a very bad attitude toward school administrators:) And that’s hilarious, because I sometimes play pickleball with a university president. OK, so I don’t hate him.

For years there was talk of class action suits against the school board, but nothing ever came of it. After all, they were just ‘doing their best’ in the face of federal mandation.

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Ickiest Thing

The ickiest thing: fisting another man's butt

I was recently asked about what was the ickiest sexual thing I have done.

I once put my whole hand in another man’s butt.

He was a friend. We had jerked each other off several times. He’d ask for anal fisting now and then, and I’d always decline. He kept practically begging, and finally, I caved.

He put some very viscous fluid in his microwave to warm it. He said it was some sort of veterinary liquid. It was clear, had no odor, and was very thick and slippery.

He got on all fours while I coated a finger in the slippery goo. I slowly introduced my finger into his anus. That wasn’t so bad. I’ve joyously put my finger in many female and male asses in my time. I’ve always enjoyed the tight feeling around my finger, especially when they are orgasming.

I pulled it out slowly, and went in with two fingers. I massaged his prostate gland for a while, which he was loving. A few drops of semen dripped out of his erect penis. I’ve learned this is natural. From compressing the prostate, where semen is stored, it will naturally be expelled.

My penis was also erect, but I ignored it.

I withdrew the two fingers, and put in three – ever so slowly. That went well, so I put in four. His anus was becoming relaxed.

Now was the time to go for the big event. I coating my whole hand with goo. Then, just in case we were successful, I also coated my lower arm half way to my elbow.

Slowly, very slowly, I pressed and twisted, and soon all five fingers were within him. He had me stop for a while to get used to it. When he was ready, I pushed and twisted some more, and felt his anus expanding to take my whole hand. Finally, I made it all the way in. He was in heaven. I just held still for a bit, then decided to go exploring. I pushed in farther, which was easy now, since the bulk of my hand was past his sphincter. I found a constriction about ten inches in that curved off to one side. I believe this is where the rectum meets the large intestine. He was wincing and going ‘ouch’ now and then, but he wanted me to push on. Finally, I was about 12 inches in with my fingers worked in around the curve, and as far as I could go. Or at least as far as I could safely go, in my opinion. I was worried that I could actually burst or damage his colon.

We had seen videos where you see a man on all fours like my friend was, but the other man’s arm is buried inside almost to the shoulder. In other videos, you’ll see a man on his back, and you can watch a bump move around within his stomach area, pressing upward against the abdominal wall, all the way up to the rib cage.

We weren’t able to accomplish that. I was happy with my 12 inches. In fact, I pulled back out a little bit so I could do some exploring. I figured I might be able to feel his kidneys, stomach, spleen and liver from within there. I imagined doing this to a woman, and finding and gently massaging her ovaries. Would that be as delicious for her as testicle massage is for us guys? I was thinking how fun it would be to get my fingers around his bladder and give it a little squeeze. I’ll bet that would be interesting if it had some fluid in it. But the definition of what I could feel inside him wasn’t very good. It was all just squishy feeling, except for his backbone.

After a while, he expressed doneness, so I very slowly removed my hand. It was difficult for him to expand enough for me to get the widest part of my hand back out, but of course we managed it. I figure anything that goes in can come out.

I went into his bathroom expecting the worst. I figured I’d be covered in poop. But no, I was clean as a whistle except for the goo on my hand and arm. However, that stuff wasn’t particularly water-soluble, so it took forever to wash it off. BTW, I should mention too, that there was never any odor. It seems my friend had given himself an enema before my arrival, for which I was very thankful.

In conclusion, while anal fisting isn’t something I’d want done to me, and I’m not particularly a fan of doing it, it made my friend very happy. I did stay erect the whole time, so I must have enjoyed it more than I’ll admit. He and I jerked each other off afterward.

Shortly after that day, I moved out of town, so we never repeated the experience. I’m not sure I would have if he had asked.

I believe this practice is highly dangerous. I present this account only for your amusement, and strongly caution you not to try it yourself. I actually met a guy who had undergone a colostomy from giving himself a high-pressure enema, so accidents, horrible accidents, can happen. I’m not sure how strong the rectum and large intestine are, but since there are so many other and fun ways to have fun and give yourself orgasms, I recommend those instead.

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Clueless

In my lifetime so far, I have run into a few clueless, oblivious, or just plain stupid people or sexual situations.

I was dating a beautiful woman. I knew it might be pushing beyond her boundaries, but I asked her whether she’d like to go to the nude beach with me. To my delight, she accepted. However, there was one condition: She wanted her two brothers to come along. I figured a chance to see her nude would be worth it, even with those encumbrances.

The weather was perfect. We got to the beach and stripped off all our clothes. I was very happy to see her naked, and have her see me. I guess I’m a bit of both a voyeur and an exhibitionist. I kind of liked the idea of being naked with the guys, too. Her older brother turned out to be a nice and interesting guy. The younger brother was a bit slow in the head. I think maybe he had something like autism, although he was fairly chatty. What was rather amazing about the kid is he sported an erection almost the whole time we were there. Everyone ignored his erection, and a good time was had by all.

For a short time, I dated a woman who turned out to be more of a nymphomaniac than I could handle. For instance, she’d knock on my door at 11pm wanting sex, even though I had told her earlier in the day I needed time to myself. We’d fuck, then she’d wake me up again at 3am wanting more. It was just too much!

One time at a restaurant with this woman, she started trying to unbutton my pants under the table. The tablecloth may have partially obscured the view, but I wasn’t so sure. I pushed her hand away, and a minute later she tried again. I scowled and said I didn’t want that. Still, she continued to try to unbutton me, ostensibly to give me a handjob, like five more times.

I was in the YMCA shower. It was the older style, open shower room. No stalls. It also didn’t have doors. Instead, there was a wall and another wall arranged in such a way that coming from the gym or the pool, you could walk right in, but no one could see inside. It was not soundproof. Just the opposite, as the quietest voices would echo off the tile walls. I was the only one there at the time except for a child about 11 or 12 years old. I could see by the look of his face that he was off in some way. Maybe Mongolism or mental retardation. He just came out and asked, “Does it feel nice when you touch your penis?” I don’t remember what I said if anything, but you can bet I grabbed my towel and got out of there right away.

I found another girlfriend who was more balanced than the nympho. I had a friend who knew my girlfriend was visiting. Her car was in the driveway, and there’s no way he didn’t notice. It was a good neighborhood so I left door unlocked. It was around 10pm. He just came right in as we were both naked on top of the bed. She was on her hands and knees, and I was fucking her from behind hard and long, but making sure not to cum too soon. He sat on the edge of the bed and started a conversation about politics just as if we were clothed and having tea. He didn’t make any move to participate in our activity or anything else. He just kept on talking.

She and I didn’t quite know how to react. My penis started to soften, but to her credit, she wanted to keep going. Soon I was fully erect again as Keith kept talking. She and I had a simultaneous orgasm. I’m sure it helped her that I had a finger in her ass. I think it also was helpful to have him watching. He was looking right at it, yet he didn’t say a thing about what had just happened. He just kept going on about Republicans and Democrats.

When I was working as a general welder, I would sometimes hire a kid to fetch and carry. It was better than arranging clamps to have him just hold things in position while they were being tacked. He was fine kid but his thinking was kind of slow.

One day after work, I invited him to the nude beach. He had not been to a nude beach before, and was excited. I explained that when people get to the end of the trail at the bottom of the cliffs, they take off their clothes and enjoy the sun. This was the more conservative kind of nude beach where nothing of a sexual nature takes place.

As we were walking down the trail, he removed his shirt then his shorts. He was nude half-way down. People just didn’t do that there. I was embarrassed, but didn’t say anything. When we hit the bottom, he spread his towel right away, and started slowly jerking off. His penis was fully erect. I explained to him that it wasn’t proper etiquette. He surely heard my words, but didn’t change what he was doing in the least. I was so embarrassed, I walked away and headed up the beach. In retrospect, that was inappropriate of me, but hey, I was young.

When I returned, he was still masturbating right there in front of everyone. The funny thing is, there were around 6 men and two women standing around him, admiring what he was doing, and holding on a conversation as he continued to wank.

In my late teens, I had a jack-off buddy. This was in a time when masturbation was pretty much never discussed, and considered bad news in much of society. One day, while standing in front of a store with a lot of people standing around, he quietly asked whether I’d like to get off with him later that day. No one could hear him, but as he said it, he made the universal sign of forming his fingers in the shape of holding his penis, and moving his hand back and forth in front of his crotch. I don’t think he was aware of his gesture.

I had a friend who loved everything anal, but he was willing to do the things I liked also, such as practicing multiple dry orgasms, post-orgasm stimulation, and glans blame (rubbing the oiled palm of a hand over the tip of the penis). The poor fellow had no limits. He wanted me to fist him, which I did reluctantly. It should have geeked me out, but actually, I found it quite intriguing to have my hand that deep inside another person. I tried to feel and identify his internal organs. I figured I might be able to feel his kidneys, his bladder, maybe even his stomach. But all I could make out was his backbone.

On another occasion he had a 36″ (92 cm) soft dildo which he had me insert all the way except the last inch. The thing must have gone most of the way to his appendix. He loved butt plugs, enemas, everything to do with his butt. Then one day, I heard he was in the hospital. It seems he had given himself such an enema that he burst his colon and needed surgery.

I had a girlfriend who I asked to tie me down and do whatever she’d like. I had assumed this might be things like testicle massage, tickling, or an edging handjob. First she crawled all over my body and kissed me extensively. I rather enjoyed that. But then, she had this notion that somehow I’d like her to open a little box of cockroaches she had collected, and set them loose all over my body.

I went to a convention. In the hotel on the first evening, I had nothing to do and was thinking about sounding, the act of inserting something in my peehole. Looking around the room, I found a ballpoint pen with a long tapered end. That would make a nice sound, but what to use for lube? The only thing there was a packet of shampoo. OK, I figured, that’ll be sufficiently slippery.

I coated the pen with the shampoo, and stuck it about 4 inches (10 cm) into my dick. It started to sting, so I removed it. It turns out shampoo and urethras don’t get along well together. The sting continued to build and build. It got so bad that the next morning, when I tried to pee, it took twenty minutes, letting out one little, but extremely painful squirt at a time. It took three days before I could walk fully upright again. The pain was just that bad. I told people at the convention I had hurt my back.

Back in the days when one could hook up with people on Craigslist, I encountered a guy who was willing to offer exactly what I wanted at the time. I was really intrigued by glans blame. For those who don’t know, when done right, it really makes a guy squirm. Then after a few minutes, the feeling changes, and a guy might feel like he’s going to pee or cum, simultaneously. In most cases, he doesn’t urinate or ejaculate, but sometimes one does let out some pee involuntarily.

So this guy started rubbing my glans, and although he was a bit too intense for my taste, it was wonderful. Then, while he was still doing that, I ejaculated. But he didn’t stop. It was terrible, excruciating, exciting, actually quite wonderful. I squirmed and tried to get away, but he just kept going. It started to sting. Finally he quit. For the next few days, there was a scab on the end of my cock, because he had worn right through the skin. It healed without a trace within a week.

When I was around 13 years old, I was into photography. This is in the days when serious photographers had a darkroom to develop their own film and make prints. I knew in my adolescent brain, that ‘real’ photographers do nudes. After all, there were always artistic nudes in Popular Photography Magazine. Not knowing any willing girls at the time, and I think not even noticing that the pictures in the magazine were all female, I asked a 13-year-old fiend to pose. He took off his clothes, and I took a bunch of pictures. When my dad came home from work that evening, he saw the negatives hanging up to dry. I got a pretty good lecture about what’s what in the sexual world, including, ‘keep my hands off boys.’ As you can tell, that lesson never completely sank in.

Those are a few of the clueless situations I’ve encountered. Leave a comment below telling us about what clueless sexual things you’ve seen, heard, or done.

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Anorexia Tale

Starting from an early age, I developed anorexia nervosa, the eating disorder.

By the time I was eighteen, I was exercising like a maniac, spending hours after school at the gym, jogging all the time, and eating very little. Very, very little.

I became dangerously thin, but didn’t realize it. I’d look down at how my thighs squished out when I’d sit on a toilet for instance, and just know I had to lose weight. Crazy, I know, but that’s really what I thought. It didn’t matter that when I looked in a mirror, I could see all my ribs. I just knew I was too fat.

Everyone told me I was exercising too much, and not eating enough. They said it wasn’t normal. It was if I couldn’t hear them. I thought they were all crazy. They didn’t exercise enough. They were just jealous.

Sometimes I’d get terribly dizzy, and have to sit or lay down for a while.

Thinking back on it now, I realized I was often passing out. One day near the end of my senior year, I passed out in class. The school nurse made a big deal about it, and ended up calling an ambulance. She called my parents, too, and I was terribly embarrassed.

I don’t remember the ambulance ride. I must have passed out again on the way. I did wake up in the waiting room at the hospital. My mom and dad were with me. They had seen me becoming thinner and thinner for so long, they, like me, didn’t believe there was anything wrong. They somehow didn’t see it when I picked at my food, and when they paid my gym membership, they must have thought that it’s not uncommon for girls to want to become very athletic. They never noticed that I didn’t play any sports. I just exercised endlessly. My sister kept telling me I was a nut case, but just thought she was being a typically bothersome kid.

Finally, an orderly led me into an exam cubicle in the emergency room. I was thinking everyone was making much too big a deal of it. I was still feeling weak, but it was probably just that I was coming down with the flu or something.

A youngish male doctor came in, all brusque, acting if I wasn’t a real person, but just someone to whom one asks questions. He kept going on and on about my diet. No, I stayed away from sugar and carbs. Of course I did. Passing out? No, I never really did until that day. “I must be getting the flu.” I told him.

He wrapped a cuff around my arm and took my blood pressure. A nurse came in and stabbed my arm for blood samples. It didn’t really hurt, because I was still woozy, probably because I had eaten too much, I figured. The doctor checked my reflexes. He stuck a tongue depressor in my mouth. He ran a stethoscope all over me. Then he parted the curtains and left the cubicle.

A nurse handed me a hospital gown. I was to change into that. I really didn’t want to, plus it was difficult. I almost passed out again in the process. The doctor returned. He felt all along my back. He felt my ribs in front. Then only saying, “May I?” and not waiting for answer, he started pressing his fingers all over my boobs, checking for lumps, I assumed.

The nurse returned with a tray. I saw something big and metally on it, but as the doctor was having me lay down, he arranged some things on the end of the table, I couldn’t really make out what the things were. He had me scoot forward, and lifted my legs up, into the things. It was weirdly comfortable having my legs higher than my head. Maybe it made the blood rush to my brain. My awareness was starting to clear up. At that moment, it occurred to me my gown probably wasn’t covering my crotch. He could see my pussy! This wasn’t good. Not at all! But then again, he was a doctor. I guessed it was OK, but still…

Then the unthinkable happened. He rubbed some goo on my puss, and before I could react, I felt his fingers pressing my labia apart. He inserted a big, cold metal thing, which I know now was a speculum. The doctor turned a screw, and spread my vagina wide open. Not only had no one ever seen my puss other than my parents when I was little, he had it jammed wide open – I could feel a sort of cool breeze in there – he was looking inside my body.

I cannot explain this, but it was the most incredible feeling. It was not sexual. It was more like I was truly being taken care of for the first time in my life. A moment later, I orgasmed. Surely the doctor noticed, but he didn’t say anything.

All too soon, he pulled the speculum out. I couldn’t see what he did next, but I felt it. He had evidently applied some goo to his finger, and pressed it slowly but surely up my butt. Even though it hurt a bit, the incredible ‘being cared for’ feeling came over me again, and I orgasmed again.

Then it was over. My diagnosis: Anexoria. It took me a year of therapy sessions to even believe it. At one point, I had convinced myself that I had a heart condition, and that was the cause for my troubles. Me, anorexia? Impossible!

To this very day, I get sick to my stomach when I watch someone eat a big cheeseburger, or eat a large meal. But, I’ve learned to accept my condition. I’ve put on weight, and am totally healthy, but I do have to make a point to eat three meals a day. There’s still a little voice inside me that says I shouldn’t eat lunch, or that a full slice of pie is way too much.

Oh, and I masturbate often. My husband knows. Oh, we have plenty of sex, but I still need to masturbate several times a day. It started that day in the hospital. Prior to that I had masturbated only occasionally. The very next day, I was a wanking fanatic, frequently thinking back to my exam, and fantasizing about it in various ways. I think to a small degree I’ve replaced my eating disorder with a masturbation disorder, and that’s alright with me [she laughs].



Although less common, boys can also become anorexic