Man vs Cock: Masturbation Fasting is Killing Me

Could you stop wanking for even one week? This guy did and it made him near enough lose his mind...
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Could you stop wanking for even one week? This guy did and it made him near enough lose his mind...

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Like most men that you’ll come across I love my cock. It’s one of the few things that I like about myself. It never lets me down when I feel lonely, and there’s always something funny to do with it. Have you seen a Dick Dance? You really should do. It’ll change your life. Unfortunately my relationship with my penis has become slightly repetitive and addictive. It’s safe to say that I’ve become addicted to knocking one out and that I will do whenever I have the opportunity. I actually long for the day where wanking becomes boring because I think I’ll take over the World with all the time that I would save.

My average wanking schedule starts in the morning where I’ll try and fit one in between 7 and quarter to eight, which is the very, very latest that I can get up for work without being late. Invariably I am almost late but mostly manage to slid in with a few minutes to spare, so no ones the wiser. How work will feel about me being late because I can’t cum as quickly as I could when I was 17 isn’t worth thinking about. If I have time in the afternoon I’ll slink off to the bedroom and attempt a danger wank; one of life’s simplest pleasures. Even though I would be mortified to such an extent that my cock would drop off if I was ever caught, the need to be quick can make things exciting: porn on low volume, underwear not even down properly, the simplest of movements as not to make unnecessary noises and strictly no moaning. No matter what people say, the danger wank is an art. As the evening dips into darkness, it gives me hours to fill with whatever I want. Usually, this is wanking until all I can ejaculate is dust and a whelp.

To begin with, this was fine, it was fun, actually it was great, I wasn’t hurting anyone (except that one time), but now it’s become a slightly obsessive behaviour that is always on the forefront of my mind. I can’t sleep until I force myself into a position where I have to wear odd socks the day after. A bit like a baby’s bottle, but veinier. On a morning it feels like I’ve forgot to stick my (albeit odd) socks on if I haven’t managed to dejizzed myself. Which is why I’m giving up wanking cold turkey. Incidentally, cold turkey is a brilliant name for when you can’t get it up for someone.

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Orgasm Addict: Confessions Of A Teenage Tosser

Why I Stopped Faking Orgasms

Day One

Like all the diets that New! magazine tries to tell us are the BEST ONES YET! HONEST! the first day is always the easiest. Staying focused on the end goal, which in most cases is losing some weight but in my case is not wiping myself clean with yesterday’s dirty socks, is the way forward. Flimsy mental blocks are erected to keep yourself busy so you don’t fall into bad habits, stuff yourself with Pop Tarts and have to be cut out of some skinny chinos in River Island. Again. So, instead of doing what I shouldn’t be this afternoon, I’ve been experimenting with waking up sleeping cats and see how long it can take them to overpower you and steal your tin of tuna. Unfortunately, human evolution wins out again and, despite what Cravendale keeps trying to tell us, cats will never be able to not be domesticated.

About 7, when I would usually excuse myself with a doff and a bow, my stomach started turning flips and all that was on my mind was that exhilarating moment when the stresses and strains of life aren’t screaming in my face like Carl Weathers in Predator. But I wasn’t allowed to have that moment so I had a Weightwatchers Hot Chocolate instead. It wasn’t the same.

Like Newt informs a permed Ripley in Aliens, “they mostly come at night, mostly.” Which is entirely true. I don’t know if it’s because it’s the first time all day that everything down there has had the chance to swing around freely, like a woman taking off a bra when they get in the house, or because there’s a context dependant doohickie in my brain, but there was so much more temptation to just do it quickly, and no one would know than when I was, say, watching Pointless with my Gran. Not that I would do it in the room, twice shy obviously, but because there was nothing else going on until it was time for tea.

I hope my genitalia don’t mind not getting much attention over the next week. They won’t just unscrew themselves and leave will they?

Day Two

Waking up each morning and not greeting my Morning Glory with a swift and angry handshake was beyond unusual. It’s become an almost routine part of my morning schedule. I’ll wake up, stretch what needs stretching, rub what needs rubbing and then set about sorting myself out downstairs. Nothing can wake you up, or make you tired, like a wank. Some people have cups of coffee first thing to stimulate their bodies but I can do the same without potentially giving myself diarrhea.

Without a half hour exercise in futility setting me back I reach the bus stop just in time to get verbally abused by some college pricks. Normally, this would set off a Hulk like transformation (in my head at least) but today, because of my abstinence, the only Hulk is in my pants. And unfortunate green colouring aside, this abuse sets me up for a day full of semis, sometimes prompted by nothing more than a coquettish grin from a kind stranger with a moustache to holding a mannequin in an inappropriate place.

By night time I’m so focused by the almost constant blood flow in places that there isn’t normally blood surging that I can’t think of anything other than whacking it out and just putting myself out of my misery. But imagine if I told my grandchildren that I couldn’t last less than 48 hours without masturbating. They would be disgusted in me (for numerous, justified reasons).

Testicle update: no unusual size issues, although they could do with a shave. No mutinous muttering yet.

Day Three

I wake up on Day Three feeling unusual. My skin is sore and red, I feel incredibly bloated and I could rut at Stephen Merchant. I’m essentially Phil Mitchell but with more hair. Perhaps I used too much soy sauce on my noodles which I’m hoping that will help me lose some weight, or perhaps this is the beginning of the mass exodus of my sperm. I’m not entirely positive which direction they are going to be coming out, but I can guarantee that it isn’t the usual place.

After work, which was full of lustful thoughts followed by crushing despair thinking that I would have to suffer from mass body reconstruction just to get a playful wink from someone, I meet a friend for dinner.

I’ve known him for about fifteen years and never once have I considered him good looking, or vaguely sexual. Yet, as I sat there talking about nonsense with him, he seemed to grow more and more manly and less like a wet cabbage in some sexy lingerie. I was horrified and aroused at the same time. The only thing that I can compare it to is looking at Jodie Marsh. She’s a good looking lady but she has the body definition of She-Hulk and would crush your balls without a second thought. It wouldn’t even take her that much effort to do it either. So, because of the Wank Free Zone that is my life, I now fancy my best friend a little, but it feels like I fancy my Mam at the same time. Which isn’t exactly ideal.

Testicle update: still no massive upgrade, but pictures of David Beckham in his pants for H&M have been released and I’ve a feeling that this is the opening salvo in the Grand Diaspora of my man-juices, which to be honest, I would welcome at this point.

Day Four

I’ve always truly believed that bi-polar disorder was the privileged plaything of your Kerry Katonas, Lindsey Lohans and Tulisai, and I’ve always wondered what the fevered flipping from the extremes of emotions was like. We all get a little bit nuts when we’re walking through a new place and we see that there’s a Yo! Sushi there, but apparently bi-polar is a much bigger deal. And I wouldn’t say that I had bi-polar, because I’m Northern and frankly I don’t have the time, but this week (of which I’m only 4/7ths of the way through) has caused me some really funky feelings.

I’m seemingly unable to control my anger anymore and throw massive hissy fits about the most insignificant things. For instance, we had ran out of spaghetti so I had to have some shite pasta instead. I went full on J-Lo. I had to blame my mother because I couldn’t blame the fact my schlong hasn’t seen any action this week. That would’ve just made the whole situation awkward. Only an hour after my dramatic outburst that The Stage called ‘juvenile, shrill and uninformed’ I was reduced to sobbing in my room because the music on Candy Crush was too maudlin. The music from fucking Candy Crush made a grown man sob big drops of salty liquid.

We can all see the spunk joke there so I’m not going to debase us all by making it.

Testicle update: I’m starting to think that they aren’t going to engorge or anything. They have, however, been looking at mortgage rates and things about stamp duty, so thats’s worrying.

Day Five

One of my friends says that the reasons there’s so many wars is because they all originate in countries that have forbidden masturbation. Countries that I can now completely empathise with. I’ll be donning a burkha when the call finally comes to ban it along with those little pods that people put into currys that make your mouth taste like Peter Jackson took an Ent sized shit in it. I feel their pain.

If there’s men and women out there who don’t know the sweet, sweet feeling of self-release then I can understand why they get so pissy over everything. I’ve wanted to slice people’s noses open for the smallest of remarks and then stick my dick up the bleeding gash. Which may sound dark, and yeah, you’d be right. It comes from a very disturbing place, but that’s where I am sexually. The hairy tundra that resides in my pants has started to control my moods even more and the only conclusion that I can see is a full possession takes place and I become like Britney Spears; dead eyes, brilliant hair but focused on one thing.

Testicle update: They’re plotting to overthrow the World I think.

Day Six

As I barrel towards a week with masturbation with the enthusiasm of Chris Brown driving a car into a wall, or his fist into a woman’s face, I can finally see the finish line. The day long semis that are only broken by really awkward flirting with people who are a) way, way out of my league, or b) straight women are almost at an end and, although I didn’t think that this day would ever come I start to feel positive about it.

So what happens to derail me almost completely? That pesky David Beckham can’t leave me alone. Instead of just leaving his naked antics at standing around in his pants, some total numpty has to make a film about it. Fortunately that numpty is former Madonna sex partner Guy Ritchie, and not someone who knows who to make actual films because having David Beckham, everyone’s favourite man-crush (even some straight men I’ve noticed) running around in his pants could have been a massive cause for concern.

With Beckham’s tackle firmly packed away behind what looks like a polystyrene dome and only resembling a mannequin ergonomic cock and balls there wasn’t much for me to get excited about. Which is the second thing that I can thank Guy Ritchie for; the first being for stopping Madonna’s manic sexual conquest of Europe. So thanks Guy!

Testicle update: They definitely feel squishier, but that’s to be expected. There’s now billions of potential babies that’ll never exist swimming around inside there. Had roast chicken and pasta for tea. Tasted better than liquid baby juice. If anyone I know is reading this, please suffix an ‘I imagine’ at the end of that last sentence.

Day Seven

The final day. The very last day that my self imposed sanction of not touching myself in the pants is intact. After today I think I’m going to touch myself in the pants every single minute of every single day because I can. I’ve really missed throw human yoghurt around; more than I thought I would. Would I do it less and let it have less of an impact on my life? Probably not. It wasn’t hurting anyone (as I say, apart from that one time) and although it makes me late for work, and will probably ruin every sexual relationship that I may have in the future, its still really, really fun.

I imagine that how I’m feeling is similar to how East Berliners felt when they could finally escape from the nightmare of Communism and really yeasty bread. No wonder they looked so happy on the news when it was being pulled down; being bloated since 1961. No one needs that.

If someone ever recommends that you give up any sexual experience for any amount of time, immediately decline, find the nearest sharp weapon and dig it straight into their eye. You don’t need these people in your life and if you stop them forcing their sexual terrorism on someone else, you’ll probably get into Heaven, if Heaven existed.

This week has been a one of tears and tantrums (all me) and I’ve enjoyed none of that. So, go away because I already have YouPorn up and a hand down my pants.

Testicle update: Who cares anymore? They’ll be shrivelled nuggets of awesome very soon.