The Faptastic Adventures of The Vassar Comikaze

written by the vassar comikaze

Whether you’d like to acknowledge it or not, guys masturbate. As it’s lonely, dirty work to spank one’s monkey, the practice is easily and frequently made fun of. I prefer to celebrate it rather than bash it. Jacking off is one of the few things which all men, regardless of race and sexual orientation, have in common. I first took part in the sacred tradition at the age of thirteen and after countless hours of practice, I’ve become the proficient wanker you know and love. As you’ll see below, it was not all fun and games on the way to the top.

It was 2002 and I wasn’t even a rookie in the NBA (National Beatoff Association). I knew what jacking off was, but I had no clue as to how go about doing it. One day in gym class, I was lucky enough to overhear a conversation older kids were having about the subject. It was difficult to make out everything they were saying, but their body language was vivid. One of the kids made a fist with his right hand, and then bent his elbow so that his knuckles were facing left. Having unsuccessfully checked to make sure no one was watching, he put his sideways fist over his crotch and began moving it violently up and down, causing he and his friends to burst into laughter. I’d seen what I needed to see, and that night I made my first attempt.

That kid in school made it look easy, but jacking off was hard! I had no trouble getting a boner initially, but after imitating my gym class hero unsuccessfully for almost an hour, my dick (and my arm) was tired. I didn’t know if or when I would finish and my dick was semi-soft, but I was determined damn it. I stayed in my computer chair, telling myself I would not get up until I achieved victory. I continued stroking my jelloey jew-cock. After several tiring minutes I felt a strong, oddly familiar build up of pressure. “This must be it,” I thought. I started pumping like Daniel Plainview. “Almost there…here it comes…” and then it came. A stream of pee shot up from my now entirely soft dick, landing directly on my legs and dripping down to the carpeted floor. I was soaked in my own urine, my room smelled like a homeless shelter and worse; I had failed.

I eventually learned that it’s way easier to wank when you have something sexy in front of you (and a boner). As my internet connection was very slow at the time, Skinemax became my main source of sexy entertainment. Fine late-night programming such as Passion Cove, Hotline, Nightcap and Hotel Erotica inspired me in those wee hours of the morning. While I didn’t care much for the plots and had difficulty relating to the characters, the abundance of boobies bouncing around pleased me to no end. I remember thinking to myself that being a porno actor would fucking rule.

When I mentioned my affinity for Cinemax’s after hours lineup to my friends at school, I was met with ridicule. They told me that it was all fake and that you can only see real stuff on the internet. I tried to play it off like I knew that already, but deep down I was mortified. I wasn’t having sex, the actors weren’t having sex…was anybody fucking?

Since I didn’t want to believe them and thoroughly enjoyed Skinemax, I continued watching. A few nights later, an episode of Passion Cove came on that would change the way I wanked forever. Jack and Sienna were making love on the kitchen table, going from missionary to doggy style until finally she was on top. It was then that I noticed something strange. There was this mysterious purple thing coming out from under Sienna’s ass that I couldn’t identify. Birthmark? No. Doodie? No. The tip of a penis? Yes. Jack’s penis was supposed to be inside her: What was it doing out there? Embarrassed and disappointed, I turned off the TV and went to sleep. My Skinemax days were over.

My separation from soft-core porn was painful, but it doesn’t compare to how I felt when I had to part with another treasured masturbation aid; the jizz rag. I originally made the switch from tissues to a washcloth because I had difficulty using them without getting spunked on. The washcloth provided the security I needed to keep myself dry. Whenever I was done with the washcloth, I’d throw it behind my desk to use another day. After about four months of repeated use, the washcloth was covered in dried, discolored semen spots. It felt like matzah. Now, it occurred to me that I should probably wash the damn thing, but I was afraid that if I did the semen would leak out and get into my other clothes, prompting a long embarrassing explanation to my parents. I didn’t want that to happen, so I just kept throwing it behind the desk.

One day I decided that I was in the mood to wank, so I took out my trusty jizz rag. It was business as usual until I noticed a small hole in the washcloth. I stopped what I was doing and unfolded the washcloth entirely. Among several other holes were these little brown ovals about the size of an ant. The holes were teeth marks; teeth marks from a mouse that ate my dried up jizz and then shat it back onto the washcloth. I didn’t know whether to vomit or cry. I was horrified. I threw it into the garbage, gagged a little bit and swore off jizz rags forever.

Logically, anyone who has had so many bad experiences masturbating would have stopped long ago. Yeah, well fuck logic.

Have a nice weekend!