Tall, Overweight, And Socially Inept

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Controlling The Boner Through Chronic Masturbation

Jesus fucking Christ that last chapter was a bummer, eh? Let’s cheer this shit up with some… that’s right you thought it: teenage hormones resulting in chronic masturbation.

You know you’ve hit rock bottom when you’re lying face down in a towel, and you realize that it’s your “cum towel” and still, you don’t remove your face. All you manage to do is think Ahh fuck it, at least it’s my own cum. Not that that makes anything about this any better. Not that long ago I had a cold so I just laid on the couch and played video games and didn’t shower and wore the same t-shirt four days in a row and when I finally took it off, the fabric under the armpits had turned to cardboard. This is also the reason you have to switch around your cum towels. If you don’t, it will become obvious what you use them for.

Right around the time I realized that life is pointless and that I wanted to die, my boners had become less and less random and more connected to certain events. A hint of a boob here, some tight pants there, and just the general misfortune of my groin bumping into things. However, I had not yet taken control over the boners, I didn’t even know this could be done.

Boners usually occurred at the worst possible time and didn’t exactly go away because you told them to. For some lovely reason, I knew that some channels showed porn after midnight. Sure, internet porn was a thing in 2006, but I didn’t have my own laptop until much later. So, there I was, learning how to jack it to premium cable.

The problem was that we only had access to these lewd options in the living room, and this was just one corridor away from my parents’ room, and they always slept with the door open. I would come to discover that in order to get access to the incredible land of vigorous silicone bazongas, all I had to do was to make a little switcheroo with the cards in the TV-boxes and presto, privacy was achieved.

You just had to remember to switch back the cards when the deed was done, although staying up to watch the National Hockey League in the middle of the night was always a solid excuse, luckily, I never had to use it. My parents were gracious enough not to ask or were oblivious. I assume the former. But until the glorious day on which I discovered that you could switch the cards in the boxes, I watched with the sound off or just very low, which more often than not lead to some panic-fueled muting whenever someone came, usually on someone’s face.

The absence of sound also allowed me to hear if dad was about to go the bathroom, which would buy me a few seconds to turn everything off, stuff my thingamabob down my pants and run into my room. At first, I didn’t even know what to do. I just laid there. I had experienced the sensation of lying on my stomach at a time when my whatsit decided it seemed like a good idea to stand up for a while. It was a good one.

But when I lay there, I didn’t even know how to do what I was supposed to do, or why for that matter. Tits were bouncing on the screen, vaginas being massacred by superhuman penises, but still, I didn’t manage to transfer the rubbing on the screen to something I could do to myself. Hence, the first time I managed to cum I did it without even touching myself.

At least I think I did, I’ll admit the details are a bit hazy at this point, however, many years later it now happens to be. The only reason I didn’t think I had just pissed myself right there on the couch was that if it was piss that had just come out of me, I had a serious medical condition. When I finally learned how to touch myself, the whole procedure became a lot different.

Showers became longer, but not because I showered longer than I usually did, but because I shook the banana with the shower running so that the noise of the falling water would cover up that of my foreskin moving up and down. For some reason, jacking off had to make a certain amount of noise.

I tried pulling the lever in the shower, my own lever that is, but I quickly came to the conclusion that this took up so much more time because of the lack of friction and grip. Because of this, wanking in the shower became a rare occurrence. I never was a lotion kind of guy. Late-night TV didn’t last long as my go-to-source for images of humping.

Since the internet wasn’t bound by time, you didn’t have to wait till after midnight to crackle-schmackle with the help of some online video. Unfortunately, the only computer I had access to was the massive stationary one in mom and dad’s bedroom. I came of age at the very precipice of the internet revolution.

The internet was fully here, but only the upper echelons of society had personal computers that were only used by one person. The rest of us had shared family computers, and ours were in our parents’ bedroom, and there was no chance in hell that I was going to even try to touch myself in there when anyone else was even remotely close to the house.

So, it was only possible to do the deed with my seed on those special days when I came home before anyone else. It was often a stressful experience since anyone could come home at any minute but since the slamming of a door was always quite distinct, I managed to hide the fact that I had just been greedy with my weeny, whenever someone came home in the middle of it all.

This was also the start of my own drop into the land of porn. In the beginning, simply a girl taking her clothes off was enough for me to spill my beans, but this started to vary depending on mood and the amount of time I thought I had to schlick my dick. Some deepthroating here, a gangbang there, and whoopsy daisy, I was watching a girl suspended from the ceiling being whipped in a dungeon.

Something I found about “releasing stress” is that as soon as you’re “finished,” whatever you’re watching to “keep you going” becomes disgusting and you want it out of your sight as soon as possible.

It’s not until you’re “finished” that you realize that a girl from Mississippi hanging upside down in a horribly lit basement with two bowling balls clamped to her nipples, her hair tied the floor, a vibrator the size of Jupiter torturing her clit, screaming “Please, can I cum?!” isn’t exactly pleasing to the eyes or the ears. And just seconds before you couldn’t take your eyes off it, unless you heard something that sounded like someone was approaching the bedroom door. It was a bit frustrating, being so horny but also so hopelessly alone.

When I was 20, I had never even kissed a girl. I mean properly kiss, like my tongue being more intimate with the back of your mouth than your dentist. My view of myself was a bit skewed. It’s weird being unpopular but at the same time head over heels in love with yourself. I hated my life, but I didn’t hate myself. I feel like those two things are usually intrinsically linked. But somehow, I broke that bond, and I’m not quite sure how.

Back then, when I hung out with these seemingly cool people who had been in and out of a number of people and explored every hole possible, I honestly thought Who cares?! The only reason I seemed to not give a fuck about my inexperience is that when you struggle with your will to live it’s difficult to actually give a fuck about anything.

What’s there to care about if you might be hit by a train tomorrow? Not by accident, on purpose. In my pitiful defense, I think I never got a girlfriend until very late because there weren’t any girls that I actually wanted to be with. I mean, there was a load of girls that I wanted to fuck, sure, that’s just your fucking libido, I can’t do anything about that.

But I think I was possibly enough of a good guy to realize it’s shitty to just fuck a girl and leave without saying a word. I mean, the guys around me who got to fuck did so because they had girlfriends that they wanted to hang out with. I didn’t have that many guy friends that I wanted to hang out with. It’s like when you’re looking at a girl and you think to yourself Do you wanna fuck that girl? Sure. Do you wanna talk to her for longer than 5 minutes? Hell no! Hence no sex.

On the other hand, being a nerd and an outcast didn’t exactly help. Let’s be honest here, I might not have wanted to talk to them, but they didn’t want to talk to me either. It wasn’t like I’m too cool for you, please stay in your lane, you basic bitch. It wasn’t like that, they were too cool for me, I’m the weird son of a bitch in this scenario. I’m the weird son of a bitch in every scenario. Every single one of them.

I sort of became okay with the fact that I had the sexual experience of a castrated bunny. I didn’t have some friends creepy divorced mom take my virginity when I was fifteen and a half. And that was dull, but okay. I probably wouldn’t have objected to it. This is gonna scar me for the rest of my life but what isn’t gonna do that, so why the hell not??? During one of the years at university, the closest I got to sex was someone else’s girlfriend somehow accidentally biting my ear… I liked it. Or maybe I was just starved of attention. Or maybe both.

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