How I masturbated at the clinic for a spermogram.

I had a friend who was trying to have a child with his wife, but it just wasn't working out. And then one day he said:

I need to go to the clinic and get my little ones checked. Get a spermogram.

He went and checked. He came back gloomy. It turned out he had few sperm, and they themselves were lazy, like seals at a rookery. They didn't swim toward their target, but lay on their sides, waiting for the egg to crawl to them, apologize for the disturbance, and be gently fertilized.

And then a truly profound thought comes to my mind:

«Fuck. I'm also interested in what's going on there.»

I decided that I also needed to go and have a spermogram.

I prepared myself like a responsible person. I didn't drink or masturbate for a week. The alcohol was tough, but manageable. But masturbating was more difficult, because there was a rubber vagina from Amazon in my nightstand, literally calling me back to the sordid stability of sin. But curiosity won out.

After all, it’s not every day that you go and get tested to see how well your future children can swim.

I arrive at the clinic. Everything is routine there, without a shred of respect for the moment. Sign here. Sign here. Wash your dick over there. Wipe your hands with this. Here's the jar. Here's the room. Jerk off there. Cum here.

I'm standing there with this jar and I feel like someone who would drop everything right now and go home. But, damn! I'm so fucking curious!

I walk into the room. It smells of bleach. No signs of masturbation. A typical medical office. Only the lights are a little dim. For a better masturbation, I guess! A row of several half-chairs, half-lounges, like at the beach. I go to the far corner. I sit down. I take out the lube I brought from home earlier. I open my phone to search the internet for something inspiring. I pull down my pants. I sit on the chair, dick in one hand, lube in the other, and try to find masturbatory zen.

And then the door is kicked open. A man comes in.

He's also holding a jar. I'm sitting there, my dick half-erect, looking at him, slightly stunned. The guy looks at me. He nods in greeting. I automatically nod back, because apparently, even in a collective sperm donation situation, good manners are the last thing to die. And you have to be friendly.

He stands right in the middle of the room, pulls his jeans down to the floor, spits loudly into his palm, and begins to jerk off furiously. It sounds like a carpenter sanding a slat.

Then he releases his penis, spits again into his palm, and continues. And all this with such a focused expression, as if he weren't jerking off next to a stranger in a clinic, but saving the country from demographic collapse.

I'm sitting there. I have lube in one hand, my dick in the other, and I catch myself freaking out, just staring at some guy jerking off for two minutes now. As the friction dries out, he periodically spits on it.

Then I finally can’t stand it and ask:

Maybe lubricants?

The man stops. He looks at me. Then at the bottle. Then at me again.

— No, I don't drink. I'm driving.

I speak:

— No, it's lubricant.

He keeps looking at me as if I were offering him work in Oriflame or Faberlic.

— Well, lube. For jerking off. Here.

And, to shorten the path between misunderstanding and enlightenment, I drip a little onto my palm and demonstrate the principle of operation using my own example.

— Ah-ah-ah

… the man perks up. Okay, come on.

He approaches and extends his palm.

I drip some lubricant onto his palm.

He makes a couple of movements, freezes, and then with absolutely sincere delight says:

Oh-oh-oh, holy shit. This is so good!

And at that moment, I realized I might be witnessing the greatest technological breakthrough in his sex life. Because his reaction made it seem like he'd been using nothing but saliva his whole life.

The man came quickly. Grunting, writhing, and missing. These days, the jar isn't the diameter of a basketball hoop. The man got ready and left.

I was left alone, caught my breath and tried to get back to my task.

I had just started to get myself in the right frame of mind when the door opened again. A man came in. A different one.

And now I'm no longer at a loss. So, as someone with experience, I immediately ask in a businesslike manner:

Lubricants?

And I hand him the bottle.

But this one turned out to be a professional. He had his own.

And you know what? I wasn't even surprised. Nothing ever surprised me anymore.

So a guy came in to jerk off nearby. So he got out his lube. Oh well.

A typical Tuesday, a typical clinic, a typical jerk-off with a stranger. We ended up coming almost simultaneously. In sync. Almost like Olympic swimmers, only the discipline was noticeably worse.

My life experience when I jerked off in the same room with strangers and at the same time acted as a lubricant ambassador.

When it was all over, I walked out and went to the nurse: «Tell me,» I said, «do you always have several people there? And no partitions?» It's like a wanking hut.

It turned out there was a partition screen in the room. Like an accordion. It was like a VIP wank-off box, damn!

But we didn't see it. No one did.

Or rather, maybe we did, but who cared? No time for interior design. But at least I'm not afraid of a group masturbation anymore!

I'm just wondering, there's only one screen for the entire room. What if there's an influx of patients? Then what? Should everyone sit in a circle and jack off?

By the way, everything was fine with the tests.

— This toy store sucks. There’s not even any Xbox games.

— Have you ever heard the story of the rich old man and the stray dog?

— No, sounds crappy.

— There was once a very old man, and one day he came across a stray dog. Well, he decided to take that dog home with him. And that dog went straight to the fire and rolled himself up in an old rug and started chewing on an old bone. Over the years, the old man bought the dog lots of expensive beds, lots of expensive meals, much better than most people get to eat. But that dog always went back to the old rug and that old bone, because he knew that that was all he really needed.

— Now, who do you think you are in this story?

— Let me guess, the rich old man who didn’t know that happiness comes from the simple things in life?

— No, you are the runny shit the dog would take every morning because he had canine colitis from living on the street so long. Now get the fuck out of my store.

Okay. I don't know if this is actually incest since it wasn't something actually sexual in the technical sense but here goes.

When I was little my mom used to put a buttplug in me (which she called a poop plug) and I'd wear it all the time. I was told only to take it out to poop, wipe my ass, then put it back in.

I was really young so I thought this was just something everybody did but one time at school I dropped it when I flushed the toilet and it ended up getting flushed. So when I went back to class I told my teacher that my poop plug got flushed down the toilet. She had no idea what I was talking about so she sent me to the school nurse.

Well after trying to explain what a poop plug was for 15 minutes the school calls the police. The police ask me all these questions and at first I'm scared because I think I'm in trouble for losing my poop plug

Turns out my mom has schizophrenia and was making me wear this shit so Satan couldn't stick his cock in my pooper and make me gay.

I sit in a sex shop, I don’t touch anyone, in the sense there are no buyers. Evening already. And suddenly a man, about forty years old, runs in with a phone in his hand.

— I found such a thing on your site, but I didn’t understand the dimensions. — And shows a photo with a lesbofal, — Can I see it in kind?

*If anyone does not know, it's like two phalluses sticking out in different directions from the place of growth.

I show him a shop window, there are four pieces. The size is about the same, the material is different. He weighed them in his hand, chose a pink gel, «This one will be heavier, and grippy.»

We go to the checkout, and he says:

“It’s not for its purpose, it’s just that you can’t carry a bat with you, it’s not good without anything either, I punched one guy in the face who refused to pay, police almost imprisoned me, but here, one hundred percent, that this is not a weapon, and no one will go to the cops, well, who will admit in public that he was beaten with a rubber dick.

Once upon a time, there was a man unlike any other. He possessed an uncanny ability to be immune from the law, an invincible figure, so to speak. No matter his transgressions, he never suffered any consequences. He was, seemingly, the master of his own destiny.

Early in life, he never received a speeding ticket, not even once. Buying and selling drugs, consorting with prostitutes, engaging in brawls, stealing cars, breaking into homes – none of it mattered. No one was looking for him. Once, he stabbed a man in a dark alley and left the knife at the crime scene, yet nothing ever came of it. Years passed, and he grew bored with the realization that no one cared about his actions. Breaking the law became a tiresome and unfulfilling pursuit.

Eventually, the police caught up with him, collecting enough long-overlooked evidence to secure a conviction. He received a sentence of 254 years to life and found himself living as a supervisor in the prison laundromat.

…Later, he was shanked for sniffing inmates’ dirty underwear…

©Mad

In the spring of 1994, a young American man named Ronald Opus decided to commit suicide. In his suicide note, he explained that he was taking this step due to financial problems and a lack of understanding from his parents. After writing the note, Mr. Opus climbed onto the windowsill and jumped from the ninth floor. He probably wouldn't have died if he had known that window washers had stretched a safety net at the seventh-floor level that day. After falling two floors, he would have landed on the net and survived, but with wet pants. But an incredible event occurred – a truly fatal stroke of bad luck! As Ronald was falling past the eighth-floor window, he was struck in the head by a shotgun blast fired by a resident of that floor. While the police were retrieving the body from the net and identifying the deceased with his head almost completely blown apart by the shot, detectives decided to charge the shooter with manslaughter. After all, if it hadn't been for the shot, Ronald Opus would have survived the fall onto the net.

Further investigation revealed new circumstances. It turned out that the elderly man was shooting at his wife, but missed, and the shot hit the window. The detectives then decided to add attempted murder (of his wife) to the manslaughter charge. It turned out that during arguments and fits of anger, he often took an unloaded shotgun from the wall and made a «warning shot» – clicking the trigger to scare his wife. This was a kind of family ritual. According to both spouses, the shotgun always hung on the wall and was never loaded. According to American law, the charge of involuntary manslaughter should now be brought against whoever secretly loaded the shotgun.

Who did it? It turned out that only their son had free access to the couple's room. Police detectives contacted his friend and learned many interesting things. Knowing that his father often threatened his mother with a weapon, the son secretly loaded the shotgun, hoping that during the first argument his father would shoot his mother, and he himself would end up in prison. However, the couple had been living peacefully for the past few weeks, which greatly upset the son. Where was he? The old man was surprised and replied that his son lived on the floor above. It turned out that this son was Ronald Opus himself! He was the one who loaded the shotgun, and when his revenge failed, in despair he jumped out of the window and was killed by his own father's shot, the very father he wanted to send to prison. The suicide took place, but not in the way Opus intended.

Although this story seems like a fabrication, it is a documented fact.

Briefing.

This little story happened years ago, before the “Five Guys” restaurant chain was popular. They were just starting out and hadn’t expanded to every state or city yet.

I was living in Michigan at the time, where there were no Five Guys, so I had never even heard of them. Around that time, I relocated to Ohio for a construction job and was staying at a hotel. Every morning, I’d come home from work and see a very nice-looking receptionist. It didn’t take long before I asked for her phone number, and she agreed.

Long story short, we began texting and what not. After a while of talking, she suddenly texted me: “Have you tried five guys?”

Imagine the shock I was in. I was stunned. Keep in mind, I had never heard of that restaurant. A few things ran through my brain:Why would she ask that? How did I come across as a gay guy? Why five guys?  At the same time? Why not one guy? And if she does think I’m gay, am I so obviously gay that she assumes I’ve tried five guys?It was a very confusing text.

As it turns out, she just wanted to bring me food from there. But the shock of that moment is something I will remember forever.

A 15-year-old story. I lived with a girl. Beautiful one. We lived together for a long time, and now we graduated from college. Work has begun.

One fine evening, she comes up to me and says that we need to build a business in order to make good money. And she had an idea.

The idea was to motivate me properly. She decided that we wouldn't have sex until I came up with and launched an interesting and profitable project.

I must pay tribute, she did well. After 3 months, she had to look for another apartment. We lived at my place.