I had this friend who used to brag to us all the time that he could catch his cum in his mouth without fail every time he masturbated. He actually wrote down how many times he successfully did it. 327. I’ll never forget that number. And every day at school, he would talk about this. It was always during lunch my sophomore year of high school, too..so it was extremely unnecessary. He used to always try to demonstrate his techniques with packets of mayonnaise but we’d always threaten to move tables so he’d stop. He was really one of those people who needed attention constantly. Aside from those times at lunch, he was a completely normal dude. Like…even after class we’d ask him about that stuff and be like “dude, what was with that cum stuff at lunch,” and he’d always look at us like we were crazy and say “what the hell are you talking about?” I’ll never forget that classmate. His great personality will always be remember but his perplexing obsession with catching his own ejaculate in his mouth will live on forever at my previous high school. He was a one of a kind guy. His name was Norman Reedus.
I went to Dairy Queen a while ago; you know, Dairy Queen? Well anyways there was an insane number of people there, and I couldn't get in. Then, I looked at the banner hanging from the ceiling, and it had "Free ice cream" written on it. Oh, the stupidity. Those idiots. You, don't come to Dairy Queen just because there is free ice cream, fool. It's only free ice cream, FREE ICE CREAM for crying out loud. There're even entire families here. Family of 4, all out for some Dairy Queen, huh? How fucking nice. "Alright, daddy's gonna order the sundae." God I can't bear to watch. You people, I'll give you free ice cream if you get out of those seats. Dairy Queen should be a bloody place. That tense atmosphere, where two guys on opposite sides of the U-shaped table can start a fight at any time, the stab-or-be-stabbed mentality, that's what's great about this place. Women and children should screw off and stay home. Anyways, I was about to start eating, and then the bastard beside me goes "Cone, extra fudge." Who in the world orders extra fudge nowadays, you moron? I want to ask him, "do you REALLY want to eat it with extra fudge?" I want to interrogate him. I want to interrogate him for roughly an hour. Are you sure you don't just want to try saying "extra fudge"? Coming from a Dairy Queen veteran such as myself, the latest trend among us vets is this, blizzard with extra Kit-Kat. That's right, extra Kit-Kat. This is the vet's way of eating. Extra Kit-Kat means more Kit-Kat than ice cream. But on the other hand the price is a tad higher. This is the key. And then, it's delicious. This is unbeatable. However, if you order this then there is danger that you'll be marked by the employees from next time on; it's a double-edged sword. I can't recommend it to amateurs. What this all really means, though, is that you should just stick with the banana split.
I feel bad for cumming on my turtle
Why the fuck would I do that. I should have never masturbated in front of my turtle. So basically I was watching porn in my 55 inch tv and my turtle was next to me in the couch. The porno was really old. It was a DVD from 2002. It was probably the hottest porn I have ever watch and honestly I'm probably going to watch porn on dvd instead from the internet. The only reason I had my turtle with me was because whenever I cum, I feel really depressed and lonely, so I thought that if my turtle watched with my I wouldn't feel lonely. Well I started stroking my willie, I used lotion, i took all my clothes off, but my dumbass forgot the tissues. I realized that I forgot to grab tissues but it was too late. I was going to cum. I didn't want to cum everywhere so I had to think fast. It was when I saw my turtle when I realized what I had to do. I came like a motherfucker. My turtle was painted with my cum in his tiny little face and all around his shell. He didn't say a word about it, he didn't move, he just stood there looking at me like I killed a bunch of children. I would never forgot the look my turtle gave me. His disappointing face broke my heart. I put on my clothes, I took my turtle to the bathroom and cleaned him off. What happened, happened. But my turtle would never forgot what happened. My turtle, Tommy, would never forgive me. Today, I passed by him and I know he still remembers what i did to him 3 hours ago. My only wish, is that one day, Tommy the turtle will forgive me for my horrible sins.
A tear of joy streams down my cheek, snapping me out of the beautiful and peaceful illusion the glowing screen had created in the middle of the quiet night, where only cars on the highway can be heard. I gaze out the window with a blank and disappointed face, as I mutter "Yeah, thats not me." The stars glimmer quietly in the night sky like diamonds calling out to you to reach them. I turn my wet face back to the screen to make yet another pointless comment on another pointless post. My hand becomes numb and realize what I truly desire in life, something I can only hope to harbor in front of my eyes...
My background in all my Zoom calls (and Microsoft Teams, of course) is a gaping, nearly completely shaved vagina, or pussy as the kids say. It's definitely juiced up and loosed up and ready for shovin' and there I am with my dumb little chair just positioned right in the middle of it all. I tell my coworkers that it's not a vagina, it's a picture I took while on vacation in New Zealand, that it's the entrance to a cave, ya know with glow worms, but I know they know it's just a vagina (pussy). I haven't gotten in trouble for it though, and I'm not sure why.
When I was twelve I performed a fart experiment. I wanted to capture an undiluted fart in a jar and see if after a month it still smelled. I ate some hotdogs and pizza, then had a lot of ice cream. These were all foods known to induce flatulence in me. Then I waited. I could feel my stomach rumbling as the noxious gasses inside me brewed. I filled a bathtub full of water, got my jar with a tightly fitting lid, took off my clothes and got in. I put the jar under water so it would fill, then held it inverted over my crotch. As the gas left my sphincter it rose up and displaced the water in the jar. After two or three, I had a jar filled with flatus. I gingerly placed the cap on the jar and tightened it. Now came the waiting. I put the gas-filled jar under my bed and waited the thirty days. I resisted the temptation to open it prematurely. Finally the day arrived. I got home from school and went right to my room. I closed the door. I opened the jar, stuck my nose in, and took a big whiff. The remnants of my intestinal emission was just as pungent as the flatulence I was issuing the day I began my project. The gas, for all intents and purposes, had remained unchanged. I would postulate that a fart in a jar could conceivable last for an eternity.
