Guys, you know that sometimes when you’re masturbating, you make a deep, sharp grunting noise in the back of your throat as you come? I like that. I like that a lot.
In fact, I would go so far as to say that it is the hottest thing about masturbation.
Not when I make that noise, of course. When I make that noise (as I occasionally do) it’s a shameful thing – something that I’m embarassed about, that makes me worry that the neighbours might be compiling a tally chart of just how often I make it so they can write a disgusted letter to the council. I expect you feel the same, which is why I’m here to tell you that it’s not shameful. Or disgusting. It is hot as all hell.
Warning: pervery on the horizon
Be warned that this post is building to something I’ve been informed is relatively disgusting, so if the idea of boys making this noise while they masturbate themselves to a grim and functional climax horrifies you, look away now and come back next week for some less gross but probably more enjoyable feminist ranting.
I frequently ask for cock pictures, and many generous dudes are more than happy to oblige. But the problem with having a steady stream of rock-hard dicks from myriad internet strangers is that the guys I actually fuck sometimes find it hard to compete. I say ‘problem’, but given that my current boy is a playful and competitive sort, ‘challenge’ is probably more accurate.
He once sent me an mp3 file. Yep. Just sound. Because he knows I know what his dick looks like, and he knows I’ve seen enough dick that there are phallic shapes burnt into my retinas, he didn’t want to send me something that was the same as the pictures that other people send me every day.
So he placed his phone on the arm of the sofa, set it to sound record and had a delightfully energetic and incredibly noisy wank.
A wank that ended with a grunt.
Scenes we’d like to see…
I get scenes in my head the way some people get earworms. While you might be humming the chorus from ‘Call me maybe’ because you’ve heard it five hundred times too many when walking around a shopping centre, I’ll have a snippet of hot filth that runs on a loop in my brain for approximately a week or so until I can get it out of my system by either doing it, watching it, or writing about it.
For reasons of etiquette and possibly legality, I can’t do either of the first two. So here goes:
A guy walks into the public toilet at Liverpool Street station, and goes into one of the cubicles. He’s achingly hard, probably suffering from a similar problem to my own – something hot playing on a loop inside his head.
He unzips his flies and pulls his solid cock out from his pants, gripping it tightly at the base and tugging slightly so that the foreskin rides back over the head. A tiny bit of precome leaks from his dick.
He braces himself with one hand against the back wall, and rubs hastily at his cock, biting his lip to avoid making any noise. His hand moves faster, and I can hear the slight shuffle of his hand against his skin, his straining fist rustling at his pants and jeans. It’s furtive, frantic, and there’s an element of practical necessity about it: he’s not horny in the traditional sense, he just needs release. He just needs to do this, to get there, to spray excess spunk into the toilet and relieve the pressure on his aching dick.
After thirty seconds, maybe a minute, he aims his cock down slightly, pointing it directly at the bowl, gives a few more angry rubs, then grunts.