Thursday, 26 March 2015

The Joy Of Socks

84 days porn-free

This post is gross. Copious and heartfelt apologies in advance.

It always used to be about the 'wankerchief.' Back in the day, when teenagers of my generation were whacking off with reckless abandon in every spare minute, this was the weapon of choice in the war of 'mopping up' the veritable gallons of precious bodily fluid expressed at every available opportunity. It's probably much the same now and, I have to say, I envy the parents of teenage boys very little.

I don't know about you guys, but when I discovered wanking, there was jizz everywhere; on tissues stuffed down the side of my bed (as if I thought my mum wouldn't notice); on the wall of the shower; between the keys of the computer (I told you this was gross); in my pants; on my chest (one time I even got it in my own ear). What I'm saying is, it wasn't pretty. But did we care? Did we fuck.

We were (are) obsessed with our dicks. How many times could we do it? How far could we shoot it? How much would come out? What did it taste like (yeah, I went there)?

Then came the era of the 'wankerchief': an old or unwanted t-shirt or pair of pants which would be used, in place of tissues, to catch your daily deposits of teenage jism. It quickly became gross but that didn't stop us using it for way longer than was reasonable. Each night (for what better time for self abuse than after dark?), we would pull out the rag, stiff and cracking with dried semen (eww) and jizz into it again, and again, until it was like a palimpsest of sedimentary genetic material.

But this couldn't go on forever. No t-shirt, however robust, could ever withstand this nightly hosing. The rags became too much even for our filthy teenage sensibilities and would be clandestinely binned, or even ceremonially burnt. And then, like a vision; like something so obvious finally becoming clear, there came socks!

Socks! Not only the best item of clothing to both put on and take off, but – more importantly at this age – shaped almost exactly like a material-made condom! How good? Unlike the wankerchief, the sock had the advantage of being enclosed at one end, meaning that one could just slip it on, go cock-berserk and not have to worry about your jizz ending up all over yourself, your surroundings, your clothes or – worst of all – somewhere you couldn't find at all.*

* The enjoyment of many-a teenage wank was curtailed by the knowledge that, precisely the time it was over, a swift, thorough (and buzz-killing) clean-up would have to be undertaken.

Socks, socks, glorious socks! We'd found the answer. No longer had we any need for a fetid cum rag stinking up our (already semen-soaked) bedrooms. We had socks. And they even got washed. Not by us,* obviously, but what did we care? We now had single-serving (and endlessly 'self-renewing') clean-up devices right there in the drawer.

* Our poor mothers.

In many ways, (as for so many other things, including the term MILF) the film American Pie is to blame. This film was viewed ubiquitously by boys (and girls) of my generation, and the scene where Jason Biggs is caught sock-on-cock by his mortified parents, either gave us the idea or endorsed it as acceptable behaviour.

And this, friends, is why you should be careful when borrowing (or stealing) socks from a man. Has he wanked into them more times than you can count? Is it worth the risk? Just a little food for thought.

Wayne


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