Christ in a shopping trolley...
Discussion
Rouleur said:
br d said:
If you ever say, go for a long run, and then decide to rub Deep Heat into your aching legs DO NOT, AT ANY COST let it get on your balls.
Trust me on this.
And how did you manage to accidentally "let it get onto" your ball bag..?Trust me on this.
.
In a similar vein: when we were slightly younger and rather stupider, a couple of friends of mine were at a house-party and decided it would be funny to make their knobs glow in the dark by coating them in the contents of a couple of glow-sticks.
It was funny, but mainly because the entire party was treated to the sight of them both with their cocks in a bathroom sink full of water, glowing gently, while they tried to cool the burning.
It was funny, but mainly because the entire party was treated to the sight of them both with their cocks in a bathroom sink full of water, glowing gently, while they tried to cool the burning.
br d said:
I suppose I should have expected the PH angle but seriously, it really smarts, as in, charge to the bathroom screaming.
If you ever have reason to extract information from a man forget water-boarding, just smear Deep Heat round his nuts.
If you want to rub a man's nuts for information, thats cool and everything, but personally I think I'll stick with water-boarding.... If you ever have reason to extract information from a man forget water-boarding, just smear Deep Heat round his nuts.
br d said:
If you ever say, go for a long run, and then decide to rub Deep Heat into your aching legs DO NOT, AT ANY COST let it get on your balls.
Trust me on this.
I once applied some of that mentholated cooling talc down the front of my hot and sweaty shorts, thinking it would be an easy way to cool down..... Trust me on this.
Jesus fvckin' wept, within two minutes I was hoofing my junk into the cold shower, half dressed, almost screaming in agony.
They NEED to put some sort of warning on that stuff!!!!!!
Whilst at school many moons ago, during the lower years when I lived in a shared dormitory, there was a boy who was a particularly keen and expert w
ker. Let's call him Colin.
Every night without fail - sometimes two or three times - Colin would go at it under the sheets like an epileptic jackhammer. He wasn't shy about it either. He was proud of the fact that he did his best post-lights out to wear it down to a tattered, dehydrated nub.
He knew all the tricks of the master masturbater: a favourite was to first sit on his hand to make it numb, so it "felt like someone else was doing it".
One day he hit tosser's gold. When trying to recreate the best possible approximation of a lady garden for his nightime activities, and, having limited options, he scrabbled around his drawers until he came upon an old pot of brylcream. He dipped his fingers in, rubbed them gently and thoughtfully together, and grinned with this new slippery discovery.
There was no stopping him then. Night (and occasionally day) he went at it. We talked in hushed tones around him. We were in awe of his prodigious appetite for burping the worm.
Eventually it just got too much. We were all sleep deprived. We had to stop him.
One Sunday he went home, leaving his drawers unattended. A plan was hatched.
Obviously none of us wanted to be the one to fish around in his belongings, so we drew lots. A boy got the short straw, and we pushed him towards Colin's bed area. He gently opened the bedside drawer, and what faced us was like a heroin user's drug paraphenalia but for Colin's particular vice. Pots upon pots of brylcream, tissues, copies of Reader's Wives, and even condoms for Saturday night "posh wks". This guy was an expert.
Carefully we mixed the Deep Heat, Tiger Balm and Vicks VapoRub into the tub of his lubricating pomade.
The next few hours went very slowly...
Eventually, the time came. The lights were switched off, and all was quiet in the dormitory. The tension, however, was palpable. To a man, we were urging Colin to get one up and get choking.
Then... a squeak of bed spring. It had begun. A collective exhalation of tension hushed through the air.
A few minutes later, the drawer scraped open. A scratching sound, the gentle click of a plastic lid being undone.
Silence...
I don't think I've ever heard such an inhuman sound. It was truly shocking: piercing, animal, ragged. Colin sprinted down the dormitory - as best he could with pyjamas round his ankles - exploded out through the door and disappeared into the hallway. We all jumped out of bed, gasping with laughter, and raced after him.
Colin was whimpering, and not being very tall, was struggling to dunk his red and shrivelled member into a sink full of cold water, sweating as though he's eaten a vindaloo.
Colin had the next day off school. We never heard his bed squeak again.
ker. Let's call him Colin.Every night without fail - sometimes two or three times - Colin would go at it under the sheets like an epileptic jackhammer. He wasn't shy about it either. He was proud of the fact that he did his best post-lights out to wear it down to a tattered, dehydrated nub.
He knew all the tricks of the master masturbater: a favourite was to first sit on his hand to make it numb, so it "felt like someone else was doing it".
One day he hit tosser's gold. When trying to recreate the best possible approximation of a lady garden for his nightime activities, and, having limited options, he scrabbled around his drawers until he came upon an old pot of brylcream. He dipped his fingers in, rubbed them gently and thoughtfully together, and grinned with this new slippery discovery.
There was no stopping him then. Night (and occasionally day) he went at it. We talked in hushed tones around him. We were in awe of his prodigious appetite for burping the worm.
Eventually it just got too much. We were all sleep deprived. We had to stop him.
One Sunday he went home, leaving his drawers unattended. A plan was hatched.
Obviously none of us wanted to be the one to fish around in his belongings, so we drew lots. A boy got the short straw, and we pushed him towards Colin's bed area. He gently opened the bedside drawer, and what faced us was like a heroin user's drug paraphenalia but for Colin's particular vice. Pots upon pots of brylcream, tissues, copies of Reader's Wives, and even condoms for Saturday night "posh w
ks". This guy was an expert.Carefully we mixed the Deep Heat, Tiger Balm and Vicks VapoRub into the tub of his lubricating pomade.
The next few hours went very slowly...
Eventually, the time came. The lights were switched off, and all was quiet in the dormitory. The tension, however, was palpable. To a man, we were urging Colin to get one up and get choking.
Then... a squeak of bed spring. It had begun. A collective exhalation of tension hushed through the air.
A few minutes later, the drawer scraped open. A scratching sound, the gentle click of a plastic lid being undone.
Silence...
I don't think I've ever heard such an inhuman sound. It was truly shocking: piercing, animal, ragged. Colin sprinted down the dormitory - as best he could with pyjamas round his ankles - exploded out through the door and disappeared into the hallway. We all jumped out of bed, gasping with laughter, and raced after him.
Colin was whimpering, and not being very tall, was struggling to dunk his red and shrivelled member into a sink full of cold water, sweating as though he's eaten a vindaloo.
Colin had the next day off school. We never heard his bed squeak again.
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