Mastur-Nation

Cum Watch! - 40m

Hung single stud loves showing off to young ladies in my sexy speedos and women who fantasize about watching me jack off in public!

Im a straight guy that loves to show my stuff. I really want you to do nothing but sit next to me or catch me jacking off. Its that easy, I'm good looking with a nice package and huge cum shooter! Let's meet in XXXXXX Park for a show you'll never forget!

OR I can just come over and strip and jerk off for your viewing pleasure. It's better then watching porn or using your imagination. You can touch me when you are very turned on and overcome with your horniness. I love to perform for groups of women!

Does the thought of a well hung stud playing with himself make you curious? Do you want to catch me playing with myself in public? Are your fingers making their way to your panties thinking about my cock?

Let's talk now to satisfy your stud fantasies! Let's watch my beautiful cock explode!

Sean

As men, we often wonder what fantasies play out in a woman's mind while she masturbates. I always imagine a world of vivid colors, winged unicorns, and sparkling, complex characters, all set adrift in a sea of brand-name furniture and towels folded into attractive, presentable squares. I know it's nothing like what goes through my mind when I masturbate. I'm a guy; I can jerk off to a bus schedule.

Yet some guys wholly neglect to consider the actual substance of women's fantasies, instead projecting their own fantasies into the minds of women. Guys like Sean for example, whose personal ad might suggest women actually fantasize about encountering a pantsless man in penny loafers and a mid-century beekeeping helmet, masturbating furiously in a public park as partially chewed crackers spill from the open beaks of completely mortified ducks.

Throw in a car bomb, Sean, and you've got yourself a fantasy.

Sean ultimately fails to arouse women with his completely implausible theory however, as evidenced by my recently divorced sister reading Sean's personal ad and subsequently facing first-degree arson charges for attempting to burn down her own vagina. "I've given up on men," she wrote to me a few weeks later on Energizer letterhead, "If I need an orgasm, I can grease my own hamster."

Yet I admit in moments of kink and weakness, I've often asked my own girlfriend to watch me play with myself, which always sounds like a good idea until I see that horribly pained expression on her face, as if she's watching someone process a stool sample.

I can't blame her. I don't possess the erotic appeal of a muscled Portugese foot soldier carrying a tray of delightfully chilled cantaloupe cubes, nor do I speak that rather fluid dialect of Vaginese paired with a charming Clittorish accent that so many women find endearing. I'm a pretty plain guy and I've seen myself masturbate, and believe me, you wouldn't exactly compare my pathetic onanistic gyrations to the muted grace of a swan taking flight; rather, I look more like I'm shucking an ear of corn while giving birth to an abnormally large pheasant.

Indeed, men have utilized masturbation for centuries, primarily as a means to relieve ourselves of pent-up sexual desires. Our brains produce far more sperm than we can distribute in the intended fashion, no thanks to a brain that constantly comes up with such inspiring barstool zingers as "Excuse me ma'am, but would you like to see to see something swell?"

In fact, research shows prehistoric non-dominant males often masturbated upwards of ten times a day, suggesting dominant males often thought twice before diving into that evening's salad dressing. Unable to copulate with females because they couldn't build a fire or throw a rock for shit, submissive males frequently excused themselves from the cave, saying "I need to go slay a mastodon."

Slay the mastodon, indeed, my friends. We didn't call you guys Homo Erectus for nothing.

"God" didn't come around for another thousand years or so, so researchers still cannot speculate what prehistoric men moaned as they ejaculated.

Now, all of us have masturbated at one point or another, and in today's bonus section, WWHM unfortunately chose to step across a line from which we now cannot return.

Because today, my friends, if you wish to proceed beyond this point, you will suffer through the completely mortifying and embarrassing story about the first time we accidentally "stumbled" across masturbation as a youth. Likely, you will find the story an extreme case of "too much information." But we've all done it, and I'm just laying out a painful re-creation of the events that led up to my "discovery" so you can all have a good laugh at my expense.

Subjecting myself to the inhuman torture of relaying this story to you has tormented me for days. If you ever meet me in public and mention this story, please bring clean rags because I will be forced to shoot myself on the spot, and I don't want to soil your lovely new handbag.

Remember, proceed at your own risk.

I grew up on an isolated farm in a hippie community about 25 miles west of Seattle. We were hippies in every sense of the word; we made our own cheese, protested nuclear submarines, and used the word "burlap" as a verb.

Like most hippie families, my parents openly despised modern accoutrements and preferred to live off the land as nature intended. We grew our own food in a garden, and raised our own meat in a barn. My brothers and I meticulously raised, fed and befriended our barn animals, which my father then brutally slaughtered and served to us atop a steaming potato.

"Survival of the fittest!" he would joyfully pronounce, imploring us to simply wipe away our tears and dig in to the limbs, hearts, and minds of our closest friends.

"What does it taste like?" my father would ask.

"Lies," I replied.

Keeping in tune with nature I suppose, my parents regularly walked about the farmhouse naked. Nary a day passed when I wouldn't cross my father performing some menial farm task as if he had simply forgotten to put on clothes. Carrying a bushel of apples towards the farmhouse, his genitals flopped about wildly, as if performing a tribal dance dedicated to the joys of freedom and the value of choice.

I never felt awkward about my parents' nudity, but I certainly felt awkward about my own. Fully exposed to the elements before a shower, I would instinctively lock my knees and cup my genitals as if sequestering a small, argumentative bird. I don't know where the inclination came from, yet I remember always thinking that nudity was for adults only.

Around my eleventh birthday however, strange things started happening to my brain. Although I steadfastly held to my belief that girls were disgusting, vile creatures that spread disease and smelled bad, I began to look at them just a little bit differently for the first time.

Specifically, I developed an insane desire to lick the arms and legs of the pretty little girls in my class. I didn't know why and I never acted on the inclination, but girls' skin just looked so incredibly delicious, much like a steaming cookie. This, despite the fact if a girl actually touched me, I had to spend at least 15 minutes with my boyhood friends faux-spraying the point of contact with an imaginary can of high-grade disinfectant.

Though I didn't know it at the time, this was my first brush with my sexuality. I couldn't explain my desire to snack on the extremities of my female classmates, and I certainly wasn't mature enough to accurately connect the body buzz I felt with my newfound fascination with licking girls. It was just a strange, enjoyable buzz, and I didn't know how else to replicate it.

But then I discovered a new method.

I was sitting in my room one day tackling some of the important issues I faced as an eleven year-old boy, namely replicating tractor noises and drawing dinosaurs that killed people with lasers. My parents weren't around that particular day, so I was feeling a little mischievous. I remember sitting on my bed staring at the wall, trying to figure out what to do, when suddenly a little voice came into my head.

"Take your clothes off," it said.

It wasn't a suggestion, but more of a command. As usual, I didn't particularly want to take my clothes off, but I promptly did as I was told. I felt pretty dumb sitting in my room naked, but I felt that weird buzz coming on again, the same one I felt when I thought about chewing on a pair of skinny little thighs. I liked it.

"Go walk around the house naked," the voice said.

Six months earlier, you may as well have asked me to go kick my neighbors psychotic, man-eating horse in the shins, but for some reason this day I just said, "OK." I peeked out my door and saw the coast was clear, so I started walking around the house buck naked. My body was totally buzzing with some weird form of anticipation that I couldn't quite decipher, and it just barely overwhelmed my intense fear of my parents coming home and catching me nude, locking me up in an insane asylum, and feeding the keys to my moronic goats that regularly dined on coat hangers and tractor parts anyway.

After a couple minutes of walking around, something weird happened. I looked down at my penis and suddenly realized it was standing upright, reaching out as if trying to retrieve a snack item or summons a passing cat. Mortified, I ran back upstairs and threw my clothes back on, unsure of what had just transpired. Fortunately, putting my clothes back on seemed to tame my "problem." It had happened before in my sleep, sure, but never during the day.

The following week when my parents were away again, the voice came back, and this time I only pretended to not want to take my clothes off. I wanted to feel that buzz again, and nothing would stop me. "If I have to," I sighed to no one in particular, throwing my clothes off as if they were in flames.

But this time, my annoying "problem" surfaced almost immediately. "What the hell?" I thought. As if I didn't feel odd enough parading around the farmhouse naked, now I had to deal with this irretractable bird perch sticking directly out of my thorax. I wanted the buzz, but I didn't want this "problem" to interfere with my enjoyment of it.

I eventually learned I only could tame my "problem" by pre-occupying myself with boring activities while I was walking around naked. I'd stop by the couch and leaf through my father's scientific periodicals, or take my clothes off and then, in a stupid fake voice, say to myself "Well, I better go find that set of keys. I could put my clothes on, but, hey, it will only take a second to find the keys so why bother? I don't need clothes to look for keys!" Then I'd spend hours walking around the property naked looking for keys that I knew damn well were sitting in my pants pocket in my room.

Eventually I even walked around outside the farmhouse stark naked, which probably surprised people driving by on the freeway next to our house. "Oh my God," an old couple might exclaim, turning their heads as they passed, "I think I just saw a wingless fairy with an erection in that horse pasture."

As the months progressed however, the more difficult taming my "problem" became. No matter what I did or thought about, the minute I took my clothes off my annoying "problem" popped up like the door lock on a car. Out of solutions, I decided that my "problem" could do what it damn well pleased and it wouldn't stop me from walking around naked and getting my buzz.

I went into the attic and sat in a chair, wondering what to do about this newfound predicament. Staring angrily at my "problem", I suddenly realized where that peculiar and demanding "voice" had been coming from. The voice that always told me to take off my clothes, the voice that had tricked me into making applesauce in the nude. And it was standing at attention right in front of me. It was, in fact, the voice of my "problem."

Stunned at the realization, my penis and I then engaged in what forever will be known as "The Conversation." My penis and I had reached a showdown, two stubborn gunslingers meeting on opposite sides of the town square. I wanted my "body buzz", and he always had to swell up like a threatened pufferfish every time I took my pants off. There obviously wasn't enough room in this town for the two of us.

And as I sat in my chair, sweating in the August heat, so began the infamous Conversation:

Penis: Hey there, little fella.

Me: Oh, uh, um ... hey.

Penis: Sooooooooooo. (Insert innocent whistling.) Whatcha doin?

Me: Nuthin.

Penis: Hmmm, that's interesting. (Long pause.) Boyyyyyyy, do I need a hug.

Me: What?

Penis: A hug. You know. Touch me.

Me: I'm not touching you.

Penis: Why not? I'm cold.

Me: You're not cold. You just want me to touch you.

Penis: I'm freezing.

Me: Shut up.

Penis: Just for a second. You know you want to ... please.

Me: OK. But just for a second. And that's it.

... and on that note, I placed my head in the alligator's mouth. And a second is all it took.

Immediately I was overcome with a powerful shockwave that began pulsing throughout my body. It grew stronger and stronger, and in a matter of seconds I was convulsing in spasms of both ecstasy and confusion. I had no idea what was happening, but I knew it felt good.

And just as quickly as it all started, the shockwaves retreated. I gathered myself, completely aghast at what had just transpired. I still had all my limbs, and apparently I was still alive.

I checked my surroundings and everything seemed to be in order.

Until I looked down, where I made a terrifying discovery.

I had just milked myself.

I was horrifed. What was I, a cow? What was this ... stuff? What do I do now? Clean it up? Prepare some cereal?

I panicked. I didn't know what I had just done, but I was pretty sure I wasn't supposed to be doing it. I put my pants back on, and tried to find something, anything, to clean up the evidence I had just fire-hosed all over the attic. I couldn't find anything, so I did what all guilty eleven year-olds do with incriminating crime evidence.

I wiped it up with my hand and ....

I put it in my pocket.

I slowly crept out of the attic, and luckily no one was home. I went into my room, changed out of my "smoking gun" pants, and gathered a bunch of clean clothes to mix in with Exhibit A of the prosecutor's evidence. I lugged them down to the washing machine, and poured just about an entire box of detergent in the machine and started it.

My mother came home about an hour later, and I was sitting on the couch, pretending to be just another normal eleven year-old boy that hadn't just sprayed down the entire attic with a gallon of penis milk.

"Who's doing laundry?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm just washing some clothes," I replied, pretending to read a magazine that may as well have been upside down or written in ancient Sanskrit.

She looked at me suspiciously. "I just washed your clothes."

"Well," I answered, "uh , yeah, they weren't clean so I just washed them again."

My mother knew something was up, but luckily she didn't push the issue any further. She just shot me that disapproving look a mother spends years perfecting: The "I know you did something, and you're fucking kidding yourself if you don't think I'm going to find out" look.

Luckily, she never did figure it out.

Until I was 14, of course.

When she caught me in the act.

But that's another story, and one you won't read about here on WWHM.

Now that I've thoroughly embarrassed myself, I'm going to retreat to my closet, curl up in the fetal position, and suck on graham crackers for the next three days.

Now, I know you people won't likely want to share your stories after experiencing the humiliation I just went through, and I don't blame you. But if you want, you can let everyone know how old you were when you first discovered "the path to self-enlightenment."

Meanwhile, I'm going to go permanently alter my face with a chainsaw.