I'm gonna tell the Price Is Right story now, because I don't think I've ever told it in full, so here goes (deep breath): I had just transferred to a new college, and my roommate was a year ahead of me. Football player. Perfectly nice dude. We weren't buddy buddies, but we managed to co-exist amiably. Anyway, the roommate had a girlfriend. Again, perfectly nice. He used to spend the night in her room a lot, so good on him. So one morning I'm in the room, alone. I got nothing to do between classes, so I fire up The Price Is Right on the TV, and they've got one of Barker's Beauties decked out in a bikini next to a jet ski or a car or a shitty camper that sounds like a fun prize but really isn't.
Well, that was all the incentive I needed. I opened up my pants and started going to town. I didn't lock the door. I didn't even consider the door. I had to get my business done before bidding began. So I'm wailing on myself when the door flies open and the girlfriend … just the girlfriend … walks in to get a textbook or something. I yell out WHOA! and try to cover up, but it's no use. There's no covering up an active hardon. Everyone knows precisely what's going on. You're not checking for moles. She closes the door right away and doesn't come back, which was both a relief and a terrifying development, because now I was gonna have to see her again at some point, and what would I say? Oh God, she was gonna tell my roommate. She was gonna tell everyone. I had just transferred and already I had fucked it all up.
She came back later in the day with the roommate, and I apologized profusely. She was way cool about it, and no one at school ever brought the subject up to me again. But I didn't hook up with anyone until a semester abroad two years later. I needed to cross an ocean to get away from it.
But I'm downright fortunate compared to the poor bastards you will meet down below. Join me now as we hear firsthand from a group of men (and a lady!) who have experienced the ultimate adolescent nightmare and lived to tell about it…
When I first started masturbating, my entire family shared one computer in the living room at the time. A vintage piece-of-shit desktop PC that sat right behind a desk high enough to cover any pants around the ankles. I had the whole house to myself for an hour after school every day, so 3 to 4 p.m. Monday through Friday consisted of nothing but marathoning my genitals into oblivion. Except one day, my mom was sick, and I hadn't the slightest idea.
I would always bust into my hand, because this made it easier for me to dispose of the evidence into one or six Kleenex's. This particular day, I finish up, unaware that another soul is down the hall, when my mom opens the door immediately. My first instinct: Eat it. I slurped it up so fast, and just nodded "yes" and "no" to my mom's ranting questions with a mouth full of my own product.
After she left, I spit it into a bunch of tissues and threw it out. It didn't taste like pudding like my asshole 11-year-old friends said it would.
One afternoon in college, I had an overwhelming urge. My roommate and I were sitting around drinking, and he decided that he was going to go smoke some doot doot with one of my other friends. Noticing my window of opportunity, I declined the invitation.
When he left, I waited about 90 seconds to make sure that he didn't leave anything behind. I was so backed up that I didn't even need the assistance of our communal porn collection. I start cranking away (the Mets game is on in the background by the way), and I hear my roommate's keys coming down the stairs toward our dorm room. Immediately flaccid, I panic and run to the corner of the room, just behind the door. I try and fail to pull up my jeans before my roommate opens the door and hits me.
"Whoops, caught me jerkin' it."
That was the only thing I could come up with.
To this day, if I show up late to a bar, I'm greeted with that line by every single person I know. And everyone thinks I'm gay for David Wright.
One of my high school buddies was in mid-jerk when his mom walked into his room with a pile of laundry in her arms. Instead of copping to it, rolling over or otherwise covering up the situation, he said "Hey mom, I've got this thing on my penis that I need you to check" and proceeded to bend his hard on, flexing the shaft to isolate the area where the phantom zit or wart could have been. His mom took a quick glance and said, "Ah, yeah ... everything looks OK to me." I'm sure she knew exactly what was going on, but damn: That's pretty cool under pressure. He went on to become a minor-league pitcher.
Year: 1999. High school. I had just moved into the basement like a "cool kid." I thought I was in heaven. My own floor of the house, my own bathroom, and best of all, a TV and computer to myself, and by TV I mean a 36-inch box, and by computer I mean a 50-pound robot that hummed louder than a jet plane. But, I had a fridge full of Surge, so it was all good.
One lonely evening my parents attended a wedding out of town and I had the house to myself. I ordered stuff crust pizza and watched Malcolm in the Middle re-runs. I also starting ferociously downloading a video from Limewire. In those days, a video took forever to download, so you had to plan ahead for hours. Once everything was finished, I had my setup down and sat down butt naked on the computer chair and pressed play. One of my tricks was to set videos to "re-play" on Windows Media Player ... as to not get the dreaded "black screen" and have to fumble for the mouse when it finished, no pun intended. The video would just start back up. It must have been a late night, because I ended up falling asleep.
As karma would have it, my parents came home from that wedding. They came down to say goodnight, and the sight they saw was me, butt-ass naked, reclined back in a computer chair, dick-in-hand, and a Jenna Jameson video on repeat on their computer. This makes me realize how much I take for granted the ability to take an 8oz. iPad to any location and instantly have HD porn streaming at my fingertips.
I was 12 when I discovered cumming for the first time, and the world quickly became my oyster. I stuck my dick in just about anything I could. And because I was a 12-year-old moron, I never even thought about using my hand and some lotion. Instead, it was, "Hey, if I kneel on the floor, I can stick my dick between my box spring and my mattress. I should fuck that." Or, "Hey, I could totally rub my dick on that canvas painting of that fat naked woman Dad painted in his art class, and I bet it'd be exactly like fucking!" Anyways, you get the idea.
On one such occasion, I was laying on the couch in my mom's sewing room thrusting my dong between the two cushions, when my mom came in and decided she needed to work on one of her projects. I was stuck with my dick in the couch: a frozen statue of masturbation shame. After some awkward conversation with my mom, I eventually had to fake like I fell asleep. Thankfully she left three hours later, and I did get to finish the job. It wasn't until I was 14 that I found out I could masturbate without chafing the skin off my dick.
One summer during college, I was living with my parents. This was before DVDs, and I didn't have a VCR in my room, so I chose the family room to do my deed. I knew my parents wouldn't be awake for a few more hours so I'd have plenty of time to clean up.
For some reason back then, when I beat off, I would only lift my shirt and pull my head under the neck hole, leaving my arms in my sleeves like a god damn T-Rex. Anyway, I finished my business and must have passed out in ecstasy, leaving my DNA on my belly. I woke up the next day at 10 a.m. still on the couch, and the porn was still playing, because it had an auto-rewind-and-play function. I looked down at the dry batch on my stomach and heard the moans coming from the TV and was horrified. My parents had already left for work. I should also mention they always have their coffee and read the paper in said family room. I avoided my mother for about 36 hours until she finally grabbed me and said, "Hey, sleep in your own bed at night."
(NOTE: I've done the shirt thing. Makes me feel SEXAY.)
It was my freshman year of college, and I lived in a typical dorm setting at a breezy coastal university. Anyway, one afternoon I've got the room to myself, and I've just finished a fine round of post-workout pornography-assisted self stimulation, and I realize I am feeling a bit chaffed between my ass cheeks, and I decide that it would feel just grand to apply a little baby powder to the affected area.
The natural place to do this in my tiny little dorm room was, of course, my bed. So I assume a comfortable position and there I am with my gym shorts around my knees, ankles in the air, asshole exposed and pointed directly at the door when I hear the door handle turn, and the door—which I had stupidly left unlocked—swung open (horror welling up inside me at this point) and my roommate's best friend comes strolling in. The porn is still running on my screen, the room reeks of fresh cum and sweaty ass, and there I am on full display. Horrible.
I feel like it all would have been okay if it had been my actual roommate. Shit happens in close quarters. Right? As it stands, my attempts to interest those guys in renting an apartment together my sophomore year went unrequited.
I've never told this story before.
I was beating off in my in-laws' bathroom late at night. Just as I'm reaching climax, my wife flies through the door like Seal Team Six, demanding, "What are you doing!?!?" At the first sound of the door I jumped up, somehow kicking off my shorts to completely cover up the iPad as she gets past that wall. I then turn away from my intruder as I ejaculate into the now-convenient toilet paper, looking back over my shoulder to proclaim an angry, bewildered, and guilt-stricken "I'M TRYING TO TAKE A SHIT!!!" while expelling my soiled toilet paper into the bowl.
As fast as she came, she went, scurrying back to bed, seemingly embarrassed and sorry for the intrusion. I regain my composure and confidence. I clean up, and head back to bed. Instead of the typical slither back into the room, I'm walking tall, proud of my quick thinking and quicker reactions. My adrenaline is racing like I just out ran the cops. As I laid my head on my pillow, heart racing from adrenaline, my wife quietly but sternly says, "Please don't jerk off in my parents' house." In the saddest, most pathetic voice, I quivered, "OK."
I fapped there two nights later.
Sunday, March 9, 1997.
I was 15, and I was taking a ride on my own pleasure horse. It was about 9 a.m.
My bedroom door opened, and my mother walked in. I immediately pulled the covers up, and while I'm not totally sure if she saw anything, I think we both knew what had been transpiring.
Me: "How about a knock?"
Mom: "Sorry. I thought you'd want to know that the Notorious B.I.G. was shot and killed."
Really took me out of my zone on a couple of levels.
It was Feb. 14th during my sophomore year in college, and my dorm roommate had just left to go on a date. I decided it was time to take a shower, so I got naked and put the towel around me to go down the hall to the shower. But before I opened the door, I realized I had a couple hours to kill, and I was already naked, so why not some porn? So I sat down at my desk and started to do my thing.
About 15 minutes after leaving, my roommate comes back into the room having forgotten his gift or wallet, and I'm just sitting there ass naked with headphones on wailing away. So I X-out the screen and just sit there for what felt like forever as he grabbed his stuff and left. Five minutes later I get a text from him saying, "Hope you enjoyed your Valentine's Day!" Good times.
One Christmas Eve when I was 16 years old, I had some "urges" I had to get out of me as part of my daily ritual. We only had one computer at the time that was in an office room with a door that didn't lock just opposite of my Mom's room.
Every time I watched porn, I would be incredibly paranoid about somebody opening the door and catching me flogging the dolphin, but it beat jerking off to the scrambled porn channel in my room. The house was empty with the exception of my Mom taking a nap in her room, so I decided to sneak in some Miko Lee porn for some "me" time.
Everything seemed fine as I crossed the finish line while occasionally looking over my shoulder making sure the door wasn't opening. Not five minutes go by when I start to hear laughter coming from the closet. I could see a giant pile of clothes begin to move before my little sister popped out. She didn't say anything and just walked out of the door.
The next day, all of my neighborhood friends (who were also friends with my sister) went dead silent when I walked into the room. Nobody ever said anything to me about it, but I could see it in their eyes. Still, I've had worse Christmases.
Every second weekend, I would spend it at my Dad's. He worked nights, so he wouldn't wake up till about 2 p.m. This gave me about a four-hour window after I woke up to get some good fapping in. This was the early- to mid-'90s, so I considered myself lucky to have a father that had a decent selection of late-'80s videos. His collection of Playboys under his bed eventually did nothing for me, but I have a special place in my heart for his two adult movies: The Barlow Affairs, and The Adventures of Mikki Finn. His videos were in his top dresser drawer, right beside the side of the bed he always slept on, about 18 inches from him. I could sneak in and slide a drawer open and grab one (and put it back afterwards) without making a single noise.
After one of my many successful endeavors we were watching TV together later that day, and he noticed something. "What's that on your forehead?", he licks his thumb and then rubs the (thankfully dried) gunk off of my forehead. I'm not sure when or if he ever realized it, but I was paralyzed with fear the rest of the weekend. Sometimes now in my thirties, I miss those teenage shots that were full of vitality and could go anywhere, and then I remember that incident.
I was a senior in high school and had a free period due to our new block scheduling, which is too much freedom for a teen. I decided I would prep for my Friday night by rolling some joints at home, because I knew my parents would be gone and I could focus ... I wasn't much of a pot head, so it was kind of a process.
I liked to use maple syrup to seal the joint, so I grabbed the ol' Aunt Jemima and my weed and locked myself in my bathroom ... this way, if someone came home, I could just pretend to be taking a deuce. I used the laundry hamper as a table to roll the joints. After I proudly finished rolling my syrup joints, I opened the bathroom door with a big smile on my face and look up to see my dad (who is a Lutheran pastor) looking right at me in disgust. He either thinks I'm doing what I'm actually doing, or he thinks I'm beating off with syrup (which would be horrible, I assume).
Now, I can either accept my fate and have to discuss masturbating with breakfast condiments, or I can clear my name and have to discuss the horrible consequences of drug use. I chose to be the kid that beats off with syrup.
I got home that night, high as a kite, and noticed a new bottle of syrup in the pantry ... store brand.
And a lady!
I have a tendency to fall asleep immediately after buzzing one out with my vibrator, so I end up leaving the used toy lying in the bed. It always gets tangled in the blankets and once accidentally folded up in the washing machine. (Which was a horrible tragedy, since that Lelo was worth about $165.)
Anyways, about six years ago, a friend was at our house, and we were watching TV n my bed (because it was comfier than our crap futon in the living room). I couldn't find the remote to turn up the volume, so we started looking for it under the covers. Of course, I forgot that my bed was a used-vibrator graveyard. She pulls out my bright-purple, obviously-not-washed-after-use vibe and stares at it for like half a second before shouting "OH MY GOD" and throwing it across the room. It hit the wall hard, but thankfully was not broken.
One of the most embarrassing moments of my life. She still brings it up every once in a while, because it still never fails to turn my face red when I think about it. I'm blushing right now typing this out.
Drew Magary writes for Deadspin. He's also a correspondent for GQ. Follow him on Twitter @drewmagary and email him firstname.lastname@example.org. You can also order Drew's book, Someone Could Get Hurt, through his homepage.
Image by Jim Cooke.
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