Friday 2nd July 2010
Gestation: 40 weeks – DUE DATE
One year ago.
I try to do the right thing.
For the sake of Cheryl, and the lab, and everyone else who makes the rules, I go lube-free. Not even saliva. I watch mediocre, boring porn. I flick through the magazines, each time finding a ripped tab where a good bit was likely to have been. The only magazine intact is “MILFs in Heat”, which has been left untouched for good reason. I find myself looking around the room, trying not to imagine the spills that have occurred already this morning, let alone this week. It’s a fucking Friday. Although nothing looks perceptibly dirty, I can’t help imagining the cleaners coming in on Saturdays.
If this sounds gross, it’s because it is.
At the seventeen-minute mark, I finish. As I do, I hear Cheryl in my head, practically yelling: “Make sure you don’t spill any! There’s a lot of sperm in the first bit!” That alone is enough to make me go limp. In every sense of the word.
I’m lost for words as to describing the experience. To bring yourself to the point of climax, only to stop in the seconds before, stick the end of your dick in a clear plastic container that it barely fits, and then wait, is kind of like… sticking your dick in a clear plastic container and waiting. It’s like… It’s like going on a roller coaster ride, and in the seconds before the last rush, the last descent before home, knocking yourself unconscious, and then expecting to enjoy it. No then expecting to remember it. No, then expecting to sit a maths test.
No, no it’s not. It’s like sticking your dick in a clear plastic container and waiting. It’s like nothing else. It sucks. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed masturbation less in my entire life.
I bring the container up to eye level, examining the milky material. Having never before ejaculated into a container, I have nothing to compare it against. But I get a creeping feeling. Something’s not quite right. It’s too clear. It’s…
I stop for a second, before realising with horror – that I’m not done.
There’s more to go.
* * * * *
I look down at my bruised and battered penis, chafe marks already present. As a circumcised male, I seriously do not understand why anyone would masturbate without lubricant. It’s like shampooing your hair against concrete. Why the fuck would anyone – anyone - rub their hair against concrete, for even a minute, let alone seventeen minutes?
That’s my point.
I look at the screen, by now another bored woman, looking even more bored than the last. It’s like a bore competition. The magazines are crap. All of them. I can’t do this like this.
So I relent. I use saliva. I look at the bored women, but I use saliva. I flick through the mags, and I use saliva. And then I stop with the porn. I think of being anywhere other than in the wank room. And honestly, I close my eyes and I think of my wife. I think of my wife, with me, at home, in our own home. I think of my wife.
You give me MILFs on heat? Seriously? Have you seen my wife?
And that does the trick. Six minutes later, that does the trick. After twenty-three minutes, I’m done. I’m over. Again, I have to knock myself unconscious at the top of the roller coaster, waiting for it to finish without any further help. But I think, mostly, I am done. I am done. I am finished. But I am certainly not satisfied.
I look down to see my shrivelled and bruised penis, having not been in such bad nick for twenty-two years. I consider calling my Dad.
But I don’t. Instead, I clean up as quickly as I can, and I exit.
Suse is sitting there, waiting. Her look changes to concern when she sees me.
“Thank you Cheryl,” I say. I give her the sample, meekly, feeling a little defeated. No slamming on the desk for me. She takes it in her purple glove.
“How did you go?” she asks.
“As well as I could, I guess.” I wait for her to tell me that none of my sperm have heads.
“If you could go next door now for payment, please? Enjoy the rest of the day.”
“I might begin to now.”
Suse takes my hand in hers. We walk out the door, me in a cowboy swagger, trying to avoid contact with my undies. It’s impossible.
How was it?”
“Horrific.”
“Are you chafed love?”
“Yep.”
“How was the bottom drawer?”
“There was no bottom drawer. There was no drawers at all. Just “MILFs in Heat.”
“It didn’t cut it?”
“No honey. When you’re dry wanking into a plastic jar in hospital, MILFs don’t cut it. In fact, nothing cuts it. Nothing.”
We head towards the maroon desk to pay for my two-hundred buck jerk off. As I swagger down the hall, it suddenly dawns on me why everyone walks out looking just like this.
* * * * *
