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There are nights when I expect to get laid. There are nights when I hope to get laid. And there are nights when I’d rather lose all my money to a gaudy casino than think about women. On this night, boners were for jackpots and free Coronas.

I drove to Vegas for the weekend to attend a Saturday morning writer’s workshop and hang out with Baba and McBride. McBride already had plans for Friday night, so Baba and I hit the strip alone. Since Baba had two cousins staying at the Bellagio for the night, we met them there around midnight. Both of them had grown up in Jordan, so the FOB factor was blatant. One of the cousins wore extra short orange Euro shorts, a small, tight shirt, and had a giant black camera dangling around his neck, yet he still did not think it odd or wrong to approach women in his get-up. Despite having John Stockton-like leg hair as well as poofy, uncombed hair that made it look like he’d just gotten out of a pool–which may have been true–he was all smiles, so we let him be. Since it was Baba’s cousins’ first time in Vegas (obviously), they decided on the agenda. Gambling was the choice. First it was craps, then roulette, and blackjack. Before long, we had been at the tables for over three hours. Gambling has a funny way of eliminating the concept of time.

A little after two, the blackjack table was becoming stagnant. The dealer was depressed; the bozo next to me hit on a 15 when the dealer was showing 16; and there was a grumpy fellow three seats over who looked like Newman from Seinfeld.  I needed a change.

A couple tables down, I heard a group of women making up words and cheering uproariously. Curious, I examined the commotion. Jackpot. Four milfs had an entire table to themselves, and, as if destiny was calling, there was one open seat. I grabbed my chips and quickly walked over to their table, smiling mischievously at them as I sat down in first position.

The table:

Dealer: A smiley, quiet Asian guy.

First seat: Me, Captain Rimjob.

Second seat: A freckly forty-something blonde wearing a sky blue sundress that seemed two sizes too big. At least four more beers until she was up for consideration.

Third seat: A hot, busty, blonde forty-year-old birthday girl with a white top, nipples protruding through the material. Primary target.

Fourth seat: A cute brunette with ugly, short acrylic nails and facial features that disclosed that she hadn’t done much smiling in her lifetime. Two more beers until consideration.

Fifth seat: A mediocre brunette with plain features, a flat, pancakey chest, and untoned arms that led to my immediate assumption that she had dumpy written all over her. She was the only one focused on her chip count. Sex appeal: N/A.

 I was bombarded with questions immediately. I found out they were all in the medical field. Two were gynecologists; one was a nurse; and the hot one was a surgeon. When they discovered I was a teacher, they all complained to the dealer, “Teachers don’t make enough money; give this guy a blackjack.” It helped, and I began winning.

The busty one in Seat Three was stealing looks at me. I could sense it. When we made eye contact, I smiled. When we’d win, we’d all high five each other. Beneath the high ceilings of the Bellagio Casino, my expectations for the night took a sinister turn for the dark side. Sex was suddenly on the table.

The two gynecologists became concerned about me when I started getting up every twenty minutes to pee. “You may want to get your prostate checked out. Peeing that often could mean you have an enlarged prostate,” one said. They all watched me get up.

            “Don’t worry. I’m only twenty-eight. I pee because I never puke,” I said. Without another word, I walked to the bathroom, leaving them to wonder about the correlation between peeing and vomiting. I wish I were there to hear the probable discussion they had about my prostate/pee frequency/vomit factor/hotness/mysteriousness. If anyone is looking to become a millionaire, I recommend inventing a miniature-recording device that can be easily stuck underneath tables to record after-you-leave conversations. I would invent it myself, but I wouldn’t know where to find the Guy Who Approves of All New Inventions.

Update: I heard Skymall already invented my idea. Never mind.

Baba and his two cousins came over, but after two mediocre hookers snatched his cousins away, it was just Baba and me. The cousins would eventually wind up throwing the hookers out of their room for charging $1,000 for sex.

Good wingmen are plentiful, but great wingmen are rare. Two come to mind. The first is Pico. During spring break in Havasu, Pico walked around with me telling girls that I had a nine-inch cock (a lie), which resulted in me making out with over forty girls in a three-day period. The second is Baba. Girls see Baba’s soft features and sincere smile, and they are willing to tell him anything. So when Tera, the busty blonde in Seat Three, took a pee break, I sensed an opportunity.

          “Uh, dude, tell Tera that you’re going to take me away. See what she says,” I told Baba. It was a test to see how she’d react. Baba walked toward the bathroom to intercept Tera on the way out.

A few minutes later, I saw the two of them walking together, smiling in the wake of their apparent conversation. Baba walked up to me. “‘You are not taking Dave away from me.’ That’s what she said.” Perfect. Now all I had to do was wait this out.

Half an hour later, Tera’s friends abruptly got up and retreated to their room. I looked at Tera. “You’re staying, right?” I asked. Seized by my rapist wit, she sat down next to me.

          “Yeah, I’ll play a little more,” she said.

The following fifteen minutes was filled with mindless chatter and a shitty string of twenties for the dealer. I watched my winnings hopelessly dwindle away. I got up, stuffed the remaining chips in my pocket, and waited to observe Tera’s post-blackjack body language. The signs were good–all smiles, and she stayed at my side, keeping the slightest bodily contact. When our faces were close we briefly kissed, but no tongue. “Not in public. I’m kind of old-fashioned,” she said.

          I smiled. “That’s cool. Let’s walk.”
          We walked toward the lobby. I felt bad for Baba, who had been ready to go and had stayed up an extra hour just to see if things would play out for me. It was now 5:30 a.m. I had to act.

          Baba lingered around the fringe waiting for us to figure things out. So I acted. “We need to party. Can we party in your room?” I asked Tera.

          “No. My roommates are there.” She smiled.

          “Hmm. Well, we need to get a room then.”

          “We do?”

          “Yes. We need to get some beer, too.”

          “Okay.” She was still smiling.

I motioned to Baba. “Alright dude, we’re going to party h–“

          “–Alright, cool…have a fun night. I’ll see you tomorrow, dude,” Baba interrupted, not wanting to spoil my chances with any unnecessary awkwardness. Baba gave me quick directions to the morning workshop and left. I was in Tera’s hands now, and she knew this. 

For whatever reason, there was an inexplicable fifteen-person line at the check-in. Sensing it as a threat to her patience, I slyly led her to the front, cutting in the process. Champions find a way to win. Two guys, whom I had already judged as the non-confrontational type, noticed but didn’t say anything. Tera and I walked up to the desk.

         “We only have smoking available,” said the desk lady.

          Tera frowned. “How much is that?”

         “$150.”

          Tera hesitated. I took out my wallet, prepared to split the cost. Tera had other ideas. “Is there anything else available just for tonight?” Tera asked.

         “That’s it, unless you want to get a suite. That would be $450.”

         “Whoa,” I said. There was no way I was splitting that. 
          Tera ignored me. “That’s fine.” She handed the lady her credit card.

         “Four hundred and fifty dollars? Are you sure? Let’s just get the smoking room,” I said, feeling a pang of guilt.

         “No. I hate smoke. And besides, it’s my birthday. This is my gift to myself.” 

The lady handed her back her card. “Check out is at noon.” The room was booked for a whopping six hours. Tera had just paid $450 to fuck me in a room that had a rate of $1.25 per minute. If I couldn’t deliver, I’d go down as the biggest rip-off of her life. The fourteen Coronas I’d had maybe weren’t such a good idea.

The “suite” was a major disappointment. The room had maybe twenty more square feet than a standard room. There was a half living room and a large bathroom. Other than that, I didn’t see how this room cost $300 more than a regular room. Nevertheless, we got down to business immediately.

Mid-make-out she stopped me and said, “Okay, you have no idea. I’ve never done this before.”

          “You’ve never been with a guy?”

          She laughed. “No, I’ve never had a one-night stand.” She brought her hand up to her forehead, smiling.

          “That’s hard to believe, but okay,” I said, kissing her neck, not believing her. “Why am I so special?”

          “I don’t know. I feel comfortable around you. Well, that and you’re fucking hot.”

We laughed. Then we got naked. Her blowjob skills were well-refined, not a single tooth. And after another twenty minutes of foreplay, we fucked. Unfortunately, the mandatory $450-suite foreplay action, combined with my fourteen Coronas, had withered my hard-on down to 75%. To top things off, she was abominable at sex. She lay there like a starfish, eliminating any opportunity at developing a rhythm. After five minutes of cadaver sex, she said, “I don’t know. This feels so impersonal.”

          “Okay.” Sick of trying so hard for so little, I got off her and lay down.

          “Whoa. I didn’t expect you to give up so easy.”

          I forced a smile. I was drunk and tired. But I was still horny. “Let’s take a shower,” I said, insistent on milking whatever we could out of this ritzy occasion.

She blew me in the shower. After the shower, she blew me on the bed, finishing things in her mouth. I could sense her disappointment. After lying down for a few minutes, she whined about how she regretted taking a shower because her hair was “all curly” now. I said, “Oh,” and then I rolled over and passed out.

My alarm went off three hours later. I awoke to find her wide-awake, naked, lying next to me. She was still attractive. Upon seeing me rustle awake, she said, “I didn’t sleep at all last night.”

          “Really? That sucks.” I got up to go pee. “How come?”

          She waited until I got back. “I don’t know. I just…never do this.”

          “It was fun, right?”

          “Yeah.” She brought her hand up to her forehead again. She wasn’t smiling this time. 
           

I took a $12 cab to the workshop, just making it in time. I was, by far, the biggest dirtbag in the building. I was unshaven; my hair was unkempt; and my shirt was all wrinkly from accidentally sleeping on top of it. I found the hottest girl in the workshop and sat one seat over from her, but after a five-minute break, she was mysteriously sitting on the other side of the room.

I dozed off frequently, my mind often drifting back to poor Tera. After our pathetic attempt at $450 fortieth-birthday sex, I highly doubted she’d be having any one-night stands for a while. I felt like the #1 draft pick who got paid millions of dollars, only to be a catastrophic bust, disappointing an entire city of hopeful fans. But that’s the good thing about one-night stands; they’re only for one night. I don’t have to hear her whine the next day for making the experience “impersonal.” I don’t have to hear her gripe about not going down on her enough. I don’t have to absorb glares from her judgmental friends. And most of all, no one ever finds out if I disappoint in bed. Well, except all of you.

I am convinced that I am superior to all male beings on the art of masturbating. Even though my convictions are obviously true, I am also certain that every guy thinks their masturbating artistry/methods/techniques are better. Though I am a shitty listener, I have been an active contributor in over thirty different masturbation discussions and arguments over the past decade to claim “expert status” on the topic. Trust me, I’ve listened to all the different perspectives, methodologies, and stories. I’ve heard it all, and I’m the best. This blog is dedicated to all the hotties out there to whom I’ve spanked it.

Unless I’m having sex, I’ll make time to masturbate every day. The only instances where I’ll skip it is if I’m at my parents’ house or on a computer-deprived vacation. My routine is very simple. Since I’m a horny bastard, just one glance at a sexy face or body can stimulate the chemicals in my mind to scream down to my genitals, “Time to whack!” In which case, I’ll retreat to my room, shut the door, turn on the computer, sit down, and pull up my favorite websites–either youjizz.com or tube8.com. I rarely lock my door because my roommates know of my raging sex drive and can infer that if my door is closed, it’s party time.

The Lotion Dispute

I never use lotion. I’ve tried it, but the messiness factor outweighs the enhancement it’s supposed to create, so I always go raw. Plus, it eliminates my right-hand mouse usage, and I’ve found that trying to operate a mouse left-handed is just as irritating as trying to whack lefty. I’ll break it down…

Lotion pros:

-Actually feels like a vagina.

-Elimination of shaftburn.

Lotion cons:

-It costs five bucks for a solid bottle, no longer making masturbating a free activity–unless all your lotion comes from hotel bathrooms, like my friend Axe’s.

-The mouse debacle.

-The constant forgetfulness to put the bottle away, thus exposing your sleaziness when people enter your room and see a mysterious thing of Lubriderm chilling beside your keyboard. 

Raw pros:

-No cost. It’s free!

-Easier access in public/emergency situations.

-Cleaner, more convenient mouse usage.

-Quicker rinse-offs.

Raw cons:

-Reminiscent of 60-year-old parched pussy.

-Occasional chaffage–though uncircumcised men are exempt due to the extra skin glide-with-hand factor.

-Less sensitivity and poorer quality whacks.

Urban Myths

There are guys out there who will try anything to get an edge. Some guys claim jerking with the “off” hand is awesome because it “feels like someone else’s hand,” which is a false statement. All it does is waste time in trying something new when you could otherwise be taking care of business in an orderly fashion so you can move on with your life. Also, after trying the left-hand jerk a couple times, I’ve found myself feeling like a retard because my right hand begins involuntarily mimicking the motions of the jerk even though it’s on the sidelines. I did, however, interview a friend who believes in the occasional off-hand whack. It went like this:

Me: “So, McBride, tell me about your experiences.”

McBride: “First of all, I’m better at masturbating than you, and I should be writing this blog.”

Me: “Not true. But continue.”

McBride: “Well, as a professional right-hander, I do try out my left hand from time to time.”

Me: “Why?”

McBride: “Because it feels like someone else’s hand.”

Me: “Pfff. Uh, continue.”

McBride: “Don’t gawk at me. Your problem is that you don’t use lotion. Lotion actually fixes the off-hand jerk because the left hand feels more foreign. Also, this frees up the right hand for premium mouse usage.”

Me: [Long pause] “You’re an idiot.”

McBride: “I’m better than you.”

Another urban myth is “The Stranger,” a curiously stupid act that involves sitting on one’s jerk hand to make it numb. Once the hand is purple and throbbing with tingly needles, they’ll then furiously start jerking with what feels like “another hand.” Then the blood circulates after ten seconds, and it’s over. I’ve never tried this because I’m not a moron. And any bozo who claims they have is probably also addicted to “Booger Sugar.” They’ll try anything with a cool title.

As far as jerk form goes, it’s always the standard wrap-and-pump, like a Shake Weight. In all my discussions, I’ve never heard of any other methods. Except in the case of my friend Bildo, who consistently defies the laws of physics and is somehow able to whack using the backsides of his hands, chiseling his penis in between them in a sweltering flurry, as if he were trying to start a fire. I do not recommend this method. In fact, I’m convinced he’s the only person on Earth who can even pull this off. After explaining his bizarre technique, however, Bildo had this to say, “What? Don’t you guys do it like that too?” Like I said, I am superior to other men.

Porno Procedures

The top porn sites will usually upload eight to ten new videos every 24 hours. On average, I’ll only check out a couple of the new ones. Most of the time, the fresh stuff is of undesirable porn stars or trashy amateur chicks with acne. Or worst of all, lesbians. No guy jerks off to lesbian porn. We need penetration. We need dick. Though sometimes I’ll hit a jackpot and get four or five good vids, in which case I’ll hover my mouse over them to get a brief flash-through of the porn sequence. Then I make instantaneous assessments based on a few factors:

-Porn star hotness: Is she one of my favs, or a fresh newbie?

-Is she a squirter?

-Is there a facial? (Note: Creampies don’t turn me on.)

-Is there a variety of sex positions, or solely lame-ass missionary or on-top?

-Is the male pornstar anyone but Nick Manning? (This guy’s vicious sex talk is so gross that it turns an otherwise decent video into a comedy show.)

My video selection is much more complex than these five factors. Depending on the sexual season of my mind, sometimes I’ll go strictly for a good blowjob or cumshot scene. Sometimes for the butt sex, and occasionally the steamy rimjob scene. The only problem with jerking it to the extreme shit like girl-on-guy rimjobs is that when I have sex with a chick, I find myself needing to reenact that scene in order to get off. As one might guess, anytime I start dating a girl, I’ll revert to jerking it to boring missionary sex scenes so I’m better prepared when the occasion arises. This sucks, because I hate missionary, but I’ll endure shittier whack sessions to enhance my sex with these unadventurous chicks. I’m a total sell-out, I know. 

I’ll also make it a point to check all the good new vids before settling on a particular scene to bust my load. One must always be wary, however, of a premature-splooge, which is the terrifying act of jerking too fast, feeling the orgasm muscles contract, and then frantically running to one’s cum rag–err shirt in my case–and trying to dump one’s tartar sauce into its dispenser. I’ve had about fifteen premies in my lifetime–all ended chaotically. Sometimes, however, I’ll reach the edge of ejaculation, and then my body will hit the reset button like back in the Nintendo days, and I’ll stave off a shitty fate. This can’t be healthy.

Sometimes during a session, I’ll get a sudden craving for a certain pornstar. I have about ten go-to pornstars, where if all else fails, I find one of these chicks. Though I prefer adventure, I don’t mind jerking it to the same video if the scene is good. There are some scenes out there I’ve stroked it to over twenty times. They’re not book-marked or anything, but I pretty much know the name of the scene by heart. I call these my “Num-Num clips.” If I need to bust it to one of these, however, the whack session was basically like settling for a 7-11 hot dog when there’s a sign for a Steakhouse fifteen miles away. I cut my losses and take the safe bet.

Situational Whacks

Each scenario has its own set-up. Some days I look forward to a mid-day whack. Other days I randomly decide for a quickie. Sometimes I get butt naked and sprawl out for a long session with my laptop. Other times it’s pants barely even down for an urgent session–usually only in public situations. Some public places I’ve jerked off in: My high school locker room after soccer practice when my dad couldn’t pick me up until nine; a train bathroom in Italy; several airplane bathrooms; airport bathrooms; the Venetian casino bathroom; the University student center bathrooms; my fraternity computer room (infinity); a camping trail on Catalina island; a Port-O-Potty (huge emergency); and in a random field in Australia.

Sometimes I’ll whack just because I’m bored. Oftentimes, however, these non-horny sessions are the sneakiest of all, and somehow end up taking the longest. The quickest ones usually occur when I’m most looking forward to it, in which case I’m so fucking horny that I’m done by the second video. “She’s perfect,” I’ll think to myself as I erupt to a 7 with sexy hipbones.

In the extreme case that I am without porn access for a long period of time (two days), I’ll sometimes do an emergency whack. In such unpleasant circumstances, I’ll go to the bathroom, hover over the toilet, and rub one out to sexual memories, which I call “My Sex Files.” They consist of one to two-second images/screams/poundings of my experiences with past women, though I’ll usually only jerk to a select few. I’ll aim my cumshot in the direction of the ceiling so the cum forms a perfect parabola and lands safely in the toilet. While aiming for distance is fun, it gets all over the toilet seat, floor, and wall, which I don’t feel like wiping up with an insufficient wad of toilet paper.  

An Interesting Case Study

Just like at the craps table, when you get a good roll going, it’s impossible to leave. It’s the same for whacking. When you’re hitting a run of explosive video after explosive video, you just want to keep going. It’s hard to throw in the towel and decide it’s time to finish. Back in college, I used to go sometimes for hours at a time (my record is five hours). These days, I don’t have that kind of time. I try and keep every session under thirty minutes. Sometimes, however, I get greedy and go a couple minutes over, which have caused me to be late to semi-important events.

I’ve only seen two guys ever masturbate as if no one was watching: Myself and an old college buddy I’ll call Afroman. A team of four of us planted a video camera in the fraternity computer room late one night. Because I ruled that domain, it was probably me who should have gotten caught. But Afroman fell into the wrong place at the wrong time. The following week, the video was broadcasted to everyone during Monday meeting. A breakdown of Afroman’s session:

First ten seconds- Unbuckle pants and remove penis.

Next five seconds- Begin stroking with right hand, standard wrap-and-pump style.

Next thirty seconds- Place right hand on mouse and locate acceptable porn site. (Keep in mind, this occurred back in 2002, when everyone still jerked off to pictures instead of videos because all the Internet vids were only ten-second clips, and they weren’t worth the hassle to download.)

Next fifteen minutes- Stroking for ten seconds, then mouse usage–hit the back button and on to next picture. Note: Afroman had a peculiar way of leaning way back in his chair and tilting his head back during his dick strokes. From what I’ve heard, most guys lean or hunch forward–I know I do.

Last twenty seconds- Tilt head extra far back and cum into stomach area.

Next ten seconds- Wipe cum onto his sock that he was wearing.

Next hour- Pass out.

That video gave us all a fresh perspective on other guys’ jerk methods, except for poor Afroman, who still has only seen himself.

Ejaculation

When it’s time to fling the sour cream, I’ll grab my cum receptacle–an old yellow shirt with a turkey on it–and place it on my computer chair, which would be facing me. This all occurring after I’ve selected the exact place in the video I’m going to bust to. There is a five to ten-second window of the video I’ve pre-selected as “the moment of copulation”–either the look on a chick’s face, a pussy squirt, the position of her body, or the way a vein bulges on a penis (kidding). Then I’ll stand and brace myself at a seventy-degree angle with the ground, and, eyes locked on the computer screen, start erupting onto my cum rag. After I’m done, I’ll look down at the rag to check my load size and look for any stray globs that missed the target.

I don’t know of many guys who actually use a cum “rag.” Some use dirty boxers from their hamper; others an old faded shirt; and there are guys who actually use a sock, which perplexes me because then they’d have to worry about aiming carefully because socks are so damn small. The bigger the target, the better the cum dispenser–unless it’s a chick. Sadly, the cum rag must be replaced every few weeks because it starts turning orange and begins smelling like Captain Crunch.

Happy New Year :)