TMI Thursday: Mid-Morning Wood

This is a story not for the faint-of-heart; those of you with weak constitutions should stay away. For the rest of us, feel free to enjoy the following story. And, if you want more awesome tales of debauchery, check out Lilu's home and read other awesomely bad TMI Thursdays!


Hopping in the Wayback Machine again, we find ourselves landing in my seventh grade science class, circa 1988. It was second semester and, I'm not sure how the seating chart worked out, but I found myself sitting in front of a young lady named Jayne Smith.

No, seriously, that was her name. I also knew a guy at Notre Dame named Jon Smith, so I've actually met and had the privilege of knowing two people who carry the default average plain-Jane names.

But this story is not about that.

Science class was a touch boring, despite the fact that we would occasionally do some interesting things. I blame this mostly on the fact that a) I had read a lot of science books and b) the teacher was terrible. One of the worst I've ever had. Certainly the worst science teacher I'd ever had.

Anyway, this was the first time I had dissected frogs, grasshoppers and worms, the first time I had balanced chemical equations, and the first time I learned what an "occluded sky" was (90% cloudy). So, there were some good things going on in the class, but I was just plain effing bored most of the time. However, we did watch a lot of films and film strips in class, which helped break up the monotony.

Being that I was 6'1" in the seventh grade, I often found myself having to slouch down so others could see the projection screen. Now, Jayne Smith was somewhat on the shorter side, and so, as we prepared to watch our movie for the day, I did the chivalrous thing and assumed the position: slid my ass as far back in the seat as I could, elbows on the desktop, back hunched, chin cupped in hand, glazed look in eye. I was ready for the lights to go out and for the film to begin. Which, thankfully, happened a couple of seconds later.

I don't know if they still do this now, but the desks in my junior high classes all had those wire book racks on the bottom of them, which were REAL convenient for putting your feet up on. As we were all settling in for the movie, Jayne decided to get comfortable, too. As such, she leaned back in her chair and slid her feet into the top of the wire book rack.

However, I had already assumed my position, and so when she went to put her feet into the book rack, the toe of her shoe hit my ass and then I could feel her foot sliding past the firm, taut curve of my ass cheek.

In the seventh grade, as the hormones are taking their toll on a person's body, guys don't have any semblance of "dick control". Feeling Jayne's foot rubbing against my ass caused me to fly into a state of "Insta-Chub". It did not help that, apparently, Jayne was fidgety as hell, and was constantly readjusting her feet. Each time she did it, it would send a blissful charge of hormone-fueled lust up and down my spine.

Mmmm...frotteurism. Or, I guess, reverse frotteurism.

And, of course, it all centered in my tail dick, which caused me to get harder and harder. And, things were getting uncomfortable...not so much because I was pressing against any fabric or anything. It was more because there is a point where my dick gets so hard that it actually hurts. And my balls ache. But, I think is pretty much standard practice for all guys when lust comes knocking on their door. I dunno. I've never really discussed this particular physiological phenomenon with my friends.

Discuss amongst yourselves, if you wish.

Now...at what point should I perhaps tell you that the zipper on the pair of jeans I was wearing that day was broken? Now? Okay. The jeans I was wearing that day, by luck and happenstance, had a broken zipper. And not just the kind that doesn't zip. It was the kind of broken zipper where you zip up, think everything is fine, and then you casually go about your day. However, as you're walking, the motion of your legs moving the fabric of the jeans back and forth and gravity conspire to pull the zipper down.

And this is what happened to me, prior to science class. So, there I was, hard as granite, with my zipper down.

But wait, there's more.

Apparently, when I had pissed prior to class, I hadn't tucked myself completely back through the front flap of the underwear. Or, perhaps, my dick was just that nimble. Because, as I'm sitting there, raging hard and, well frankly, enjoying Jayne's foot rubbing against my ass and making me hard, I decided to adjust myself to try and not hurt so much.

So, as subtly as I could, I put my hand down in my lap. And that's when the bare flesh of my hand met the bare flesh of the head of my penis. A tightness crushed my chest, my throat swelled shut, my eyes flew wide open, panic set in.

Oh my fucking God, I thought, my dick is sticking out in class!!! Help me, Baby Jesus, help me!!!

"You're on your own, kid," he replied.

I cast my eyes about, trying to see if anyone had noticed (remember, the lights were--blissfully, thankfully--turned off). I immediately sat up, which, with my the flap on my tighty-whiteys and the teeth of my zipper wrapped around the shaft of my penis, nearly severed it. I resisted the urge to cry out or even do the sharp intake of breath that comes with the sudden sensation of pain. I put my other hand in my lap and just sat there for a few seconds, as casually as possible, with small, subtle movements, I tucked myself back into my underwear and then zipped myself back up. For good measure, I remained like that, sliding my ass to the front of the seat and leaning down in my chair so that Jayne could see the final few moments of the film. Heaving a sigh of relief, I began to return to silent flaccidity.

The movie ended, the bell signaling the end of science period sounded, and I immediately got up and did the old "hold my books over my crotch--no one will notice!!!" move as I walked down the hallway. Throughout the rest of the day, I was obsessed with checking my zipper to make sure it was up. And then after the day was done, I never wore those pants to school again.

This severely limited my wardrobe, because my parents refused to buy new clothes for me at any time other than at the beginning of the school year in the fall. Plus, we weren't allowed to wear shorts to school at that time. So, I was down a pair of pants...but it was worth it having that safety and security of mind that my dick wouldn't be making another surprise appearance in the middle of science class.

And, of course, when I got home that afternoon after school, I masturbated furiously while thinking about Jayne. And then immediately felt guilty.

TMI Thursday: The Wearing of the White

Wow, Thursday already? Or again? Or whatever adverb you wanna slap in there? If it's Thursday, it must mean it's time for me to embarrass myself and those nearest and dearest to me. If I can get a few of you to mutter "My God, man, have you no shame?" along the way, then I'll consider that a successful foray into the soft underbelly and dark shadows of my memories.

In college, I seemed to have a propensity toward hanging out with two other friends at the same time. I've told you of some of the shit that my friends Will and Giles and I did together. Today, let's meet another couple of friends, Scooter and Young Bob. Scooter was a short little chap, and quite the dirty birdy, I might add. In those days, it was still difficult to download clips of *ahem* certain types of movies...off the internet. Scooter was my go-to guy. He had a stash of them. Sorority Pink 3 was my favorite.

Young Bob was a local kid (Will actually gave him the moniker 'Young Bob') with a true gift toward using the word fuck and girls with really, really huge cans. He is the one who likes all our pretty songs who introduced me to Clerks and the Askew-niverse that I used to hold near and dear to my heart before Kevin Smith's movies veered toward the unwatchable. He's also the coiner of the oft-uttered "Mother of fuck!".

I've said it before, but it bears repeating: Renssalaer, IN is not the booming metropolis that you might imagine. Oh, sure, it has traffic lights--something noticeably absent in neighboring Newton county--and my beloved alma mater Saint Joseph's College and the Little Cousin Jasper Festival, but aside from the Wagon Wheel bar or Wal-Mart or late-night walks into the town past Dave Chesak's house, there isn't much to do.

Fortunately, a mere 45 minutes in either direction is Lafayette (to the south) or Merrillville/Schererville/Dyer (to the north), where wondrous things known as "book stores" and "malls" and "commerce" exist. Extra fortunately, Scooter owned a car. This meant that we could sally forth on the weekends for a few hours and spend our hard-earned coin look at things we wanted to buy but couldn't. A lot of times, we ended up to the south, in Lafayette and West Lafayette. Being that Purdue is in West Lafayette, there were all sorts of great little shops and stuff sitting next to the campus. We found some excellent used CD shops and a place where I was able to buy a Periodic Table of the Elements t-shirt (the radioactive ones glow in the dark!). Yes, I still own the shirt.

There was also a mall in Lafayette and, next to the mall, was a Barnes & Noble where a friend of mine (whom I had an overactive interest in, we'll say) worked, so we would venture out there from time to time, as well. Behind the mall, however, was a Toys R Us. And behind the Toys R Us was a sex shop.

As far as sex shops go, this was a particularly good one. The guy who worked there recognized us...which is probably where this story should end, but I'll forge ahead. This is the place where I learned that blow-up dolls come in various sizes according to how much weight they can support. I learned about double-headed dildos, browsed through movies wherein every particular fetish one could ever imagine was sated, and I learned a valuable lesson about anal beads: don't yank them like you're starting a lawn mower. Not a first hand experience, mind, but a bit of wisdom that I'll pass along to you all.

The best part about this particular sex shop was the movie booths. Pay a single crisp, green one dollar bill and get access to a booth with a tv running countless channels worth of porn. Much like the movies in the main part of the store, every size, shape, taste, whim, fetish and desire could be found glowing from the small square in the wall. Being pervs, all three, we fed our dollars into the machines and went our separate ways.

I should interject here that, at the time of this story, I had a serious crush on a lovely girl from the South Side of Chicago named Jenny. She had beautiful brown eyes, short, silky brown hair and awesome legs. We had done a few shows together, she liked the same sorts of music and I did, and we just meshed really well. I think there was a time when she liked me, as well, but I was too much of a chickenshit pussy to pull the trigger, and so my love for Jenny went forever unrequited. *insert dramatic sigh here*

Okay, back to the porn.

Beneath the box of glowing sex on the wall were two buttons. You could use these buttons to either scroll forward or back to find the movie that you so desired to watch for however long the dollar bought you. I cruised through the channels, unimpressed by what I saw, until the station lit upon a beautiful, dark-haired, brown-eyed girl. What she was doing (blow job) and what she was wearing (nothing) mattered very little. The thing that mattered most was that here was my Jenny.

"Holy shit!" I bellowed.

"What?" "What?" answered Scooter and Young Bob.

"Come see. Come see this right the fuck now."

Both of my friends burst into the porn booth. Simultaneously, they both uttered, "Holy shit! It's Jenny!"

"You're in love with a porn star!" Young Bob said.

All three of us stood there, awestruck, by this girl. Maybe it wasn't my Jenny, but this girl was more than a mere facsimile. If this wasn't Jenny, then it was her doppelganger. Enraptured, I pulled up the chair provided in the booth and sat down...

...and immediately felt something wet.

"What the fuck?" I said absently, looking down.

"It's called a boner. You get those when you see the girl you're madly in love with being impaled on some guy's dick." Young Bob had a way with words.

"No, what the fuck did I just sit in?" I queried.

"Holy fuck! You just sat in some guy's spooge!" Scooter cried.

It was true. There, across my left ass cheek and down the back of my left leg was a streak of man juice. It was undeniable. I was scarred. It was like I was wearing my own scarlet letter, except it was white. And it wasn't a letter. So, really it was just like I was wearing a giant jizz stain.

Fortunately, my dollar ran out. I never got to see what happened to my Jenny (or her lookalike), but I'm pretty sure I can guess (money shot). Instead, I stood, horrified, as the masculine jelly cooled and congealed upon my shorts.

"Fuck! Now what?" I asked.

"You're not getting back into my car with those on. I have upholstery!" Scooter announced.

"Let's get the fuck out of here and I can figure it out from there," I said, and so we left in short order. On the way out, the guy behind the counter said, "Now, you boys know it's only one to a booth." Then he leaned in, all conspiratorial-like, and uttered just above a whisper, "But since we're buds, I'll let it slide this time." Great. Thanks, chief; you have a heart of pure gold.

We get outside and my only recourse is to remove the soiled pants before I get back in the car. Normally, we always saved the sex shop for last, so we didn't have to rearrange our plans due to my sudden wardrobe malfunction nor did I have to traipse around anywhere with a giant jizz stain on my shorts.

In the car, we're underway, and we hop on the interstate to cruise on back home. It's night, so it's not like anyone can see me hanging out in the back of some other dude's car in just my boxers. However, as we're cruising along, the musky odor of whomever's spuzz I'm carrying on my pants is filling up the interior of the car. I had hoped I could go home and wash the shorts and everything would be cool, since they were my favorite shorts and all. As the odor grew stronger and stronger, I knew there was only one course of action.

"Scoot, roll down the window."

"What? Why?"

"These shorts stink like cum, and I don't want them anymore."

"Fuck. You're going to get me arrested."

"It's night. No one will see."

"He's right," Young Bob added, "That shit's beginning to stink. We have to get rid of it."

So, Young Bob rolled down his window. And I waited for my opportunity. As we crossed the bridge over the mighty Wabash river, I bid my shorts one final good-bye, and chucked them. Softly humming taps, I watched as they disappeared into the darkness, a single flash of green being the only sign that they had ever been there. A second later, and the ordeal was over.

"Now, roll that fucking window back up. It's cold back here and my sack's shrinking."

And that was when I learned yet another valuable life lesson, courtesy of the sex shop: never, ever, NEVER, sit down on one of the chairs in the porn booth. Ever.



Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!