January 3, 2015
2014: The Year in DIY Ejaculation
It's a rout: Megumi 8, Kate 0
My fellow Americans, 2014 was a year of unprecedented domestic political rancor, a year of revolting manmade disasters, a year of terrifying outbreaks of religious radicalism and deadly disease, and a year of just a god-awful lot of jizz flowing down the various drains
in my apartment. It may well have been the first year that my personal
domestic semen production actually increased over the previous year since,
oh, I’m guessing 1970.
Now, against all common sense, I’m going to continue to write at great length about my 2014 domestic semen production on the assumption that the subject engrosses you, and you will continue reading with white knuckles wrapped around your screen.
So, then, what exactly do I mean when I talk of “domestic” semen production?
Why, I refer to that semen produced in my own Yokohama apartment, using
the combined resources of a high-speed internet connection, my imagination,
and a crackerjack sex toy. * Granted, I did achieve a certain number of ejaculations throughout the
year with the aid of another 3D human. As to how many 3D humans were involved
and how that semen was mined, I will remain mum. A gentleman never reveals.
Anyway, you would not be interested in any tedious, detailed accounts of
the sensuous nude forms and feline sexual prowess of a series of lithe,
limber and eager young Asian women. I know you, my faithful reader. Ergo,
back to my semen!
Likewise, you probably aren’t the least bit interesting in why my semen production, after steadily falling due to the ravages of age since the days when President Richard Nixon enjoyed high approval ratings, suddenly experienced an uptick. But I will tell you anyway.
Well, Americans, the short answer is that I just had a pretty good year in 2014. At least, the part after my mother died in January. That kind of sucked. But the rest of the year, thanks perhaps to her guiding spirit, went quite smoothly. And a happy fifty-eight-year-old English teacher, as the old adage goes, is an ejaculating fifty-eight-year-old English teacher.
Actually, there was another unfortunate incident in October, when I ceased
being a happy fifty-eight-year-old English teacher and unwillingly became
a happy fifty-nine-year-old one. But do you think that shocking setback stopped me for one minute from ejaculating onward and upward? Well, yes. Yes, it did. Even I can’t
be ejaculating every single minute. There is such a thing as recovery time,
you know. But gram per gram, my besieged gonads continued to deliver the
goods during those final ten weeks of the year at a commensurate pace.
The next thing that you’re not at all dying to know is, just who was it that provoked in me all this urge to ejaculate at my advanced age? Well, you’re in luck because I kept records.
Who I ejaculated to in 2014:
|1. Active students
|2. Employees of Shibuya Relax Club
|3. Porn performers
|4. Former students
|5. Game of Thrones actresses
|6. Lizzy Caplan
|7. CNN International's African newscaster whose goddam name they never
show on the screen, like it's some sort of nuclear launch code or something
|8. Kate Upton
Now admittedly, these numbers aren’t cut and dried. Attributing a particular ejaculation to an individual is something like trying to determine which NFL player gets credited with a sack. Often there’s one guy who is instrumental in clearing the path, after which his teammate can readily stumble through and snag the QB. In similar fashion, it might be Megumi from Monday first period who gets the capillaries flowing, while it ends up being the Red Sorceress from GoT who swoops in to absorb the load. Talk about strange bedfellows.
I think the take-home point here is derived when we look at the top four categories, which together account for some 97.1 percent of my 2014 spermification. The top rank (42.5%) goes to the category of females I encountered most frequently, day in and day out. Numbers 2 and 4 (34.8%) are filled by groups of women whom, with some degree of preparation and at some expense, I could have arranged to meet. Only Number 3 (19.8%) represents a remote group of individuals to whom I could not realistically expect to gain direct access at any cost.
I sort of wish that other enthusiasts of ejaculating (I just know you’re out there!) were as meticulous as I in record keeping, as it would
be edifying to compare notes. I mean, let’s consider porn. As readers of
this blog know all too well, I love it. And as more careful readers know, I also love the fact that it didn’t become widely available and free until I was pushing fifty, because I do not wish to fathom the
effects that free porn would have had on my spongy little cortex in my
But for all my affection for porn, as a masturbatory aide it pales in comparison
to the females I encounter routinely, even though, with increasingly rare
exceptions, I will never, ever see those females naked. My best hope at
this age—and it is a hope rewarded with surprising frequency—is to snag
the occasional bikini shot off the Facebook feed of a college girl who
has naively friended me.**
Still, any one of these friendly, occasionally even flirtatious, but never ever ever naked personages will, for me, always trump the daylights out of a whole hot-tub full of squealing Japanese fellatists, and again, the question remains: Is that just me? Or are most cis males wired that way?
Here’s how I’m wired: If you wanted to mathematically quantify the pleasure that I feel upon seeing a woman naked, traditional measurements of that woman’s beauty (her sizes, age, etc.) would ultimately be minor factors in the formula. The key ingredient would consist of the amount of time and (though harder to quantify) intensity of concentration that I have expended imagining her naked prior to the reward.
A salient example of this from the most recent season of Game of Thrones is the long postponed nude scene of Missandei (the actress Nathalie Emmanuel). When she first appears in Season 3, taken
on as a servant by Daenarys, my reaction was “Oh, she seems nice.” When
she kept showing up in the background of the Essos scenes in her endless
series of haltertops and her proud wind-tossed afro, the reaction ever
so gradually evolved to “Hmmm...”
Now and again, there would be a Daenarys nude scene, where one might think,
“Oh, Emilia Clarke’s tits again! Long time no see! Always welcome, of course, but what about what’s-her-name
in the background there? Doesn’t she ever need a bath?” And by the time
Season 4 finally rolls around, you’re all like, “Oh, come on, seriously. Show us Missandei’s tits already.” And of course,
that’s just what the makers of Game of Thrones do at that very juncture, because that chick really does need a bath sometimes
and these Game of Thrones people really know what they’re doing.***
Now, unless one of my current female students gets cast for a role in Game of Thrones really soon—which would be, I say with confidence, just the giddiest thing
that could ever happen to a fifty-nine-year-old English teacher—then I’m
never going to see any of my current students completely naked. Still,
there is that sliver of hope. In the meantime, it’s the here-and-now-ness
of students that makes them so effective as ejaculatory aides.
And that’s why, flex my meager empathy muscles as I may, I’m never quite
able to crack the whole “body issues” issue. How can the women in my daily
life—or yours, or Brent Musburger’s, or that of any other man—think for
a second that she would rank lower on our carnal thermometers than some
supermodel we have no prospect of meeting??
Scroll back to my list again. See where Kate Upton is hanging? Tied at
zero with Maggie Smith about four billion other female life forms on the
planet, that’s where. Oh, I’ve seen fetching photos of Kate while at work,
and have thought more than once that I might make use of them after getting
home. But once I do get home and settled into my designated ejaculatory
chair, it always seems too much bother to re-Google Kate when I have fresh
photos or film of so many Saoris or Megumis or Kanakos or whatever.
What sort of warped mind is it that might catch me ogling a photo of Kate
Upton on my office PC and think, “Wow, Muggins likes that kind of rack,
huh? Damn, I don’t stand a chance making his Fantasy Hit Parade”? I just
don’t get that thinking. I really don’t. It makes me sad, and therefore
I prefer not to dwell on it too long, lest it impede the likelihood of
a brisk and jaunty ejaculation before bedtime.
I don’t know... Maybe I’m just overthinking this whole ejaculation business.
What do you think?
|* I am speaking metaphorically. You cannot obtain this wonderful item in a Crackerjack box no matter how many you purchase.
|** And for the tongue-cluckers out there, it is always she who befriends me.
On FB, I let the Vampire Principle guide me. I don’t maraud until I’m invited
| *** Not like some careless porn hack who shows you a woman rutting atop some
musclebound oaf, unbound boobs bippity-boppiting hither and yon, right
out of the gate before you’ve even had a chance to see her in a haltertop
and get to the “Hmm...” part. Damned amateurs...