I want to be the nervous naked guy with two guys edging me
by Onania MasturBOT | inspired by Kevinfrancis
Yesterday I had one of those masturbation sessions that leaves your brain a little scrambled, where you find yourself blinking at the ceiling afterward and thinking, what the fuck just happened? Or, in my case, why did that just happen? It started like any other afternoon of procrastination and boredom, which is usually when I’m most susceptible to the call of a quick wank. I’d been holding out for a few days, saving up a load for the weekend, trying to prove I had a shred of self-control left, but I woke up with an ache in my balls that morning and by the time I got home I was a walking hormone.
My browser history, if you plotted it as a scatter graph, would probably tell you everything you need to know about me: guy in his late twenties, bi-curious but not outspoken about it, prone to consuming whatever porn gets the job done, then feeling a little sheepish about it afterward. I’m not the sort of guy who posts in the comments or even bookmarks favorites—I just ride the algorithm until I find something that flicks the right switch, then wipe my hands of it, literally and figuratively. I’m a connoisseur of the niche: JOI, breeding, free use, MMF. Occasionally something wet and wild or humiliating, but always, always, I tell myself, rooted firmly in the world of straight porn.
But yesterday was not an ‘always’ day. I started with the usual menu, clicking through JOIs, and at first it worked. There’s something about the mixture of command and attention in a well-made JOI that hits a dopamine sweet spot for me; I like being told what to do and when to do it, knowing the video’s creator expects my hand to be on my cock, edging at her command. It’s a ritual by now. I even have a set of favorite creators whose voices I recognize, whose faces I barely register but whose phrasing, intonation, and attitude are familiar enough to feel like a kind of remote intimacy.
I was well into my second or third round of edging, a slow burn, when the suggestions started to narrow in on the more left-field stuff. I’m not sure what triggered it—the length of time spent on a single video, maybe, or the subtle way the algorithm reads your pauses and scrolls—but suddenly the page was filled with options I rarely explored. It started with femdom and quickly morphed into gay JOI, then “masonic-boys” and “buddy training” and other esoteric categories that only make sense in the fever dream of a porn aggregator.
This isn’t new. Half the fun of porn, for me, is letting myself get sucked down a rabbit hole and seeing where I end up. Sometimes it’s humiliating, sometimes it’s confusing, sometimes it’s even a little scary. But yesterday felt different. Maybe it was the accumulated horniness of denial, or maybe it was the way the men on screen looked: not like porn stars, but like the guys I used to hang out with in high school. Real, unshaven, sometimes a little awkward, but always so obviously into each other. What got me wasn’t even the sex, at first—it was the way they talked to each other, the way their bodies interacted even when they weren’t fucking.
There was one video in particular that I kept going back to. It started like a frat house prank: three guys in a cluttered living room, two fully clothed, one naked except for a pair of mismatched socks. The clothed guys had the casual dominance of people who’d done this a hundred times, and the naked guy had a nervous energy that made my heart pound. They took turns stroking his cock, but not in a cruel or mocking way; it was more like they were showing him how to do it right, almost like older brothers teaching him how to shave. At one point, one of the clothed guys pulled out a small metal plug and lubed it up before working it slowly into the other guy’s ass. The look on the naked guy’s face—equal parts surprise and delight—made something in me snap. I wanted to be him, wanted those guys to manhandle me like that, to boss me around and treat me like their plaything.
By the time the video ended, I was close—closer than I’d been in weeks—and I didn’t even bother returning to the JOI I’d bookmarked earlier. Instead I kept letting autoplay fill the queue with more and more of the same: clothed men stroking and teasing naked boys, laughing and cajoling, pushing each other’s boundaries in ways that felt at once dangerous and safe. It was like watching a secret club I always suspected existed, but had never been allowed into.
When I finally came, it was so intense I nearly blacked out. My whole body shuddered, my legs kicked involuntarily, and I shot farther than I ever had before—so much that the first rope hit my own cheek. I just lay there, panting, dripping, and staring at the pause screen where the three guys were all tangled on the couch, laughing and wiping themselves off with a towel. I must have replayed that orgasm a dozen times in my head, maybe more, and for the rest of the night I couldn’t stop thinking about what had just happened.
Was I gay now? Is that how it works? I don’t know. I’ve always been open to new ideas, but this felt less like a curiosity and more like a tectonic shift. Even now, a day later, I keep returning to the thought of those boys: the way they touched each other, the way they looked at each other, the way their hands and mouths and bodies fit together like it was the most natural thing in the world. I want to feel that. I want to be a part of it. The more I replay it in my mind, the more I’m convinced that what I felt wasn’t just horniness, but a kind of longing for something I’d never even admitted to myself I wanted.
It’s weird, right? I’m sitting here writing this as if it’s a confession, when in reality I’m not even sure what I’m confessing. That I want cock? That I want to be used, to be told what to do? That I want to be the nervous naked guy with the metal plug in his ass, with two guys stroking and teasing and edging me until I explode? Maybe all of it is true. Maybe none of it is. But I can’t deny that yesterday was a turning point, or at least a signpost: go this way if you want more.
I kept thinking about it on my commute this morning, picturing scenarios where I would let another guy touch me. How would it happen? Who would make the first move? Would it be awkward, or would the awkwardness itself become part of the thrill? I tried to imagine what it would be like to taste another guy’s cum, to feel the weight of his cock in my mouth, to have someone else’s hands around my throat or in my hair. The images came so easily, so vividly, that I got hard just sitting there on the train. I had to shift my backpack to hide it, which only made me more aware of how much I wanted it.
I know there’s a difference between fantasy and reality, but the line feels thinner than it used to. I’m not sure what happens next, or if I’ll even act on this. Maybe it’ll pass, maybe next week I’ll be back to the usual routine. But if I’m honest with myself, I think I’ve found something I can’t unsee. I want to try it. I want to be the one moaning and shivering, the one being used, the one who gets to laugh and wipe himself off with the others afterward. I want to see where this road leads.
Maybe I’ll start with a new porn search. Maybe I’ll answer one of those casual encounter ads I usually scroll past with a mixture of fear and fascination. Maybe I’ll just let the algorithm guide me to the next surprise. All I know is, I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen, or that I’m not still thinking about it right now. And now that I’ve written it all down, I’m even more wound up than before.
It’s only a matter of time before I do something about it.
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