How to Avoid Getting Caught Masturbating

The other night while wrapped up in the pornographic ecstasy of various sexual fantasies, there was a knock on my bedroom door.

In that instant of panic, there are 6 things that need to be done within a period of 1.5 seconds to remedy the situation:

1. Exit out of the 83 porn clip windows open on my laptop

2. Replace with wholesome website such as “LoveGodAndNotYourRod.com” or “KittensAndKitchenware.org/nothingevenremotelysexualformeatbeatinghere”

3. Place erect member back in boxers in frustration

4. Think vile, putrid thoughts for rapid-fire deflation of hard-on such as: Taylor Swift balling a Galapagos Turtle, Gerald Ford in see-through culottes, Michael Bay movies

5. Dispose of the tissue that lies pathetically beside my pale hairy legs

6. Answer the bastard at the door as inconspicuously as possible

 

NONE of these things worked out for me

 

I simply froze and gently uttered, “Who is it?”

It was my new roommate Jen who I don’t know that well but we were just starting to become friends. And now, I thought, the nascent friendship will wilt and decay as I will be thrust into creep status forever.

“Hey, I was seeing if you wanted to hang out.” she said through my door.

“Oh, sure… one second, I’m not dressed.”

This was a terrible excuse. I am always in my underwear. The day I met Jen, I was in my underwear. I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen her once while I was clothed.

I clamored for my clothes, mainly to give me enough time to somewhat shrink my appendage and pretend there was an actual reason that I could not come to the door immediately.

When I was fully dressed, I peaked out of my room with my crotch hidden behind the door.

 

I smiled carelessly and chuckled as I let her in. I then joked casually:

“How are you? Haven’t seen you in a while! It’s not like we live together. Ha ha ha ha ha”

Clearly Wasn’t Masturbating

Kill me with a shovel.

 

I turned around, glanced at my bed, and noticed the tissue lying on my sheets. While still light-heartedly spouting off platitudes, I swatted the tissue away to the space between my bed and the wall.

The whole thing was as clumsy as a one-fingered man trying to carry an overflowing bowl of soup across a tightrope without spilling.

We sat on my bed and by now my erection had gone down a considerable amount but it sill didn’t mask the awkward tension in the air.

 

“What were you doing?” she asked.

“Talking on skype” I lied.

“In the nude?”

“Umm… ha… no. I mean. I was in my underwear. I was talking to my cousin. We’re close. She was wearing clothes. I mean… I didn’t show her my underwear, I mean, I didn’t point the camera down, I mean, we were just talking about bleu cheese.”

 

Awkward silence.

 

That was the moment where the social contract kicked in and we both started to small talk, all the while having to pretend that neither one of us knows what is going on but continuing to converse about whatever we can drum up though we both clearly know that I was just masturbating.

She wouldn’t leave.

She kept talking and talking and I gave terse replies with the intention of actually saying, “JUST LEAVE. GET OUT! I WANT TO WASH MY HANDS AND TAKE A SHAME NAP”.

 

Eventually she did go back to her room and I sat in silence for a few moments before deciding to finish where I had left off.

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