Good Vibrations Magazine

I would like to share a story with you all told to me by my good friend Mr. Ping.

His name is actually just Ping but one stoned night in college we added the Mr. thinking it made him sound like a James Bond villain. Mr. Ping is the first-born son in his Chinese family. This affords him certain privileges and certain responsibilities. The responsibilities will come into play later.

Without further ado – Mr. Ping’s Masturbation Humiliation

One fine spring day, prior to a large family gathering, Mr. Ping decided to masturbate. I’m guessing he did it to relax as these gatherings could be very stressful. What with mountains of extended family piling into the living room and he being called in as the star.

At the time Mr. Ping was a freshman in high school. Old enough to be an old hand at self love but young enough to still be thrilled and a bit overwhelmed by actually ejaculating.

Already dressed for the family gathering he lay back on his bed and undid the fine zipper on his slacks. Everything was proceeding smoothly. He would stop with the slightest sound in the hallway but then pick up right where he left off.

When going dry he would pump a few more times from the hand moisturizer he kept on his nightstand. This left Mr. Ping with the sweetest smelling pubes. He was kind of famous for them, at least amongst the stoner patchouli female set on campus.

The hand moisturizer was a hard won lesson for Mr. Ping. Apparently, in his youth, he concluded it would be a good idea to masturbate with Joy dishwashing soap.

“Why not add a little joy?” That was his thinking.

Joy didn’t go so well with Mr. Ping’s willie. He broke out in a terrible rash for a day. When he awoke in the morning his penis was covered in scabs. Afraid for his sexual life, but more afraid to tell anyone Mr. Ping spent the next three days in silent terror.

Finally the scabs fell off and all was well. It was the dawn of hand moisturizer.

Lying on his bed Mr. Ping just couldn’t get where he needed to go. Then, he had an idea; he needed a hot dog up his ass. Let us remember this is the boy who masturbated with Joy dishwashing soap.

He zipped up his pants and made his way downstairs. The kitchen was abuzz with activity, his mother, aunt, and sisters running to and fro chopping, rolling and frying. Mr. Ping opened the freezer and got himself a hotdog.  But his hands were so slick from the moisturizer the hotdog went flying out of them landing in a bowl of fried wontons.

His perversity standing upright in the center of his family’s dinner banquet Mr. Ping froze. But everyone was too busy to notice. He grabbed the hot dog, squeezed it tight and ran upstairs.

He dropped is pants to his ankles, squatted down and got to the business of slipping the hot dog up his ass. He got it about halfway in before realizing it was frozen and that he was no in the process of freezing the inside of his ass.

Thwarted, but not defeated, Mr. Ping pulled up his pants and went to the microwave that had been placed upstairs so the family could make popcorn without having to go to the kitchen. (The movie room was upstairs)

One minute later Mr. Ping’s pants were back around his ankles and the warm rubbery hot dog was sliding easily in. A bit too easily actually.

Between the condensation on the hot dog and the moisturizer on his hand the tail end of the weiner slipped away and before he knew it the hot dog had completely disappeared. Gone, vanished inside the sucking well of his anus.

It felt really good. Mr. Ping grabbed his Johnson and started to wank it. It should be noted that not once in all of this had he lost his erection. But memories of the Joy debacle came to him.

What if the hot dog got stuck? What if he had to go to the hospital to get it out? He had to get it out.

There he was, on the toilet, dressed for his family party, his erection pointing up at him, trying to shit out a hot dog. It wasn’t easy. But little by little it began to emerge. When it was about halfway out he heard his mother scream for him.

“PING! Get down here!”

The shock of it caused him to clench. His cheeks sheered the hot dog right in two. Half fell into the bowl and the other half stayed in his anus.

Seeing no choice Mr. Ping pulled up his pants, held his erection in with his belt and left the bathroom.

But for a hot dog that had refused to come out the remaining half felt very shifty as his body bounced down the stairs. By the time he reached the bottom he could swear part of it was already out.

He turned the corner to encounter his entire extended family gathered in the living room. They cheered for him, this perverse if first-born boy with a constant erection and a hot dog in his ass.

He made his way around the room shaking hands and receiving kisses on his cheek as his parents looked on proudly. And then, suddenly, as his Auntie Sue mangled his face, the hot dog was gone.

It had slipped out of his ass, that much he knew. But it hadn’t appeared. Mr. Ping imagined it, half a hot dog balanced precariously on the inseam of his boxer shorts.

He moved to shake his uncle’s hand.  There it was, brushing against the inside of his thigh. It felt like the cut half.

Mr. Ping was numb with fear. He had to keep moving around the room but moving was the surest road to disaster. You can explain away a lot of things but how do you explain away a hot dog falling out of your pants?

Miraculously, the hot dog stayed where it was.  Mr. Ping welcomed his last cousin. Only now he found himself in the middle of the room, everyone gazing at him. His parents had left him a wide berth. There was at least two feet of empty carpet all around him, white carpet.

Maybe it was a small earthquake, or the throbbing of his penis, but something dislodged the hot dog from its safe perch.

Mr. Ping felt it start to slip. He felt it graze his knee. And then there was nothing, just the slightest sound of a thump, and half of an ass hot dog lying on the white carpet.

Everyone saw it. All our eyes were on the floor. Mr. Ping tried to act like nothing had happened, but the hot dog lay about two inches from his foot.

Then his mother swooped in, picked up the hot dog and lovingly wagged it in Mr. Ping’s face.

“I told you not to eat before the meal,” she said.

Mr. Ping smiled, everyone laughed, and then his mother took a bite of the hot dog.

No, I’m kidding, that didn’t happen. The sight of his mother holding the hot dog that had been up his ass was mortifying enough for Mr. Ping. The evening went on without further incident.

Mr. Ping learned his lesson. Now he only puts carrots up his ass, thin end first. Oh, and at the end of the night, when he got to bed, Mr. Ping finally got to masturbate.

“I came so hard,” he said.