Saturday, April 10, 2010

Wash! Rinse! Repeat!

I was fourteen or fifteen and our washing machine conked out. My Dad, who could fix anything, quickly diagnosed the problem and dismantled the washer in our basement and decided to rebuild it from the ground up. He declared the power source as substandard, so in the pile of discarded parts was this thing you could plug into the wall that would loudly hum and quiver. I saw it in action and thought the first thing anyone my age was bound to think:

Homemade vibrator.

It still had plastic tubes poking out of it, one to intake the water and another to spit it out, but it was the vibrating housing which captured my fancy. I waited til no one was around and snuck it back upstairs from the basement to my bedroom. It was huge and the exposed copper wire-wrapped components posed an electrical hazard. Still, the way it called to me, seductively, made it worth the risk. I figured if one of my balls accidentally dropped down and hit the AC power source I would spew across the room so hard it would crack the drywall. I'd be good and dead, but what a way to go.

I plugged it in and unzipped. I also had an open yearbook next to me, gazing at a picture of a guy I fancied, but was still in that stage where I could yank it to pictures of boys with the assistance of household appliances and not be gay. Another stage of denial was just how loud a sound the washing machine part gave off.

I placed my crank atop the exposed housing and man, did it feel good. I rubbed and jerked until, unfortunately, I was interrupted by a knocking at my bedroom door. It was my mother.

"What are you doing in there?"

You would think, good bye hard-on. But the machine had other plans. I continued to stroke it, carrying on the conversation:


"What's that noise?"

"I'm doing a science experiment."

"A what?"

"A science experiment," I repeated while grinding my dick into 220 volts of AC current.

"What is that noise?"

"It's the power source from the washing machine Dad threw away." You would think talking to Mom and referencing Dad would
have stopped me. And you would be wrong.

"What salad dressing do you want at dinner?"

"Thousand Island," I said, as I blew my spunk across the face of a yearbook picture.

"You sure you don't want Ranch?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure," I said, looking at the mess I'd made.

The washing machine component and I continued to date for an extended period. But eventually it wanted more than I could offer and left me. Story of my life.

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