Today's story is from a lovely member of our email group, I hope you like it.
One particular day, I felt the need to tidy the Man Garden.
As a general rule, razoring is my preference.
However, on this particular occasion, being the advert's best friend, I was shopping in my local Boots (other pharmaceutical outlets are available, but personally I go between Boots and Superdrug, depending on what offers they have on, being the tight arse with money that I am).
I was looking for razors, to do both my face and downstairs department - I use the same one for both.
Suddenly I came across something I hadn't seen before - Veet for Men.
I excitedly added it to my basket, along with razors (as a back up) and the usual "necessary" toiletries, Lynx etc. Again, other brands are available.
So, off to the checkout I went, clutching my faithful Boots Advantage Card to earn some points.
At the checkout desk, I was greeted by a very cheerful, young male assistant.
I say young, I reckon he was still on Mommy's tit and she had just let him out to earn some pocket money, the Little Love.
Looking at him and dabbling in idle chitchat, I thought to myself you aren't in need of my manly razors young 'un - one slight breeze and that bum fluff on your face would be gone. Again, I digress.
Scanning the items, the young lad came across the Veet.
Looking slightly perplexed, he said "Oh, I haven't seen this before, what does it do?"
He turned the box over, (which showed exactly what you did with it and where), blushed like a beetrot, hurriedly scanned the rest of my items and asked "Do you have an Advantage Card, sir?" Bless him.
Upon getting home, I was excited to try this Veet and hurriedly got out of my clothes and had a quick shower.
As a rule I do not read instructions, but on this occasion, I though I better had in case of any mishaps and it did say to apply to clean, dry skin.
After doing the quick scrotal scratch and sniff test, I decided that, as per instructions, a shower was appropriate.
Upon finishing the shower and towelling myself completely dry (avoiding entertaining myself with a wank, as the vigorous drying of the towel had given me a slight bonk), I started to apply the cream.
Fully adhering to instructions, I set a timer for the correct amount of time. What I did not read on the instructions however, was to keep your knob out of the way.
Now, I know you are going to say "Duh, thought that would be obvious" and indeed it is, but I somehow got distracted.
You see 10 minutes, the amount of time to leave the cream on the skin is a long time to me and I soon got bored and drifted off into a daydream.
As the alarm for 10 minutes went off, I realised there was a slight tingling on my scrote and hoop. Perfectly normal, as per instructions, I thought.
What I hadn't bargained for, was that during the 10 minutes, my well behaved, limp member, had decided for reasons only know to himself, to stick his helmet to my sack.
I thought nothing of it and proceeded to shower once again to remove the cream.
All was well with sack and crack, but as soon as I had towelled myself dry I had the most excruciating pain on my knob end - the cream had burnt the poor fella and he was on fire (not literally, but it felt like it).
I rushed to the sink and plopped my junk over the side, running the cold tap at full speed - slight pain relief but not enough.
Thinking on my feet, with the main man still crying for help, I start to panic and was running around the house, bollock naked screaming "Don't worry fella, I'm looking for help".
Getting down to the kitchen, I threw the fridge door open and discovered a newly opened jar of raspberry jam - so into said jar went all three of them, my burning cock and poor unsuspecting balls.
I did this not even thinking as to whether my pride and joys were fructose intolerant. It was just not one of the many conversations we have all had.
So, long story short, (LOL). After about 30 minutes and a couple of gins to calm the old nerves, I plucked up the courage to pull the boys out of their jammy demise.
All seemed well and after I washed them yet again, I settled down for the evening.
It was a warm night so I chose to sit in front of the TV in just a t-shirt, giving the jewels a bit of well deserved air, after their ordeal earlier.
Occasionally, I would get up and pour myself another drink, passing the mirror in the hallway, admiring my now baby soft creation.
Eventually, after one such admiring glance, it was deemed appropriate to become aroused - could have been something to do with an educational movie that had managed to pop itself onto my TV in the background, who knows.
So there I was, settled back down on the sofa, cock in hand, solid as a rock.
Off we went, to just before climax, when I thought to myself "still a little sensitive, let's just get it done".
Sure enough, within a few minutes the deed was done and a fine pool of the old knob juice was on the glass coffee table before me. But wait - there was something different about this, my latest discharge - foreign bodies floating in the old Billy Bunk, looking suspiciously like - hang on a minute.
Back into the kitchen I went, to discover what is now the moral of the story.
Make sure the jar of jam is seedless before plunging your genitals into it, you Fuck Wit.
No wonder it was uncomfortable towards the end.
THE END (in both senses).
