A friend drunkenly told me I was ‘Wank Fuel’. So I made him cum for real (30f) [FM]

Masturbation. We all do it. And why shouldn’t we – it’s wonderful. Not *quite* as magnificent as sex (or, at the very least, it shouldn’t be. There are times when it’s a better choice, but that’s a whole other discussion for another post), but it’s as entertaining and satisfying a way of filling your time as any other. Frankly nature took something of a risk when granting us the ability to generate our own orgasms. I sometimes wonder how we ever summon the willpower to leave the house.

But aside the obvious advantages of self-stimulation, one of the most wonderful things about self-loving is that it can be deeply personal. You can sit back and be entertained and aroused by whatever imagery, pornography or other means of external stimuli you care to mention, and they all absolutely have their place. But, for me, the very best times are when you simply allow your imagination to conjure up whatever filthy thoughts your conscious – or indeed subconscious – mind can fathom, and go with the flow.

And these thoughts can indeed be anything. A private and personal selection of bespoke erotica, involving anyone – celebrities, people you know, constructs of your own mind – doing literally anything. And I don’t know about everyone else but, personally, I often find my mind will created elaborate fantasies involving the people I know. Sometimes not even people I’d necessarily consider to a sexual prospect in a non masturbatory setting. The mind is so often full of surprises.

At this point I think it’s probably fair to say I don’t think there’s a single one of my friends that haven’t, to some degree or another, crossed my mind during a session of self loving. In some cases it’s incredibly fleeting as I wonder what the hell they’re doing mentally intruding in my private time, and dismiss such thoughts immediately. But often, if it seems fun or exciting, I’ll happily go along with it.

I’m hoping this is all at least vaguely familiar to some folk out there, or I’m really making myself sound certifiable. Or just more perverted than I ever conceived.

Whether you’re similarly minded or this is all alien to you is largely immaterial to the point I’m ponderously heading towards, which is that the joy of masturbation is that it is private. You can have whatever weird fantasies you like and at no stage are you under any obligation to share them. Ever.

Which is why I was somewhat taken aback one evening when a drunken friend – relatively out of the blue – decided to confess to me that I featured quite heavily in his ‘Wank fuel.’

To provide a little context; this was during the glory days of university when any given night was a drunken night, and when the freedoms of sexual liberation were considered sacrosanct (an unnecessarily esoteric way to describe that everyone was fucking like rabbits). My particular group of friends had a weekly ‘movie night’, wherein we all crammed our way into one or other of our student flats, and used watching a movie as a thinly veiled excuse to drink to excess and chat about any old nonsense long into the small hours.

On this occasion I can’t even pretend to recall what movie we were watching (arguably true of any movie for the seven or so months we indulged in the gathering), but it featured a rather graphic sex scene fairly early on in the runtime. I remember as much as we spent the next hour or so as a group discussing which films featured our favourite sex scenes and which, if any, had been used as masturbatory encouragement. (Apparently almost any film featuring tits was enough to inspire some of the guys present.) It was a mildly hysterical conversation but, and I can’t stress this enough, one of many that took place during the five plus hours we all spent drinking and chatting in each other’s company. And this one had taken place within the first hour and a half.

All of which contributes to why I was quite so surprised when, hours later, while myself and Ryan were walking back home together (we lived just around the corner from each other), he quite casually and exceptionally drunkenly tells me that he often thinks about me while wanking.

It was so casually delivered in fact, that I initially thought I must have misheard. But unless he’d said he was thinking of me while he did his *banking*, there wasn’t much it could have been mistaken for. And given my general lack of skill with numbers, it’s unlikely I was his financial muse.

As regular readers may know, I’m not someone who shies away from confronting an issue head on. There are plenty who would go so far as to argue that it’s one of my greatest flaws. Tact is not a word I associate with. So, I asked him for clarification.

‘You masturbate thinking about me?’

His face was a picture as it now dawned on me why he’d said it so casually. It’d slipped out. It was a drunken stray thought that he’d inadvertently given voice to. A flickering neurone he’d been holding since the conversation some four hours previous that had somehow escaped from his alcohol addled mouth. It was the only explanation for why his face betrayed the look of a man who’d just found his super-secret porn stash had not only been found, but been shared with his friends and family.

He looked so ‘Deer in the headlights’ that, despite my usual love for mockery and pouncing on weakness, I actually felt sorry for him. This had the potential to be the kind of psychological bruise that could last – if his drunken mind even retained this the following day.

So rather than turn the screw and up the awkwardness, I took pity on him.

‘Thanks. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit you popped up occasionally in mine too.’

Frankly I deserved an acting award for the delivery. It was somehow even more casual than his initial confession. A perfectly undersold (even if I do say so myself. Though I was drunk, so it may not have appeared quite as Oscar worthy in reality as it did in my head) relaxed and casual tone that positively exuded an indifferent ‘so what?’ as surely as if I’d shrugged it off without comment.

But the reason I’m so deserving of the award is that while my exterior was the picture of casual acceptance, my brain was firing at a rate too rapid for an inebriated individual to process.

‘Ryan is sexually excited by me. What do I think about that? Am I annoyed? Flattered? Excited? Violated? What do I think about him? He’s a friend. Isn’t he seeing someone? Is he attractive? he’s not unattractive. How many times have I thought of him? At least a couple. And once that was really good. He’s not really my type though. I wonder what he imagines me doing? Does he use pictures? I wonder is his fantasy is even remotely realistic…’

– All just a tiny snapshot. I’d fill all of reddit to explain each and every consideration that struck my befuddled brain in that instant. There’d have been even more, but he replied almost immediately.

‘Oh yeah? What have you thought about me?’

Dangerous road this, I thought – especially since I haven’t come close to deciding what I actually think about the situation. Probably best to head this off at the pass, and store it was something to ridicule him with and/or develop at a later date.

‘That’d be telling.’ was my actual weak-ass reply. If I’d been marginally more sober I like to believe I’d have come up with something more pithy. Nevertheless, what it lacked in wit it more than made up for in blatant conversation killing clarity. Or so I thought.

‘Oh. okay.’ was his reply.

Phew. Crisis averted.

‘Because I have a very clear one about you…’ he continued.

Oh fuck.

Now, I was drunk and this was a long time ago so I can’t pretend the following I’m about to share is verbatim, but the words were pretty burned into my head – it’s not often someone confesses a full fantasy scenario involving you – so I think I’ll be able to regurgitate what he said pretty damn accurately;

‘We don’t even fuck, that’s what’s weird. Normally all of my fantasies are about fucking. Y’know. Really going to town. But not you. You’re too fun to fuck. It’d spoil our friendship. With you I just imagine you topless and giving me an amazing handjob. I don’t know why i just really get the feeling your handjobs are amazing. So you’re just topless and wanking me. Weird isn’t it? Always makes me cum though. You’re really good!’

I mean, where do you even start with that? It was too much. Sensory overload. Even now, years later, I’m not sure how I’d deal with that statement. And for drunken nineteen year old me it was overwhelming.

Which is why, much to my own surprise as to his, I found myself offering him the opportunity to fulfil it.

He thought I was joking. Hell, I’m not entirely sure I wasn’t. But I’m nothing if not a stubborn soul, and so I did it anyway.

We got back to his. He got his cock out – an appendage which was far from underwhelming, but neither would it be accurate to describe as in any way notable for those who care about such details. You’d struggle to pick it out in a lineup – but otherwise remained fully dressed. I took ahold, and started stroking.

It was almost surreal. We didn’t kiss. There wasn’t even much in the way of talk or discussion for the first few minutes. Just me, sat beside him, wanking him off.

After a few minutes though he was clearly struck by a bout of bravery. He reminded me I was topless in the fantasy. I called him a cheeky fucker. He agreed he was. And then I took my top off.

I asked him to describe his fantasy in as explicit a detail as he could. He got about two-thirds of the way through when he came. He hadn’t reached the part where he revealed where he’d want to cum, so instead finished mostly over the carpeted floor of his bedroom.

I asked him how I compared to the fantasy. To my unashamed delight he told me I was actually better in reality. ‘It usually takes you about twenty minutes.’

And with that, I went home.

He avoided me the next day. Mostly, I like to think, because he was undecided whether or not it happened or just a lovely drunken wet dream. Albeit a wet dream where he climbed out of bed and spunked on his bedroom carpet.

The day after we actually discussed it and, mostly thanks to my nudging, decided that it was probably best left as fantasy from now on. When I reminded him he’d admitted I was ‘too fun to fuck’ he agreed. It swiftly became out go-to running gag after a drunken night out, but was ultimately never repeated.

A Facebook memory of a suitably cryptic status updated popped up this morning informing me that this incident took eleven years go years ago this week. As such I hope you’ll forgive the indulgence of a repost – I’ve hopefully added enough in the way of extra details to warrant a re-read – but the opportunity to celebrate the anniversary is too much to not post again.

For anyone wondering, Ryan and I still vaguely friends to this day. I sometimes wonder if I should ask if I still feature in his wank bank but, if indeed I do, I worry the question would only add wank fuel to the fire…

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/11sw362/a_friend_drunkenly_told_me_i_was_wank_fuel_so_i