I can’t ignore my itchy fingers for much longer.

Perhaps it’s just the cock talking, but now seems like the stars aligned, the perfect opportunity to reveal this curse of mine.

I exit the vehicle with the zipper undone, staring down my phone’s clock. I find a hedge in the unkempt shrubs separating a neighborhood from campus and fling myself into it.

I pull down my zipper and dig the Zweihänder out. Despite the rough branches and twigs brushing against it like the abrasive side of a sponge (don’t ask how I know how it feels, okay? I was alone and self-hating and horny), it twitches and throbs as desperately as it was in my bedroom. As **** as it always seems to be. More **** with every passing year.

My libido runneth over as I find a relatively bramble-free space in the hedge for my johnson and tug away. I think I can only do it once, but that’s not enough. It’s never enough. My entire body feels electrified at the realization. The thoughts blast through my mind.

What if I stay like this forever? No matter how much I bust, my body is **** to release one more. And I’m always painfully hard. Everyone would be able to see how massive my dick is unless I wear heavy clothes. Everyone would stare at it. I could probably be excused from gym because of it. And I would be **** to sit and watch, feeling it desperately throb and color all my thoughts into stuffing my seed in the unlucky dude before me. It can’t stay within me. It can’t. It must be released.