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Guest blogger: The Bucking Bronco on The Perfect Jerk

Good afternoon, folks. I’m Adam and I’ll be steering the ship of masturbatory celebration today. I know change is scary, but I have the utmost confidence that you all can survive a few hours without flirting with Maria or belittling Dave. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I think if we really give it a shot, we can make it through this one together.

Do you trust me? Good. Then follow along.

They say the eyes are the gateway to a man’s soul.  I’d say that statement is absolutely correct.

According to Google, in 2009, you jackals were more interested in porn than both Barack Obama and the New York Yankees…combined. But what does it all mean?

It means that if the eyes are the gateway to a man’s soul, then his soul is a majestic land of threesomes and anal sex. Because, clearly, that’s all his eyes have been staring at these past 365 days.

And that’s why I’m here. To peer into your soul. To shine my flashlight on your late-night masturbation sessions. To peek in your window while you’re nailing the drunk girl from the bar. I’m here to bridge the gap between your world and the porn world. Hopefully, by the time I’m done with you, we’ll all understand one simple fact: you, me, the porn star you were jerking off to in that other browser window…we’re not really all that different, after all. Well, maybe she is. But not you and I.

Welcome to The Bucking Bronco, where we’ll take a look at the lighter side of some of life’s most private moments.

This week’s topic: Performing the perfect jerk.

Remember when you were younger and lived with your parents? Do you remember exactly how hard it was to sneak in a good jerk; listening like a fucking hawk because you never quite knew when your mother would bust down your bedroom door, like S.W.A.T., for no apparent reason? Whenever my mom would come to tell me dinner was ready, it always felt like she was auditioning for The A-Team. I never understood why she couldn’t just knock. Luckily, that all changes when you get older. Once you live on your own, you’ll jerk off right at the dinner table if that’s when the mood strikes. There is no greater sexual liberation than moving out of your parents’ house.

It should go without saying, then, that having your own place is the only way to perform the perfect jerk.

Ideally, it takes place early in the morning, on a day when you have nothing else to do. Maybe you’re sitting at the computer, maybe you’re making breakfast, but out of nowhere, you get that undeniable itch. DO NOT IGNORE THIS. IT IS YOUR CIVIC DUTY TO SCRATCH THAT ITCH. This is about the point where you move your laptop and the baby oil to the coffee table so you can lie naked, watching that Asian girl with the huge boobs get double-teamed, from the comfort of your couch. Normally, you would look around to make sure the blinds are closed and the volume on the computer is low, but this is the perfect jerk, so these things are of no concern to you. You’re on a mission. You apply the baby oil liberally and proceed to grunt and talk dirty to the inanimate piece of technology in front of you. Did you just ask your computer if it “liked that big dick?” Fuck. Yes. You did. Be proud.

After about 10 minutes, it’s time for the party to end. But you’re not about to bust into a sock or a paper towel. No fucking way. When you’re in the middle of the perfect jerk, the last thing on your mind is cleanliness. Instead, you just wail away at yourself until you shoot rope after rope through the air and across your stomach and chest, hoping your body acts as a human shield. If done successfully, you should be able to stand up, walk to the bathroom, rinse off and grab a sandwich before your post-jerk nap. For the life of me, I can’t tell you why, but turkey is considerably more tasty in the minutes just after you’ve finished strong-arming yourself. Trust me. It’s science.

So there you have it. The blueprints for the perfect jerk. Some of you already know exactly what I’m talking about. Those of you who don’t, I suggest you take the time to try it out this weekend. And don’t forget the barbeque sauce. (On the sandwich, of course. Well, unless you’re into that sort of thing.) You’ll thank me later.

Next week: Where you jackin’ it?