The Man Who Came Too Much by Ellie Saxx

THE MAN WHO CAME TOO MUCH

    by Ellie Saxx

    ~~~

    I’ll get straight to the point: when I cum, I fill jars. I buy those quart-sized widemouthed canning jars from discount stores and reach for one when I’m jerking off. My orgasms might last a minute or two, depending. Twenty or thirty shots of my semen will fill up a jar in no time. I’m like a hose.
    You’re probably thinking that I’m oversized in some way. Not really. From what I can tell, I’m a little...thicker than most. My balls are like small lemons, if I had to estimate. That’s what people always want to know about. They think I have a set of cantaloupes down there.
    I’ve never been proud of this. I’m not writing to brag. My “talent” has caused me a great deal of trouble. I’m only writing because I’ve finally found someone who possesses what it takes to deal with this on a daily basis. He lives for it, in fact. I’m writing this for him. It’s what I do. I can’t always say things directly because I’m kind of a smartass. The tone isn’t always right. I haven’t told anyone these stories before. I want him to read them, so he knows how different things are now.
    The first time I ever jacked off I sprayed my bedroom wall until it was dripping. I
    accidentally nailed my dog in the face, and she never looked at me the same way after that. I can’t say I blame her. I was just as confused as she was, poor, dripping Marcy Crappington.
    I decided that must be how things were supposed to work. My dad never talked to me about sex – he and my mom were pretty much hands-off in that department. I figured, hey, I’ve never done this before. This mysterious liquid had probably been building up in my body for years.
    When I finally let it loose, I had some excess inventory. Thank god I discovered the joys of rubbing my cock when I did! I might have exploded.
    So, of course, I was at it again within a half-hour. Basically, right after I washed off Marcy and let her outside. I paged through my mother’s fashion magazines and got hard when I saw the male models stripped down to tiny scraps of underwear, bodies draped casually over rocks or diving off of waterfalls.
    And, to my surprise, I machine-gunned the underside of my desk. Not as much as I left
    dripping on the wall, but there was still an ungodly amount of liquid shooting out of me in hot jets. I loved it and panicked at the same time. My dick was jumping and spasming like some sort of garden sprinkler people danced through on their lawns. What the hell was happening? Why hadn’t anyone told me about this? A goddamn hint, at least, about the logistics would have saved us a lot of paper towels. Where was the health class lecture about this bullshit?
    My logic, though, was strong: I thought that Mother Nature never would have made
    something that felt so amazing if it did any sort of harm. And it felt amazing. So I yanked with confidence.

    Jump ahead to my first year in college. Now an accomplished masturbator, I’d started to seek out containers for my seed. Two liter soda bottles were a good size, but their openings were too narrow. I settled on Pringles cans, those tall cardboard tubes. I’d spray one of those full after a session or two and the threat of my cum soaking through the cardboard was enough to make me remember to throw out the containers on a regular basis. It was a good system.
    College was also when I was refining my sexual tastes. I dated a sophomore named Susan.
    Susan was gorgeous – blonde hair, blue eyes, the college girl you expect in your dreams. Well, some people do. I wasn’t sure, but Susan was horny as hell and grabbed my dick in the library one night. Even though my brain had no interest in fucking her, my garden sprinkler won out.
    “What the fuck?” it said, taking on a life of its own, yearning to ram the warm and willing Susan through my jeans. Neither of us knew where the ramming would happen, or how, but my dick was angry and getting uncomfortably