Quantify the effects of the experiment.
Wednesday, 1 a.m.
Trying to squeeze into this thing is like stuffing a king-size comforter into a silverware drawer. There are plenty of parts that could pinch, so I poked my junk in carefully and clicked the padlock shut. Initially, it felt really good. The ring provides a firm grasping sensation, and the cage feels like a futuristic secret weapon is nestled in your lap. I view this as positive.
Wednesday, 1:05 a.m.
All of this gear designed to keep me “at bay” was starting to have the opposite effect. I decided to see how the CB-2000 would stand up to its contents . . . uh . . . standing up. In the absence of a) smut and b) a device to play it on, I decided to go for the next best thing: channel thirty-five. In New York City, this is the uncensored public-access station, the place where all cheap and nasty television goes to die, an endless stream of explicit ads for transsexual escorts and live phone sex with “dirty sluts,” both male and female. Occasionally, one can encounter actual programming, such as The Robin Byrd Show or Al Goldstein’s Midnight Blue. As any Manhattan perv will attest, when the chips are down when you need to see naked girls pretending to enjoy sex with homely men there is always channel thirty-five.
Sure enough, the channel worked its nasty magic instantly. The sight of my member rapidly outgrowing its manacles was pretty neat. The ring around the base got really tight, and for a little while, that felt great. The pressure from the now-upturned cage was pleasant as well. Then it started to hurt. A lot. Imagine what would happen if, while getting your blood pressure taken, the nurse kept squeezing and squeezing. I fumbled for the remote and switched to the History Channel. After a minute spent in thrall to History’s Mysteries, my erection subsided. Still, I feared the dawn.
Wednesday, 1:45 a.m.
Bedtime. I usually like to sleep on my stomach, but the protrusion of plastic made that impossible. After an hour of looking at the ceiling, I built a nest of pillows and tried to bunker down for the night. But I was troubled. For one of my earlier assignments, I wore a cock ring, which, although designed for the opposite purpose, looked and felt similar to the CB-2000. This was the source of my worry: spending more than an hour in a cock ring can create a pair of large, bruised plums between your legs. I also couldn’t stop thinking about a story I heard at camp about a kid who twisted a nad in his sleep and had to have it amputated. I’ll do weird shit for a paycheck, but I don’t want to lose a ball for it. Restless sleep ensued, followed by weird dreams about shooting down a pink tunnel.
Wednesday, 5:23 a.m.
Ow! Ow! Ow! Morning wood never felt so bad, so early. Doctors and insomniac girlfriends have compared notes and agree: your average dude will pop wood several times a night. During one of these nocturnal cycles, I awoke in considerable discomfort. This time, the History Channel wasn’t going to help, not even that show about American bridge-building in the nineteenth century. For the first time, I seriously eyed the set of keys on my nightstand that would release me from my bondage.
After a few minutes of grimacing in the dark, I felt the urge to pee. The CB-2000’s instructions promised that I could urinate in the time-honored manner, but when I stood at the toilet and took aim, three distinct arcs of urine sprayed out at nine, twelve and three o’ clock. Unable to stem the flow, I attempted to push my penis around in the device to align it with the opening. It was like trying to play the piano through a chain-link fence. In the end, I just sat on the toilet, girl-style. After several minutes of wiping down surfaces in the bathroom, I crawled back into bed.
Wednesday, 9:30 a.m.
Showering isn’t as fuss-free as the instructions claim, either. It’s nearly impossible to get your fingers into the device. So I aimed the showerhead at my junk and stood there, contemplating how some people can do this for months years in some cases. Normal-fitting pants were out of the question. I pulled on a pair of baggy jeans that I’d inexplicably bought some months ago. Maybe I’ll wear them again if ever I get a hernia. The pants held the CB-2000 closer to my body, forcing the pins into my abdomen. (It turns out that you’re supposed to cut the pins for a better fit. Joke’s on me.) Grimacing with every step, I hobbled into work.
Wednesday, 10 a.m.
People in the office could tell something was up (or not, as the case may be). They kept saying that I looked “stressed-out” and, most worryingly, “odd.” The truth: I was in serious pain, and the thought of another six days in this thing made me blanch. It was really interesting (not to mention painful) to be reminded how many times one becomes aroused in a day, for no good reason at all. Although there’s nowhere to go in the CB-2000, getting a woody changes its orientation: instead of pointing downward, it juts out at a 90-degree angle. Even in the Nerve offices, walking around with a pronounced trouser schnauzer is simply not kosher.
Wednesday, 10 p.m.
Twelve hours later, I was cranky. In retrospect, it was probably a mistake to tell Em and Lo that I was wearing a chastity device at the dinner table. They wanted me to haul it out right then and there. I said no and instead tried to describe the contraption using a dinner roll, a salt shaker and a carafe holder. They laughed. I got crankier.
Thursday, 1 a.m.
After another hour of staring at the ceiling in pain, I decided that I had to bow out of the experiment. I had failed. But as I unlocked the chastity belt and pried myself out, I realized that failure had never tasted so sweet. I treated myself to a long, languorous pee standing up. I realize that twenty-four hours in a chastity harness doesn’t seem like a long time. But it certainly feels that way.
Summarize your findings. Don’t forget to attempt to identify possible variables that could result in different findings for others trying to recreate your test results.
Chastity can be hot in the right context. Being locked up by a girlfriend for a day could be really naughty: imagine the fun you’d have once she unlocked you. But the CB-2000 isn’t for lonely guys waiting in their bedrooms for their prince or princess to release them. It’s aimed at submissive men in relationships with a dominant or suspicious partner. It’s like wearing a T-shirt that says, “Property of Rachel.” Without that impetus, I was unable to resist the call of human nature. (Interestingly enough, online vendors of the CB-2000 tell me that many mothers attempt to buy it to prevent their sons from beating off. Most merchants refuse to ship the product for this purpose, and rightly so.) But I have nothing but respect for couples who buy the device hoping to achieve that impossible goal: making fidelity hot. Now if they’d find a way to make it a little more comfortable . . .
For all of your chastity needs, visit http://www.stockroom.com
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