To achieve enlightened consciousness through orgasm without the expulsion of seminal fluid, vis-â-vis strategic pressure on the perineum otherwise known as injaculation (or, how to save up for your future).
State your hypothesis in the form of a prediction that can be verified by the results of the experiment.
Trying to hold in a sneeze is bad for your heart. Stifling yawns never feels good, either. So how can plugging up your shag-cannon take you to new heights of sextasy? I’m either in for Sting-like carnal enlightenment or a comical, messy death.
Please list all the materials required for this experiment (including if applicable, how they were obtained).
Hands (two, my own)
In this portion of your report, you must describe step-by-step what you did in your lab. It should be specific enough that someone who has not seen the lab can follow the directions and recreate the same lab.
Taoists, shamans, tantric kooks and even sarong-wearers (e.g. Steven Seagal) are pressing their perinea and injaculating like there’s no tomorrow. Here, they say, is why:
- Every splooge is equal to ridding yourself of four meals worth of essential vitamins and minerals.
- With injaculation one needn’t “suffer” that sleepy, floating feeling that comes immediately after dropping sauce.
- The practice is purported to improve prostate and cardio vascular health, prevent the onset of Alzheimer’s disease, end droughts, fatten cattle, etc.
- When applied to lovemaking, one can shag like the Energizer bunny on Viagra.
- Most interestingly, injaculation is the art of redirecting one’s orgasmic bliss inwardly, so that the feeling travels up your spinal cord, through the seven chakras and explodes in your brain, giving you a pleasure that you never dreamed imaginable as opposed to shooting your mess into an old sock.
- I think I read something about “redirecting chi” or whatever.
The stage set for carnal bliss, I started to flog the bishop in my own time-honored (if not particularly mystical) tradition. Assuming that mastering the technique would take eons (and lots of laundry), I’d designated seven nights of self-lust for my journey to libidinal Valhalla.
And because no one likes to travel down that metaphysical road of the unknown alone, I had enlisted my colleague Brian Battjer to seek the path to Nirvana with me. Our entire relationship is predicated on one-upmanship, so our seeking enlightenment together quickly devolved into a “head-to-head” competition. The first man to successfully injaculate would be declared victor. (Forget enlightenment; office bragging rights were now at stake.)*
Quantify the effects of the experiment.
A couple of minutes in and fast approaching the point of no return, I located what Taoist’s refer to as the “million-dollar point,” the spot nestled between a gentleman’s love spuds and his rusty bullet hole. I pressed hard and felt a strong, constant pulse on my perineum. Just before orgasm, the pulse became arrhythmic, then graduated to a panicked pounding, like a palpitating elk heart betwixt my legs. Trying to really concentrate on the feeling was extremely difficult. I was just hoping that I survived long enough to give the scientific community my theory on why people spontaneously combust.
Then, immediately prior to the moment where I’d typically soil the bed linen, I saw for a brief second what all those pony tailed forty-somethings had been proselytizing about. The build-up to orgasm was momentarily more intense than usual, but the feeling soon vanished as quickly as it had arrived. I continued to press hard for a minute or two, concentrating on the subsidence of pressure in my rig. I withdrew my fingers from my undercarriage and propped myself up on my shoulders, disturbed and underwhelmed by the whole ordeal.
Disappointed? Me too. Then, as noted by the injaculation’s proponents, I realized I could “go again” straight away and did, several times, until I got bored and a little bit depressed. The real shocker came after I went to the bathroom to find that my pee had more head on it than a pint of Guinness at the White Lion, the local brew pub back in my native Fobbing, England. In other words, I’d just come in my bladder. And that’s fucked up.
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.
Ever stuffed a tomato in the tailpipe of an enemy’s car? Tied a knot in the end of a curmudgeonly neighbor’s garden hose? Blocking conduits is something mischievous young urchins do for yuks. It’s certainly something you don’t want to be doing to your beloved meat and two veggies. If any male mammal’s purpose for being could be crystallized in a singular moment, it would be Old Faithful’s glorious release. As Bubba might say, “You can’t rock the jock if your cock is blocked, fool.”
*Brian’s Addendum: I Tried to Do It for Science
As a twice-a-day (minimum) practitioner of the five-knuckle shuffle, I figured that within the allotted week I’d have plenty of time to master injaculation I’ve always fancied myself something of a cocksmith but I was, alas, a failure. As much as I wish I could use this space to exalt my plumbing’s superiority and to usurp Grant as the king of sexual hijinks, it is with a heavy heart that instead, I must use it to write my concession speech.
When I got down to business the first time, my experience was almost identical to Grant’s. But while he was able to maintain steady pressure on his perineum until his pulsating prostate gave up on trying to give forth, I got nervous, eased up the pressure after about ten seconds and let the love juice fly. (This was mostly because, somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear my horrified mother’s reaction to my future inability to provide her with grandchildren: “What do mean you broke your penis?”)
Disturbed by my initial results but not easily discouraged, I immediately threw on some down-low-blood-flow-inducing porno, and ten minutes later, I was back in the saddle for attempt number two, determined to show my vas deferens who was boss.
Sadly, I had the same results this time, and every subsequent time thereafter: Upon reaching orgasm, I would apply pressure to my grassy knoll, but my works would just continue to spasm until, fearing I would hurt myself, I would ease the pressure and watch my seed shoot (okay, dribble) forth in defiance. I tried about fifteen times, and each time I managed to keep the pressure on a little longer (maxing out at about twenty seconds). But in the end, I didn’t once successfully divert my ejaculate inward. From now on, I’m happy to leave the taint-touching to Grant.