Three Days of Torture in a Male Chastity Device
Hi, I’m Brian Moylan. Welcome to Tubesteak, a regular column where I talk about penises mostly and what I do with mine and what you should do with yours. There will also be some discussion of cocks, cocksuckers, cuckolds, and maybe, just maybe, a clitoris or two. But, honestly, mostly just dicks.

Waking up with your dick locked in a plastic cage is the hardest part. It always takes a minute to remember why there is a crazy contraption squeezing the hell out of it. Your morning wood fills it to the brim and your spasming penis looks like a kid with his nose pressed against a window. It’s trying to break free, to get through the plastic to freedom. But it can’t. It is trapped, and it is dying.
This only happens, of course, if you put your penis in a male chastity device like I did. I wanted to know what being unable to touch my dick for days on end would feel like. For that I needed the CB-3000 (I’m going to assume the CB stand for “cock block,” but I guess it could also stand for “chastity belt”?) which retails for about $150 and came in the mail in a delightfully unmarked package. (Haha. Package.)
While the mechanism seemed simple at first glance, getting it on was a bit complicated. The CB-3000 consists of a dong-shaped plastic cage that holds the penis and a ring that goes around the base of the cock, trapping the balls between the ring and the cage like a medieval peasant’s head in the stocks. Then, the ring locks to the cage, and a small padlock secures the whole kit and caboodle. The directions weren’t much help, but a wonderful animated GIF on the device’s website helped me figure everything out. Who would’ve thought the medium historically used to document adorable kittens and Honey Boo Boo falling down would help me paralyze my hog?
After a series of peen contortions that would’ve put Daniel Browning Smith to shame, I finally got it in there. It wasn’t comfortable. Because of the weight and shape of the device, trying to fit it into tight underwear or pants was nearly impossible. Surprisingly, though, it didn’t create too much of a bulge, even in form-fitting jeans (at least from an outsider’s perspective). To me, my basket felt larger than life, and I initially assumed everyone else was paying as much attention to it as I was. After carefully gauging the reactions of numerous passersby, however, I don’t believe anyone ever noticed (or maybe other people just don’t stare at strangers’ crotches like I do?) That was part of the fun of this whole experiment: knowing that I was walking around, having meetings, going to work, and riding the subway with this weird toy in my pants. It was my own kinky secret, and I liked it.
But that was the most enjoyable part. The weirdest thing about the chastity device was that it made me think about my dick all the time, while also rendering it completely obsolete. I wanted to fuck everything, but I couldn’t fuck anything. It was sort of like having a black hole in my pants, pulling everything toward it, but there was nothing there.

The hardest part was peeing, which is done through a hole at the end of the enclosure. Since my dick is a bit shorter than the molded plastic (go me?), my urination was more a sad dribbling than a steady stream. This meant I couldn’t use a urinal and had to pee in stalls in public restrooms. It also meant I had to mop up the floor a few times. Showering with it on wasn’t so great, either, because there is no good way to get everything dry. After my second day wearing the CB-3000 (which, now that I think about it, sounds like an evil castration robot, amirite?) a little bit of steam had collected on the inside, like in a terrarium. It was condensed dick sweat. Nasty.

Continue

Three Days of Torture in a Male Chastity Device

Hi, I’m Brian Moylan. Welcome to Tubesteak, a regular column where I talk about penises mostly and what I do with mine and what you should do with yours. There will also be some discussion of cocks, cocksuckers, cuckolds, and maybe, just maybe, a clitoris or two. But, honestly, mostly just dicks.

Waking up with your dick locked in a plastic cage is the hardest part. It always takes a minute to remember why there is a crazy contraption squeezing the hell out of it. Your morning wood fills it to the brim and your spasming penis looks like a kid with his nose pressed against a window. It’s trying to break free, to get through the plastic to freedom. But it can’t. It is trapped, and it is dying.

This only happens, of course, if you put your penis in a male chastity device like I did. I wanted to know what being unable to touch my dick for days on end would feel like. For that I needed the CB-3000 (I’m going to assume the CB stand for “cock block,” but I guess it could also stand for “chastity belt”?) which retails for about $150 and came in the mail in a delightfully unmarked package. (Haha. Package.)

While the mechanism seemed simple at first glance, getting it on was a bit complicated. The CB-3000 consists of a dong-shaped plastic cage that holds the penis and a ring that goes around the base of the cock, trapping the balls between the ring and the cage like a medieval peasant’s head in the stocks. Then, the ring locks to the cage, and a small padlock secures the whole kit and caboodle. The directions weren’t much help, but a wonderful animated GIF on the device’s website helped me figure everything out. Who would’ve thought the medium historically used to document adorable kittens and Honey Boo Boo falling down would help me paralyze my hog?

After a series of peen contortions that would’ve put Daniel Browning Smith to shame, I finally got it in there. It wasn’t comfortable. Because of the weight and shape of the device, trying to fit it into tight underwear or pants was nearly impossible. Surprisingly, though, it didn’t create too much of a bulge, even in form-fitting jeans (at least from an outsider’s perspective). To me, my basket felt larger than life, and I initially assumed everyone else was paying as much attention to it as I was. After carefully gauging the reactions of numerous passersby, however, I don’t believe anyone ever noticed (or maybe other people just don’t stare at strangers’ crotches like I do?) That was part of the fun of this whole experiment: knowing that I was walking around, having meetings, going to work, and riding the subway with this weird toy in my pants. It was my own kinky secret, and I liked it.

But that was the most enjoyable part. The weirdest thing about the chastity device was that it made me think about my dick all the time, while also rendering it completely obsolete. I wanted to fuck everything, but I couldn’t fuck anything. It was sort of like having a black hole in my pants, pulling everything toward it, but there was nothing there.

The hardest part was peeing, which is done through a hole at the end of the enclosure. Since my dick is a bit shorter than the molded plastic (go me?), my urination was more a sad dribbling than a steady stream. This meant I couldn’t use a urinal and had to pee in stalls in public restrooms. It also meant I had to mop up the floor a few times. Showering with it on wasn’t so great, either, because there is no good way to get everything dry. After my second day wearing the CB-3000 (which, now that I think about it, sounds like an evil castration robot, amirite?) a little bit of steam had collected on the inside, like in a terrarium. It was condensed dick sweat. Nasty.

Continue

What Your Underwear Says About You
Congratulations, you have convinced some poor fool to come back to your house from a bar/party/awkward OKCupid date and tricked them into thinking it’s a good idea to have sex with you. (That’s the reason we call them “tricks,” btw, because there is always some sleight of hand.) Now it’s time to take off your pants and immediately reveal everything your prey needs to know about you. While we all know dick size is really the only thing that matters, first impressions are pretty important too, and anyone who takes home a male lover is going to first judge him by the style of his knickers.
So, what exactly do different types of undies tell us? Listen up, broseph. (I said that ironically.)

Boxers
If you wear boxers, you are one of three types of people. 1.) You never left your dorm room without wearing a baseball cap—probably white and most likely with the brim all frayed. You wore those baggy bloomers under your “relaxed fit” jeans from the Gap (or Old Navy if you were on scholarship) and now they’re under the pleated pants of a cheap suit that you wear to your job in finance, real estate, law, or something else that has to do with money; 2.) You’ve eaten sushi off a naked woman before; 3.) You live in an urban environment, wear absurdly baggy pants and miraculously belt them somewhere around your mid-thigh so that you can show off what lies beneath. You are especially proud of your choice in underwear and enjoy the fact that no one wants to sit next to you on the subway. You wear a backpack.
If you are none of these people, then you are my dad.

Briefs
The state of your briefs says just as much about you as the fact that you wear briefs. If they are new, clean, well kept, and without stains or holes, then you are the kind of guy who takes pride in his appearance. Perhaps too much pride. And speaking of pride, you’ve been to at least one Gay Pride event, possibly showing off those briefs of yours. You’re not gay, necessarily, but gay guys like you. This is especially true for briefs that come in colors or patterns. The louder they are, the more likely you’ve done CrossFit. If your briefs are tighty whiteys bought at Target or Walmart and are holey, worn out, and a total mess, then you are a momma’s boy who needs to get your life together. Dump that girlfriend you’ve had since high school and give up chew. Also, get some damn OxyClean already. No one calls them tighty vague-bodily-fluids-y. So you either care too much or you don’t care enough. Hooray for you.

Boxer Briefs
You’re just all things to all people, aren’t you, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch? But no, really, you’re just average. This is what you are, just a bland person who does what the media and fashion industries tell you to do. You’re the kind of person who bought a Wii and played a few rounds of tennis, but now that shit just collects dust under your television. You like mashed potatoes, football games, beer, pussy, and everything else that everyone else loves. You will never be rich, but you will never be poor. You’ll die working on a home improvement project in your garage. Speaking of your middling boring life, you are also average in the schlong department, and this is the best way to hide it. You also need a haircut.
Continue

What Your Underwear Says About You

Congratulations, you have convinced some poor fool to come back to your house from a bar/party/awkward OKCupid date and tricked them into thinking it’s a good idea to have sex with you. (That’s the reason we call them “tricks,” btw, because there is always some sleight of hand.) Now it’s time to take off your pants and immediately reveal everything your prey needs to know about you. While we all know dick size is really the only thing that matters, first impressions are pretty important too, and anyone who takes home a male lover is going to first judge him by the style of his knickers.

So, what exactly do different types of undies tell us? Listen up, broseph. (I said that ironically.)

Boxers

If you wear boxers, you are one of three types of people. 1.) You never left your dorm room without wearing a baseball cap—probably white and most likely with the brim all frayed. You wore those baggy bloomers under your “relaxed fit” jeans from the Gap (or Old Navy if you were on scholarship) and now they’re under the pleated pants of a cheap suit that you wear to your job in finance, real estate, law, or something else that has to do with money; 2.) You’ve eaten sushi off a naked woman before; 3.) You live in an urban environment, wear absurdly baggy pants and miraculously belt them somewhere around your mid-thigh so that you can show off what lies beneath. You are especially proud of your choice in underwear and enjoy the fact that no one wants to sit next to you on the subway. You wear a backpack.

If you are none of these people, then you are my dad.

Briefs

The state of your briefs says just as much about you as the fact that you wear briefs. If they are new, clean, well kept, and without stains or holes, then you are the kind of guy who takes pride in his appearance. Perhaps too much pride. And speaking of pride, you’ve been to at least one Gay Pride event, possibly showing off those briefs of yours. You’re not gay, necessarily, but gay guys like you. This is especially true for briefs that come in colors or patterns. The louder they are, the more likely you’ve done CrossFit. If your briefs are tighty whiteys bought at Target or Walmart and are holey, worn out, and a total mess, then you are a momma’s boy who needs to get your life together. Dump that girlfriend you’ve had since high school and give up chew. Also, get some damn OxyClean already. No one calls them tighty vague-bodily-fluids-y. So you either care too much or you don’t care enough. Hooray for you.

Boxer Briefs

You’re just all things to all people, aren’t you, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch? But no, really, you’re just average. This is what you are, just a bland person who does what the media and fashion industries tell you to do. You’re the kind of person who bought a Wii and played a few rounds of tennis, but now that shit just collects dust under your television. You like mashed potatoes, football games, beer, pussy, and everything else that everyone else loves. You will never be rich, but you will never be poor. You’ll die working on a home improvement project in your garage. Speaking of your middling boring life, you are also average in the schlong department, and this is the best way to hide it. You also need a haircut.

Continue