spinomoza

When I was 18 and freshly in college, I did shrooms. This, after all, is the sort of thing people do, and I was a person. We had 10 grams of shrooms at our disposal, and there were 3 of us. We didn't have a scale or anything, so we just divided the goods into what looked like about thirds. Then we ate them. I ate mine inside a croissant. They were, not me. I was in the cafeteria. It quickly became clear that I had eaten a lot more milligrams of psilocybin than my friends. Reader, I was fucked. Fucked on drugs like a Real Person. But really fucked. And handling it poorly. It's important to do shrooms with people you really trust, and I didn't know these people that well, and I was not digging the fact that I was so much farther gone than they were. One friend reported the trees 'moving to the music'; the other sat rather still and reported nothing. I was zipping through dimensions faster than I could conceptualize them. Any time (the whole thing felt like an eternity, of course) that I spent being present in the real world with my new friends, I felt silly and absurd for being in this meat sack and spending my time with these other meat sacks in this obvious dream. Also, I had to pee. Not that bad. I briefly considered going, but decided against it. Didn't like my chances standing up given the circumstances. I tend to avoid pissing standing up because I suck at it. This is because I have two dick holes. It's true. I was born with two dick holes, and the doctors offered my parents the normal surgery they do on babies with two dick holes, and they said nah let him have two dick holes, and then when I was 12 or so I went to the urologist and they inspected me and offered me the surgery again because its best to do it before puberty and everyone made clear that it was my decision and I decided to stick with the two dickholes on account of obviously. You're asking me do I want surgery on my own personal penis to fix what amounts to a cosmetic defect? My own little Monolith? Surgery? I heartedly did not want surgery on my dick. A decision I stand by to this day. But–not just a cosmetic defect, as it turns out! Utilitarian. I'd love to go piss on a tree right now, but my second dickhole is positioned in such a way that whenever I pee standing up–unless extremely soberly unidimensionally careful–it's going to spray piss all over my legs. Yes, to answer your question, the piss and cum comes out of both holes. Making me extremely obviously predisposed to this sort of website. I'm a human sprinkler. The next step in human evolution, provided piss kinks go mainstream and stay there. But for now, and obviously forever, an inconvenience. I have been consuming omo content for a very long time, but only as a spectator. I've never intentionally partaken until very recently. Seemed like a lot of cleanup I guess. Although I guess that's not completely it. I'd been the bladder torturer, I'd enjoyed the subtle game of convincing lovers to try it and converting them, but I'd never experimented with the other side of it, I don't really know why. I think I was just used to spectating. A spectator: anonymous, undifferentiated, both absolutely free and absolutely reliant on the spectatee. But distant. Separate. Idle, by definition, passive. Receiving Entertainment. Insignificant yet master of the universe. All-powerful. Nonexistent. Creation itself flowing through a funny little ape, alone, being entertained. Connoisseur of infinite options. The omo kink is all about spectating. The premise is compelling: to hold until you literally can't anymore. A strange state of war with yourself. A losing battle. You are wrestling with the basic code of reality here, the fundamental law that what goes in, must come out. It's non-negotiable. You are going to lose control. It will overcome you. But you fight it anyway–that intense, overwhelming urge. Burning like your ancient reptilian brain's molten core. You're an animal when you're desperate. You're reminded that you're an animal, with urges. Cycles. Natural rhythms. This piss impulse, of course, is the same basic kind of thing as rage, or lust, or hunger, or thirst. But somewhere in between. Rage and lust build, compel you to indulge, but must usually be soothed instead of quenched, because you're at work. Hunger and thirst get quenched, or they go nowhere–gnawing, indefinitely. And also death is a factor. Whereas when you're desperate, it builds and builds and gets more and more intense, but there's nothing to worry about. The problem is already solved. You only have to let go. And your body begs you to let go. After a while, all other urges become secondary, absorbed into that molten core. You become a creature with only one aim in the whole cosmos, and you resist it as long as you can, because it's fun. Plus, you make the rules. You can play whatever games you want, because you exist. In this way, cultivating that state of total desperation is almost spiritual. The rules of existence themselves become your sex toy and ultimately toilet. Of course you'll have to play by the rules eventually, but for as long as you can, you're going to play with them. One of those grand statements from you to the void: I exist. Of course, the release is a grand statement, too, from the void (which is revealed to not be a void at all, or at least not uncomplicatedly so) right back to you. The release always comes, and it is always euphoric. You are affirmed by the universe. You are reminded that you are right to play these sorts of games. You weren't ever actually at war with anything, least of all the universe. Because of its many rules on many levels, one such rule is that doing this turns you on. So it was right and true, and now everything has been reconciled. Tension and release. This is the pattern behind all of bdsm and perhaps all of sex itself: a game involving tension and release. It's so fucking compelling! And of course once you've crossed the obvious barrier of taboo and really grasped the thing, it just gets more and more compelling. Accordingly I've read a lot of these stories, and watched a lot of these videos, for quite a long time. The videos are nuclear-grade compelling. This is probably her most shameful secret, doing this, but it turns her on so much that she's doing it anyway, and not only that but she is so turned on by the idea of being seen doing it, seen by someone like me, that she is doing the insane thing of posting a video of herself doing it on the internet. Pissing herself for pleasure. Her one most shameful secret. Posting it on the internet, behind only a thin fog of anonymity. And I can take in not only the hot girl doing the hot thing, but the whole drama, in all its glorious complexity. I, the spectator, whose anonymity is completely impenetrable. Masturbating to what you could argue qualifies as an abstract art film. So I've been spectating for a long time. This shroom trip–spoiler alert–was the only time I played the game. But still as a spectator. Folks, we were out of body. Being really desperate on a really high dose of shrooms when you are really inexperienced is not like being desperate sober, because when you're sober you know what's going on. You are aware of the nature of the urge, and you know how to solve it, and either you're taking steps to do so or you're playing your kink-game. But either way, the situation is clear, along with next steps. During my shroom trip, this was not the case. I was tangentially aware of the fact that (in the abstract, at least) I had a bladder, and it was full, but I was so far away from myself that doing anything about it was not on the table or even registered as an option. When I was corporeal again, I felt pretty certain that I couldn't piss, had somehow forgotten. Accordingly, the feeling built and built like a kind of doom, an abstract panic, an urgent urge about nothing in particular, and also about the fate of all things. I felt 6 feet from the sun. It was like my bladder was the sun and it was pushing down on me. The whole thing was very stressful. Besides dealing with some pretty heady philosophical concerns and what felt like a dead ringer for a vision of my own death. What the hell! Why am I in a meat sack with urges! Why am I hanging out in a meat sack with other meat sacks! This is all such a vapid meaningless dream. And how do I even know these people and their alleged 'other minds' are even real?? It was all pretty freshman year stuff, but this felt like The Question. And even though this whole experience would easily qualify for the name of a bad trip, all was reconciled. I grappled and grappled as I lost my grip on reality and came back over and over again, and at some undefined point, the revelation: they're real, the others, but it wouldn't matter if they weren't. You have to devote yourself to them either way. They're the meaning, obviously. You can never know if they're really real, but you have to assume they are, or everything falls apart. You are playing this game for a reason. So I was feeling pretty good about the general shape of things as we left the forest and emerged onto the side of an empty highway. I was coming down, too, so equilibrium was being restored in all areas of my body but one. The need to piss was back, and it was pretty bad. I held it for a while as we walked along the side of the road in single file. I kept being convinced that I had already pissed myself and obsessively feeling over my pants to check. I considered trying my chances with a tree but doing all the work for that seemed infinitely more daunting than holding it, so hold it I did. Wincing and doing the walk. You know the drill. And then as suddenly as the trip's big revelation, an obvious freebie revelation dawned. I could let go. It was ok. It didn't really matter, and it would probably feel pretty nice. I'm an ape, and so are my friends–they'd understand. Why not just let go. So let go I did. I soaked my black jeans while I walked, and it did feel pretty nice.

I've lurked on this site for a few years, now Im tryna get those download privileges babyyy. I'm an 18 y/o guy