Zach breaks down the crowd, the Seattle Mariners and Lenny Kravitz’ penis.
Live from August 4, 2015…
*Warning – the following story contains sexually graphic and disgusting situations
My wife recently bought a $300 vibrator. It’s called a stingray. It pulsates. It’s waterproof. And it does everything but make sandwiches. My wife swears by it and they have a special relationship that extends beyond the bedroom. This throbbing beast has been brought up consistently at dinner conversations since she purchased it… I believe she even told her mother about it, as if she was introducing her to her new boyfriend.
Women have been celebrating the vibrator for hundreds of years… It’s universally acceptable and widely acknowledged that most sexually healthy females have some sort of throbbing stunt penis hiding beneath a pile of T-shirts in their dresser drawers.
However, if I came home one day with a $300 sex toy, it would be considered taboo. Men who do this sort of stuff have long been labeled as perverts and sexual deviants. And, men don’t really discuss masturbation details over wine and pasta at a group dinner.
Maybe men and sex toys do not go together because most men are seemingly easier to please. After all, all we need is a magazine, a free hand and some “me time.”
I have never used a sex toy on myself. I am not saying that I haven’t been intrigued by the molds of “Jenna Haze’s Pussy and Asshole” that I have seen for sale at an adult store, but shelling out hundreds of dollars for a rubber vagina has never been high on my priority list. Plus.” Real Dolls” are like, five grand. Plus, in humble my opinion, nothing could really beat the time-honored tradition of good old fashioned jerking-off.
But then someone sent me a free “Fleshlight.”
I had heard about the Fleshlight forever. It was an early podcast sponsor and was the rage of the Adult Video Awards when I covered them for a TV show back in 2007. But still, I had never tried one, and I wasn’t exactly running out to make a purchase without knowing that it would be worth it… Then again, it’s not exactly the type of thing you borrow from a buddy…
Opening the box, I was amazed to find that there are like, 25 different types of Fleshlight models ranging from any body orafice to Jenna Haze to an actual weird blue ALIEN vagina that I assume is supposed to make you feel like you are fucking Neytiri, Zoe Saldana’s character from Avatar…
You are able to choose from a bevy of porn star clitoral replicas and adjust the suction level by twisting the back of the casing. It came with lube (necessary to simulate female wetness) and a cleaning cloth. It also had extensive directions about how to “wash your sleeve of remaining fluids” once you were done with it. This was a no-nonsense operation.
I settled in one day after work before my wife and kids had come home from baseball practice. I opened up my Fleshlight and examined it. This particular model was not a signature porn star version, it was a “Stamina Training Unit” – meaning it was supposed to help you train to maintain an erection longer should you ever have a real life sexual encounter… This was the “elliptical” of Fleshlights.
My first touch of the thing was unsettling. I felt weird. Deviant. I was fondling with an artificial body part. You know those weird people you see on TV who dig up corpses and have sex with them? For a second I wondered if I had stooped to their level.
Until I inserted myself.
It had been 15 years since I had felt any sexual pleasure with anyone other than my wife. I’m not sure how, but I suddenly became engorged and remained rock hard for the next seven minutes of thrusting, adjusting my technique, rhythm and stroke to this Fleshlight as if I was trying to give it an orgasm. Throughout this blissful and pure rubber sexual adventure, I felt as giddy as a 15-year-old learning how to unhook a bra strap in high school. It was something new and exciting…
As I approached climax, I was wondering if it was a customary rule to finish inside the device – or if the recommended method was to jizz onto any nearby available tube sock. While deciding to pull myself out from the sensual erotic vagina, I grabbed and looked at the manual… It did not offer any “jizz directions.”
I found myself climaxing into the sleeve. I immediately doubled over onto my bed as if I was 17 again and in the back of my Dodge Lancer. I was feeling pretty satisfied.
And that’s when the guilt settled in.
I had a large device on my penis. I had just cum into it and I was immediately dreading the moment when my son or wife would walk in. I began wondering if I had somehow caught an STD from the Fleshlight. Worst of all, I had to eventually pull out… which was a feeling that was so hauntingly real, that it reminded me of all the dorm rooms I had left at two in the morning in college after drunken sex romps… In my mind, I felt like I had somehow cheated on my wife with a Pi Beta Phi sophomore.
My friend Mark, who works in virtual reality calmed my fears when I called and told him that I was not feeling very good following the encounter.
“Dude, I’ve gone through, like – six Fleshlights!,” he said. “I get one every year… I had the Jesse Jayne model last year, bruh, that shit was nice! You should change them every six months or so.”
Woah, six Fleshlights? The Jesse Jayne model? Change them every six months? Obviously I was not living up to my masturbatory potential.
“Wait til you see this virtual reality shit we’re coming out with in a few years,” Mark explained. “Dude, you’ll be able to fuck Jessica Biel on a beach while Justin Timberlake is tied up to a nearby palm tree, crying.”
“Are you serious?” I responded.
“Dude, sex is about to go so virtual, we’re gonna all turn into a world of jizz monkeys shooting 9 to 10 loads a day.”
“Dude, in the future you’ll be able to fuck Jessica Biel on a beach while Justin Timberlake is tied up to a nearby palm tree, crying,” my friend Mark told me.
I did some research. If Mark’s prediction, and the internet is correct, the world will enter the virtual porn sex space in the next few years. People will put on their devices and set up a “scene” where they can have sex with a digital female while they pleasure themselves physically. At first, the sex models will be outrageously priced and unaffordable, but eventually, both men and women will all be pounding away at any number of virtual lovers through the power of visual stimulation.
That’s on some Westworld level shit right there.
Feeling less guilty about my Fleshlight encounter, I read the manual about how to clean it out. I learned that Fleshlight makes a special soap that I would now have to buy if I wanted it to stay in pristine condition. I would also have to double up on my lubrication as the sample pack they included was quite small. And then there is the washing of it. Running warm water through a fake vagina isn’t the most comforting part about using a Fleshlight, but it’s a necessary one if you want to keep it in good condition.
It’s like cleaning your bar-be-cue after every use.
When my wife got home, I shared my experience with her and she actually was proud of me. She told me that she thought men should be able to experience the heightened pleasure of something other than just your hand once in a while. Hearing this got me thinking…
“Well, look,” I said. “Pretty soon there’s gonna be a virtual reality device where I can have sex with Jessica Biel on a beach, can I get that too?”
“Sure, if I can get one where I bang DeAndre Jordan,” she responded.
“Oh, uhmm, let me think about it,” I responded.
I went upstairs and hid my Fleshlight beneath some t-shirts in my dresser…
Zach and the new MC Ry$er break down the first half of the NBA Season!
Starring Michael Cornacchia, Celeste Thorson, Dustin Mahale and Zach Selwyn !
Like most of us, I have Googled ex-girlfriends from high school and college to see what they look like now. I’ve found most of them online, to no immediate fanfare – (Other than finding out one girl I made out with in high school is now a grandmother…) – but nobody has captured my social media imagination more than a girl I once dated in 1991 named Jenny Herren.
I have spent the better part of two decades wondering what happened to this girl. I have hunted Linked in, Google images, Myspace and Facebook hoping to see if Jenny was still beautiful, single and yes, even alive. (When I came across an obituary of a Jenny Herren in Houston last year, I was relieved to see that the woman was 89-years-old).
In today’s world, where the Government can track you every time you visit collegeorgy.com, it might seem impossible, but I was convinced that Jenny Herren had no digital footprint.
And then my sister alerted me that she had found her.
Jenny truly blossomed into my boner jam around 1991 when we randomly sat next to each other at a movie theater, watching the film If Looks Could Kill starring Richard Grieco. The film was so terrible, we mocked and heckled it together like we were boyfriend and girlfriend on a regular date. I was sprung, and within a week I had made her a romantic mixtape featuring my “closer songs” (Chris Isaak, Sting, Dire Straits) and had asked her out to the mall the following weekend.
The mall was fun, but I couldn’t get a read on her, so I took it as a sign to not present her the mixtape just yet. It burned a hole in my pocket. I dropped her off without so much as a kiss and went home and scribbled three pages into my journal about her sense of humor, her laugh and – well – her incredible tits.
A week later at a high school football game, I carefully planned a casual interaction with Jenny by the snack bar. When I saw her, I dreamed we’d be heavy petting beneath the bleachers by the end of the third quarter. Instead, our mutual friend Tanya Brightly cock-blocked me by taking Jenny away and leaving me with my hands dug way deep into the pockets of my Guess jeans.
Finally, I got the second date I was looking for. It was a month later and I had it all planned. I would get some weed from my stepbrother, take her to see Hot Shots at the $1.00 theater and then close the deal in the abandoned church parking lot at the top of Swan Road – a notorious make-out spot overlooking the city where horny teenagers tried to get past second base.
The movie was hilarious, and things were going great. We stopped and got ice cream bars at a Circle K and made our way to the church. I lit the pipe and passed it. I became horribly paranoid. We looked out at the city. Silence. There was that perfect awkward teenage feeling arising between us… I lightly brushed my hand against hers and grabbed it. I pulled her in and we kissed… Soft and beautiful, alone beneath the Tucson sky, awash in the possibilities of what lay out in the real world ahead… I was 16 and in heaven… And then a hesher dude named Paul Humphries shined a flashlight on us from his pick-up truck.
“GET SOME, SELWYN!” He yelled, blinding both of us in the process.
“Fuck you, Paul,” I screamed back. When I turned back around, I noticed that Jenny had walked away.
“I think you should take me home,” she said. “It’s getting late.”
On the ride home, Jenny said she didn’t think we should hang out anymore. She said she wasn’t sure why, but that something didn’t feel right. I tried every move in the book to get her to reconsider, but when I finally dropped her off, she took off running inside and I have not seen her since our high school graduation night… Until my sister found her Facebook page.
“Her name is now Jennifer Klein,” my sister informed me. “Married a guy named Mark Klein. Air Force instructor. They live in San Diego and don’t have any kids as far as I can tell.”
My sister should have been a private investigator.
I immediately began cyberstalking Jennifer Klein like a tween looking for “Shirtless Zayn Malik” pictures. I wanted to know everything. I was hoping she’d be open to a conversation – and maybe she could shed some light on our night together all those years ago.
Meanwhile, my wife was in the other room asking me what I was doing.
“Writing,” I responded, feeling guilty that I was busy looking up a girl I had made out with 25- years prior.
Many of my friends have spent hours digging into online profiles of exes, looking for something that proves that there was a reason it never worked out between them. My buddy’s wife found her ex-boyfriend on Facebook, posting about how great it felt to “finally be out of prison.” My other friend’s ex had nine children and was divorced twice. In fact, the majority of people I know have revealed how stoked they were to find their exes all out of shape, full of grey hair and still living in their hometowns.
Amazingly, Jennifer hadn’t aged at all. Her profile picture was taken in a bikini in Mexico, where she posted that she had been “marlin fishing” for a week straight. She posed holding a Corona. She was tan, supple and looked terrific. I added her as a friend and awaited a response.
When she did not accept my friend request a week later, I wondered why. I felt as nervous as I did the night I had watched her running into her house. I felt like a fucking teenager again.
Meanwhile, I got out my old high school journal. The one that I had kept since I was 14. I re-read the page from my date with Jenny – and I felt like a complete horny moron. I had written the following:
October 16, 1991 – I kissed her! After packing a bowl of dirty Mexi-schwag that my stepbrother traded me for a Van Halen CD, we made out at the church. (My old hookup spot – where I macked on Marni Thomas last year in my dad’s Jeep!) My hair looked good… like Luke Perry! But then that dumb hesher Paul ruined everything. Shit. I hope she calls me back I really want to feel those heaving melons.
October 23, 1991 – I have called Jenny 15 times and she has not returned my calls. I don’t know why. Do I suck? Am I ugly? Maybe she just hasn’t been getting my phone calls?
November 3rd, 1991 – I heard she told Tanya to tell me to back off and that she might get a restraining order. What the hell did I do? I feel like a creep… I just wish she’d give me a chance… Man. I’m so pissed. Luckily, this weekend is Adam’s party and there is some freshman girl named Daisy who said she thought I was cute. Shit, I’m almost 17 – ! I’m so old!!!
After three weeks or not hearing a response from Jenny, I re-checked her page. She had been there, alright, obviously ignoring my friend request. I reached out one last time, this time just posting something on her wall – something that I thought would be funny. I wrote:
Hey – I still have a mix tape I made you in 1991 – Any chance you want it?
Jennifer Klein never responded. But, the next day, a familiar person did. It was Tanya Brightly, who had commented on my post. She added the following: Unbelievable… 25 years later and Zach still doesn’t get the hint.
I was mortified. I had been lusting after this girl for a quarter century, and Tanya Brightly was STILL cock-blocking me.
I issued a response, including a photo of me and my family – saying that I was not a stalker – but just reaching out as an old friend who was trying to hold on to whatever memories I retained from my youth. I also asked Jenny if she remembered our night at the church.
Finally, Jennifer Klein wrote me a message.
Hi Zach – long time – I’m married to a guy in the Air Force – no kids to speak of – congratulations your family looks beautiful. Re: that night at the church… I have no memory of it. Sorry! Oh, I’d love to hear that mixtape!
I haven’t sent her the mixtape yet. I think I’ll let her wait around for me this time…
Ed. Note: Zach has since been blocked from Jennifer Klein’s Facebook feed.
WATCH ZACH’S MUSIC VIDEO “DONG ON THE WHITEBOARD!”
At a bar near my house a few nights ago, I met an interesting man. He was very handsome, sporting a cool undercut hair-do and rocking a massive, manly thick beard. A bearded man myself these days, I inquired about how he achieved such unbridled thickness and shape.
“I grew it,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
After a few more lagers, I got to asking what this guy did for a living – as he was constantly tapping his phone for the duration of our hang.
“I’m a beard model bro,” he exclaimed “On Instagram.”
“What? Really?” I inquired.
“Yeah man – you got a pretty thick beard, you should try it.”
“Maybe I will.”
“You gotta get that beard money son!” He said.
Beard money? Instagram? Paid for just having facial hair? Yes, believe it. The man, whose name I forget – but may have been Rylance, told me he made over 100 thousand dollars last year hash-tagging and re-posting snaps of him rocking his beard. He also mentioned that he had turned down money to shave it from Gillette for a commercial.
“They offered me 25 grand, but my beard ‘shave rate’ is 40K,” he explained.
“Shave rate?” Dude. I tested as an actor for a TV pilot last year and my acting rate was 1/10th of that. I was blown away.
When Rylance finally turned his phone around to show me his pictures – it became abundantly clear that I might not have the “beard earning potential” that he currently had. Mainly because the majority of his Instagram phots were of him posing shirtless, with rippling abs and a diary of chest tattoos scrawled all over his torso.
Instagram would probably pay me to put my shirt back on.
Still, he passed me the email of his “social media manager” and I emailed her the next day. Her name was Tracy. Here is our conversation:
Zach: Hi. Rylance gave me your information, I’m interested in Instagram beard modeling.
Tracy: Great. Can you post a photo of your beard doing something cool and we’ll see what kind of traffic you get?
Zach: My beard doing something cool? Like what – shopping for albums?
Tracy: Or standing in front of an old shipyard or a train or a barn or something.
Zach: Copy that. Will share later this week.
And just like that, it was on. Being that I made a grand total of 2600 dollars as a writer the previous year, I figured a quick move to Instagram beard modeling might be a nice career change. I took a road trip up north and decided I was going to shoot some killer beard photos and get myself an agent.
My first stop was in from of a barn, as requested. Then I took my shirt off and did my best “suck-it-in pose” while staring off into the distance at nothing in particular. Finally, I snapped some pics of me standing in front of a record player holding a guitar case. Boom. I had my entire beard modeling portfolio.
I decided to post the barn photo first.
I emailed Tracy and told her to look out for the coming revolution. With any luck, I’d be getting offers from worldwide companies to pose while holding a Kit-Kat or something for 10 large. She quickly emailed me back after looking at my Instagram page.
Tracy: Is this a joke? You have way too many clothes on.
Zach: Too many clothes on?
Tracy: Show off your tats.
Uh-oh. Tats? One thing I am not ashamed to admit, is that I am tattoo-less. Sure, I almost got a Pearl Jam “stick figure” in high school on my ankle – but I chickened out at the last minute. Still, I decided I could doodle something on my chest in Photoshop and try to pass it off as cool.
When I looked at the other models currently killing it on Instagram, however, it became clear that one tattoo would not be enough. Apparently the current trend is to get ridiculous tattoos all over yourself. Your chest, your neck and more recently, on your face. I slowly felt my beard modeling career slipping away, but I still took a chance.
I took a few more pictures and added some tattoos. Knowing this was my last chance to pull off a modeling contract, I sent them off to Tracy before I posted them – asking her if she felt these might generate some serious beard traffic.
I waited for what seemed like hours for a response. When she finally got back to me, it wasn’t the response I had expected.
Tracy: So, I don’t think I’m going to pursue you as a beard model any further.
Zach: Can you tell me why?
Tracy: Well, for one – you’re what, 37?
Tracy: But, I was looking through your other Instagram photos and it looks like you have two kids? If you want I can submit you to another trending site – Have you heard of the Instagram account, “Hot Dads With Babies?”
Hot Dads With Babies? Yep. It’s a real thing. I went and looked it up and was immediately horrified. Even though they only had a few posts, I was fairly convinced I might be able to sneak myself up on that page someday, so I asked Tracy what the average “dad with baby rate” was for a guy selected for the account.
Tracy: It’s not as popular as anything with beards, so it’s only like 7 dollars per post.
Zach: Oh. OK, well I’ll think about it.
And with that, Tracy was off to help Rylance clock another 50 grand for posing shirtless with a Clif energy bar, secretly dreading the day his beard went grey and his tattoos started to fade.
I went home to see my kids and brought them into the kitchen, where I asked them a simple question…
“How’d you guys like to make 7 dollars an Instagram post?”
*Watch Zach’s new comedic acting reel!*
Antonio Brown? Punching refs? Mitch McGary going all 420? You’re on blast with Zach and his TBS web series “Out of Control Athletes of the Week.”