Ed Uncovered rises to its hardest challenge yet.

“You’ve always got a boner!” she exclaimed, eyeing the protrusion in my jeans. No sooner had the words left her mouth than another Ed Uncovered article was born.

According to the internet, “The average man has about 11 erections each day and several more at night.”

That figure doesn’t seem right. Like most guys, I think about sex most of the time, yet that doesn’t mean I’m in a state of constant arousal. 11 boners a day is almost one an hour. If that’s true, a teacher must spring half a dozen woodies during the school day. Is that why teachers designate a pupil to write on the board – cos they’re busy pitching a tent?

In the interests of journalism, I decided to find out. Over the past week, I’ve noted every single erection I got. I’ve also recorded how many of these culminated in a happy ending. Or to put that in analytic terms, I’ve calculated my erection conversion rate.

But why?

i have the weirdest bonerWhen my gf finds this article, as she inevitably will, I’ll need to justify my actions somehow. So far, the best excuse I can muster is that I’ve never written a blog about my penis before. Not unless you count that time I became a sperm donor to claim the free porn.

That last line may read like a Family Guy joke, but it’s true. Perhaps I’ll reprise that story in Ed Uncovered one day [update: here it is] but right now we’re focusing on my dick in 2013. And science of course – we’re focusing on that too.

Here goes then: the boner diaries of an average man.

The 7-Day Challenge

Sunday, 9am. Boner #1. Gf (X) seems interested but the rest of me is still drowsy. I drift off again and it follows suit.

10am. Boner #2. Not now friend, I really need to pee.

11:30am, #3. I’m just out the shower with X. Third time lucky.

The next few hours pass quietly, probably because I’m in town and I stopped getting involuntary boners in public when I was 14.

Sunday night. I notch up another three, taking the day’s total to six.

Monday, 9am. #7.
9.30am. Boner #8, with X. Success.
Midnight. #9. “Stop doing press-ups against my leg,” says X. Then falls asleep.
3am. I hit double figures but it’s nothing to celebrate as boner #10 goes to waste.

embarrasing bonerTuesday, 7.45am. I wake up to find X already dressed for work. She toys with #11 like a dog playing with, well, a bone, but there’s no time for anything to happen.
8:15am. With X off to work, I grab a sock and deal with boner #12. Moar success.
Midnight. #13, while in bed. No luck.

Wednesday. Three boners, all unsuccessful, with the last one occurring at 12pm.

Thursday. I have nothing recorded for Thursday. Does this mean I went all day without springing one, or was I so busy fapping to hentai tentacle porn that there wasn’t time to make notes? I can’t remember.

Friday, 11am. Boner #17.
3am. I’m sleeping alone. Boner #18 is celebrated by fapping to cumshot porn.

Saturday, 10am. #19.
12pm, #20. A quick blast through some MILF footage and boner #20 is duly dispensed.

Have an A1 day

erections lolOn Saturday lunchtime, I perform some quick arithmetic. 20 daytime boners so far, with less than 24 hours to go. If I was to get one more boner today, that would make 21 which would divide nicely by the number of days in a week.

I head off into town with two items on my to-do list:

1. Collect crutches (for my Walt Jr Halloween outfit).
2. Spring a boner.

Just one more boner to average a solid three a day. In the interests of righteous journalism, I can do this.

The crutches are easily acquired, but the final boner proves more elusive. Or rather, the task of getting royally fucked up while talking like I have cerebral palsy takes priority. I do spring a semi at one point in the evening, but I’m in enough trouble with X as it is, so I’ll skip that anecdote. Besides, semis don’t count.

What goes up

Sunday, 10am. I wake up with no recollection of the latter half of the night before. I could have sprung a dozen concrete-busting boners and put them to good use (busting concrete) and I’d be none the wiser.

Technically, my week of frontline journalism has come and gone, but I decide to extend the deadline by a few hours so I can get some more points on the board. I missed Thursday after all, so I’m within my rights to do so.

cat bonerSunday, 11am. Boner #21 is directed into a sock while thinking about someone I shouldn’t be thinking about (which, lest we forget, is the whole point of fapping). Then I fall back to sleep in an effort to block out my hangover.

6pm. I start reading an article about a girl who caused outrage by dressing up as a Boston bombing victim. Two minutes in, I find out she has nudes. Five minutes later and I’m voicing in no uncertain terms what I think of her – while wreaking havoc with boner #22.

X comes into the room shortly afterwards and spots the signs of a man who’s just finished fapping.

“Anon!” she shouts, reciting all three of my names (which is always a sign of trouble.) “Have you been wanking?”

I shrug.

“You disgusting freak!”

Had she known what I was fapping over and that I was keeping a corresponding diary, her outrage would have been justified. It seems a little harsh, however, to chastise an average man for spending some quality time with his average dick. Whatever happened to YOLO?

Raw data

awkward bonerWith the week completed, X outraged and my data captured, all that’s left is to wait for her to fall asleep and then write up my findings. Which brings us to here:

  • Total number of boners sprung during my waking week: 22.
  • Number ‘the average man’ would have sprung in the same period: 77.
  • Number of boners culminating in a happy ending: 7.
  • Conversion rate: 32%.
  • Volume of sperm jettisoned: 70ml. (An estimate, not an actual measurement.)
  • Number of mini me’s that will never get to meet their awesome dad: Two billion.

Notes: In terms of success, it was a slow start to the week, picking up over the weekend aka When I Finally Had Some Time to Myself.

Dedications: X, I’m sorry for incensing you (again). Everyone else: I’m sorry for making you read 1,000 words about my penis. In mitigation, I didn’t do this for me; I did it for science. In years to come, when there’s a Nobel prize bearing my name, I’ll be vindicated. Until then, follow X’s example and stick to calling me what I am: a disgusting freak.

 

science bitch

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