Autofellatio Convention in San Francisco AI

[Eddie]

I created this story in Google AI Studio about an autofellatio convention in San Francisco. Many of us have dreamed of such an event, so I made this one. We can only hope!

The Ouroboros Conclave

The brochure, circulated only through encrypted channels and word-of-mouth in the deepest web forums, was deceptively simple: "The Ouroboros Conclave: A Weekend of Self-Knowledge and Shared Practice. San Francisco." For the few hundred men who received it, it was a summons to Mecca.

The venue was an old, converted warehouse in the Dogpatch district, its industrial skeleton softened by draped fabrics and warm, strategic lighting. The air hummed with an energy that was part yoga retreat, part trade show, and part secret society initiation. Men of all ages and body types milled about, their faces alight with a kind of bewildered joy. For many, it was the first time they had ever been in a room with another person who understood their life's central, driving obsession. The unspoken question—Am I the only one?—was answered with a resounding, communal "No."

The Opening Ceremony

The conclave began in the main hall, a cavernous space with a large, central stage. The organizer, a serene, silver-haired man known only as "Alistair," welcomed the attendees. "Brothers," he said, his voice echoing slightly, "for too long, we have practiced our art in solitude. We have been monks in isolated cells. This weekend, we open the monastery. We share the sacred texts. Welcome home."

He then introduced the "Choir of the Closed Loop," a dozen men who took the stage and began to sing, their voices blending in a powerful, melodic hymn.

"The lonely road, the bended spine," they sang. "To taste the truth that is all mine. No lover's touch, no stranger's plea, just the perfect, holy trinity: my body, my own will, and me."

It was the first time many had heard their private, internal monologue given voice. Tears streamed down the faces of some of the older men, who had spent decades thinking they were beautiful freaks.

Classes and Workshops

The days were structured with a university-like course catalog.

"Anatomy 101: The Path to the Palace" was taught by Kai, a former gymnast with a body that seemed to defy the laws of physics. His class was purely practical, focusing on hamstring, psoas, and spinal flexibility. The room was a sea of straining bodies in deep plow poses, Kai moving among them, offering gentle adjustments. "It's not about force," he'd explain. "It's about listening. Your body will tell you when the gate is ready to open."

"The Alchemist's Kitchen: Curating the Offering" was led by Arthur, a meticulous purist. His workshop was part nutrition lecture, part tasting seminar. He had charts detailing the effects of zinc, lecithin, pineapple, and celery on sperm volume, viscosity, and flavor. He passed around small, coded samples of his own carefully curated "vintages" on tasting spoons, and men would discuss the "notes of melon," the "clean, mineral finish," and the "creamy mouthfeel" with the seriousness of master sommeliers.

"Beyond the Gag: Advanced Throatwork" was the most exclusive workshop, requiring an application. Led by a quiet man named Marcus, it was a masterclass in the deep throat. Using anatomical diagrams and breathing exercises, he taught techniques for relaxing the pharyngeal muscles and mastering the art of the "total sheath." The sounds from this partitioned-off room were a mix of intense focus and occasional, triumphant choking.

Demonstrations and Performances

The main stage was a place of worship. Throughout the day, autofellators would sign up for performance slots. A young, incredibly flexible man performed a fluid, dance-like routine, moving through a dozen different positions before achieving a graceful, swallowed orgasm. A massive, bearded man, a "Volumist," gave a demonstration that ended in a spectacular, crowd-pleasing eruption of sperm onto a black cloth laid out before him, earning a standing ovation.

The Choir of the Closed Loop performed regularly, their repertoire of autofellatio-themed songs growing as attendees shared their own compositions. The main hall would often fall silent as a lone man took the stage to sing a heartfelt, explicit ballad about his journey, his voice cracking with emotion.

Meet-Ups and Connections

But the true magic happened in the quiet spaces between the scheduled events. In the "Tea Lounge," men would sit on floor cushions, sharing stories. An older man might describe his first breakthrough in the 1970s, long before the internet, and a younger man would listen with rapt attention, realizing he was part of a lineage.

In the "Practice Pods"—small, private, curtained-off areas—men would pair up to share techniques, acting as coaches and spotters for each other. Here, bonds were forged in sweat and shared vulnerability. A man might struggle with a particular stretch, and another would gently guide his body, their hands meeting in a gesture of pure, non-sexual intimacy and support.

It was in these spaces that friendships blossomed. Arthur, the purist, found a surprising kinship with Marcus, the hedonist, debating the philosophy of their craft late into the night. Kai, the athlete, found a student in a shy, eager teenager who had traveled across the country, and he took the boy under his wing.

And love happened. It wasn't the primary goal, but it was an inevitable, beautiful byproduct. Two men might meet in a workshop, their eyes locking over a shared struggle with a deep forward fold. They would talk, share their stories of obsession and solitude, and recognize in each other not just a fellow practitioner, but a soulmate. The evening socials were filled with new couples holding hands, their connection forged not over dinner and a movie, but over a shared understanding of the most private act imaginable. For the first time, they could be completely, utterly themselves with a partner who didn't just accept their obsession, but shared it, celebrated it, and practiced it alongside them.

The Closing Ceremony

On the final day, the main hall was packed. The mood was electric, a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. Alistair returned to the stage. "Look around you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You are not alone. You have found your tribe."

He invited everyone to participate in a final, grand offering. The Choir began a slow, powerful chant: "Autofellatio... autofellating... autofellator... autofellates..."

Throughout the hall, hundreds of men moved as one. They folded into their practice on their mats, on the floor, wherever they stood. The room became a living, breathing temple of the closed loop. The chant grew louder, more powerful, a wave of communal energy.

As the final, collective orgasm swept through the room—some swallowed, some spurting onto cloths in a final, defiant celebration—the chant resolved into a single, triumphant word: "AMEN!"

As the men left the warehouse, blinking in the bright San Francisco sun, they were transformed. They exchanged numbers, email addresses, and heartfelt hugs. They left not as isolated monks, but as members of a global brotherhood, a network of friends and lovers. They had arrived seeking knowledge, and they left with something far more valuable: community. The Ouroboros Conclave was over, but for the men who attended, The Great Work had truly, finally, just begun.