A horrible accident saw me lose the most important limb I have, my penis. I will not go into any details but suffice to say, one should never be cheap and use knock-off lube that can pass convincingly as axle grease with one’s fleshlight, especially if it’s for a vigorous session.
But thanks to the miracle of science, all was not lost. Just to be clear, all the penis was lost, everything from the pelvis onwards. All of that gone! I was left looking like a mannequin with a pair of saggy balls for comedic effect.
Medical science has come a long way from the days of leeches and spells (MODERN medical science). I did not have to go through life with the humiliation of having to be the only chap to argue for leaving the toilet seat down. Because really!? Who can’t be bothered to take the single second to actually look to check the position of the toilet seat before getting down to business.
A radical new procedure, the penis transplant, meant that I was able to get a new lease on life. I could consider myself a man in all the relevant ways. I would only have to comprise in a few minor ways; length, girth and skin tone. Small sacrifices to still be able to have a penis.
Surprisingly, the concept of having a penis that was from a corpse was surprisingly easy to get used to. It’s amazing what the horror of having to live with no dick will do to your sense of perspective. Even the skin tone thing was pretty easy to get used to. Flashing it became an amusing party trick as no one could actually believe they saw a lightest-skinned cock on this darkest of dudes. It was hilarious. And it was more than once where I was propositioned by women looking to experience the cock to believe the story *wink wink, nudge nudge* i.e. white man meat from a black mandingo.
But these little things did not take the edge off the hardships of having a second hand sausage.
Masturbation was never the same. It never felt like I was pleasuring myself, more like a phantom handjob, and an amateurish one at that. The technique I had perfected since my teens was off thanks to the new thickness and length of the shaft and its different nerve endings. I always had to be conscious of the strokes or I would end up almost ripping my head of as I overshot. The natural grip I had was suddenly not right and it felt like I was jerking a disembodied penis that mysteriously made me orgasm.
Sex with the girlfriend was always awkward. After the initial new dick novelty wore off, she became uncomfortable with having the Frankenstein weiner all up in her. Blowjobs are at an end when you have to convince her that no really, it’s totally fine to have what was once a dead man’s schlong in your mouth, it’s not at all necrophilic. Sex became a dutiful chore that even a Puritan would deem it frigid. Of course the lack of release has made me more of an ornery bastard, which weird enough, is suddenly gaining me more female attention. Which just amps my need for release, making me more annoyed. It’s a vicious cycle.
Even months after the operation, a simple morning wee can end in disaster, with pee all over the floor, due to misjudgement of positioning and trajectory of the morning wood due to the foreign stiffy that is now attached to my body.
Deep down, I don’t think I will ever get accustomed to having a new tool to work with. But still, better used dick than no dick at all. A philosophy most women, gay dudes and, now one straight guy, can live by.
As a red-blooded, heterosexual, misogynist male, I have been busy scoping out chicks’ asses, hips, waists and breasts. It’s not because I want to mind you. It’s because society expects me to. I’m just a victim of my conditioning. I can’t help it.
With the disclaimer out of the way, I have been noticing a lot of parasite-bearing ladies happily flaunting their distended bellies everywhere. It’s seems that spawning time is almost upon us and a new crop of leeches will be loosed on humanity i.e. lots of heavily pregnant women be waddling around.
Now, while I lament their misplaced joy at bringing new life in the world, I have been noticing that my troublesome 2nd brain twitches when the women are in sight going, “You know you wouldn’t mind gutting that fish.” And I go “Dammit penis! I don’t need a new perversion to add to my CV!”
But it has a point. I’m more than a bit curious at stabbing the cat of a heavily pregnant, about-to-break-their-water kind of woman. First of all, the mechanics alone would be worth it. Missionary suddenly becomes a maneuver on par with handling nuclear material. If I jackhammer with abandon like a horny rabbit, is there a real chance of inducing a premature birth?
And if the baby can hear all the soothing sounds of classical music while in the womb, will it also be privy to the sounds of it’s mother bumping uglies? Science, I NEED TO KNOW!
Can I punch a baby if I fist the mother hard enough? Will I feel the soft head cave-in as I tickle the lady’s g-spot? How far would my arm have to travel to accomplish that? And would it heighten her pleasure? (See, ladies! With me, it’s all about you! 😉 )
How about 69’ing? Can the body even contort and stretch over that huge hump to get to the gash? Or is that simply a pipe dream at that stage of gestation?
I don’t know if it’s just sexual curiosity that’s the cause of my new found re-evaluation of the baby ejectors, or my maturity as a person (hehehe) that has allowed me to take notice of their attractiveness. But this is a venture that has to be explored at some point in time. Something else to add to the bucket list, along with setting fire to dog’s balls and wearing a suit of bees.
Writing these days has proven to be a chore. The stresses and strains of having to pretend you’re a mature grownup have proven to be very taxing even for my Oscar-worthy acting skills. Things crop up, deadlines, pressures to perform and timelines to be met and before you know it, you’re stumbling into bed at 10pm, waiting to do it all over again the next day.
I don’t have time to search my favourite internet haunts for pictures and stories that will scour away the remainder of my soul. No time to listen to podcasts that push the boundaries of the shreds of decency that stubbornly cling onto my person. I don’t even have time for looking up what scenes from my favourite pornstars are up to.
I also can’t spare the energy to hate on the abominations that infests our lands that are children. They’ve been relegated to ants and herpes; an evil that I just have to learn to live with (not that I have herpes, at least that wasn’t the case last time I checked. So ladies, the ride is still open for business, OH YEAH!) No longer do I dream of creative ways of turning them into finger food. I’m too busy dreaming of how much sleep I’d love to get. Fantasies of kids as strength test dummies for prosthetic limbs have to be set aside for that fictional off day that is yet to arrive. I can no longer smile as I drift off to sleep because I don’t craft new ways of turning into a profitable competition the immense pleasure of dropping those unhuman monstrosities into active volcanoes.
If nothing else, this is what I will miss most as the responsible facade I put up becomes a reality, that more infants will be birthed and not immediately turned into finger food. Because I’ll have to live with the knowledge that if the world had given me more time, a baby-free utopia would have been ours to enjoy.
Unrelated: Written while listening to http://i.mixcloud.com/CCLCdn
As a society, we judge too harshly when it comes to matters of the carnal nature. What 2 or 3 or 500 consenting adults get up to behind closed doors and in front of a few cameras on the internet is their business and theirs alone. But even in this area, progress, while slow, is definitely evident everyday. There’s even a hope that one day Catholic priests might actually move on from altar boys to maybe choir girls.
But a completely ignored segment of sexuality is inter-species love. I’m talking about the much (wrongly) maligned zoophilia.
I don’t understand why we can call animals our pals and best friends and our confidants, but we can’t take it to the next logical conclusion? Obviously feelings will grow and blossom into full blown intimacy. And it’s already hard enough to find love, why limit yourself to genetic compatibility?
And what about when sex becomes boring? Role-play and toys can only go so far? Sometimes you have to take it to the next level to get that excitement. And if this upstanding lady interviewed by Vice.com is to be trusted, then limiting yourself to just humanity for erotic pleasure is not only silly, but we’re missing out economically.
Instead of vilifying these individuals, why don’t we at the very least be open minded about new experiences and not immediately judge these folks as deviants. It’s not too long ago that any position beyond missionary was deemed evil and improper. Even now, no matter how right the majority know it is, inter-tribal and interracial marriages still carry some stigma.
Lest we be judged as savages by future generations, we should do cheer on those who refuse to be complacent and push the boundaries of our sexual frontier, looking for love and satisfaction in places only few will dare go. These are our sexual pioneers and our future heroes.
NOTE: If you really want to know why I wrote this whole thing (you don’t, trust me) click here.
The lesson of the day is that even jerking off can be a chore. A long day is enough to screw the motivation out of a body, even for the more enjoyable activities.
Just the thought of having to go to a porn tube site, going through 50 videos with a raging boner just to find the video with right camera angles and performers who know how to shut up, do a quick five knuckle shuffle then spend another 5min cleaning up just makes it easier to say no, and go to bed.
This is a reality that I really would have been happy never having to confront it. I like to think I have libido that can be called into action at the drop of a hat. This foreshadowing of what old age looks like is very unwelcome. I’m not a fan of the thought of Viagra and Cialis being a certainty in my future.
Maybe I should just do it anyway. In defiance. A nut of rebellion, shouting out that I will not cum quietly in the night, but that I will go out grabbing my cock with a full fist, and pumping it like a shotgun and blasting like Arnold Schwarzenegger right in the face of the T-1000!
Yeah, I think I’ll do that instead. Then go to bed.
Why does getting older mean that you lose all touch with contemporary music? Is there some magic button in our genes that is activated when we reach a certain age?
I’d like to be able to keep up with the hipness of the wily teens running around nowadays. Mostly because I fully intend on being the creepy old guy who you call the cops on because he’s been hanging around the college and university a little too long. And when that sport gets old (or when the restraining order), I’ll be the creep feeling on the young taut butts of the coquettish ladies in the heart-stoppingly short skirts and dresses.
But to at least half-way understand them, I’ll need to be plug into their type of music so that I’m not lost after the customary greetings and squeezings. If they are freaks, I need to be initiate their crazy side with the subliminal code words embedded the hit songs of their day. I fully intend to use the acquired skill of an age to rob the cradle as much as possible, no matter how pathetic it might come across.
Secretly, all dudes want to be able to draw any and all kinds of ass at any age, but for the youngins, I need to be able to at least tolerate their undoubtedly stupid and inane, vapid, shallow nonsense that they spew because I’ll be spending a lot of time around them. And if it goes according to plan, in them too.
Or maybe I’ll just ask my kid sis to pimp her (of age) friends to me. Just cut out all the bullshit of pretending to want to know them and just confuse them with cheap drinks and BOOM! Sweet young poonani! If they’re half as gullible as her, I should be set for life.