Archive for the ‘ridickulous’ Category


January 6, 2010

OK so after three years and nearly two months of self imposed purity and idle penis syndrome, I finally let the lil fella out to play this week. After an initial misfire it seemed like he might be sulking or simply no longer suited to invading foreign lands – no matter how firm and female they be – but this was one WMD (Wang of Mass Dysfunction) mystery I couldn’t cut and run from.

In what was  a remarkable turnaround in poor form, during the second attempt at servicing the same fair maiden my previously disobedient dick worked so well I’m wondering whether the right thing to do would be to register it as a weapon. WTF indeed, but here’s why: while she was riding me, she had a panic attack. That’s right, a panic attack induced by an unassuming penis with no super powers the person tis attached to is aware of. The rest of me is much more Clark Kent than Superman too, leaving me perplexed as opposed to proud.

Sure, I have some idea what I’m doing when it comes to giving women what they want between the sheets, and once even managed to produce paroxysms of pleasure in a piece of ass that surprised me by talking in tongues before passing out, but a panic attack is almost the antithesis of orgasm.

In defence of my possibly dangerous dong, the problem appeared to be neither physiological nor mechanical, but psychosomatic: it seems the whole experience was so sexsationally intense she became overwhelmed both by the moment and the realisation that it might not be repeated. Not because of my unpredictable dick, but due to me literally being a fickle fucker. (While it was fun before her fear set in, it certainly wasn’t enough to persuade me to switch my stance on sexing in general)

This leaves me with three possible conclusions so far, none of which end well for either the belle or my bell end. Some evidence suggests that I am somehow simply too addictive for my tool to ever plough strawberry fields in a freelance manner, but I cannot be completely to blame. The fact that most other men are selfish and/or substandard in bed is outside of my control, and the rate of ..infection indicates that the entity I impaled on my instrument has issues of her own. ie: either she’s more susceptible to whatever spell it is I seem to cast than previous partners were,  or a potential mentalist.

So, does my manhood need a muzzle, or just a better manager? The objective scientist in me craves more input, but if my wand is indeed somehow magical, I can’t just go waving it around willy nilly, lest I become the Voldemort of vaginas. As I prefer the company of women to that of men in general, a reputation as the owner of a penis that packs too much of a punch is best avoided…

I’m also a little afraid that if I offered myself up for professional investigation the powers that be will want to either isolate and extract my x factor with evil intent, or seriously weaponise my wang against my will, Robocock style.

Also, despite Eliza Dushku’s evolving Echo in Dollhouse being the closest thing to one of the superwenches I mentioned in my previous post, the idea of having my identity wiped really doesn’t appeal.

Subsequently, I am seeking physically healthy and robust volunteers to conduct my own experiment/s. I’ll provide the goggles and labcoats, all you need to BYO is two forms of primary ID (to sign the legal waiver) and your self saucing pie.*

* hose beasts, gender reassignees and Republicans need not apply.


say no to pants parties (part 1)

December 2, 2009

When I’m asked why I’ve been celibate for more than three years I’d like to reply that tis ‘cause I’m not into people, but that basically invites asssumptions of bestiality or tuber abuse. What I really mean is that almost all humans are weak and boring, to be blunt. Sure, I’m still a man and boobs are great, but they almost always come at a cost that just makes bad business sense.
What would (eventually) (hopefully) wet my whistle is a bona fide Nietzschean Übermensch – preferably both buxom and sans boner.

‘What a right wanker,’ you might say, and you’d be accurate in at least one way. In another you’d be a judgmental prick though, as my stance could be a biological impulse, an ideal of enlightened self interest, or both. That’s right, I bet deez nuts are both base and benevolent, and while my baby batter cannot be bought or bargained, that doesn’t automatically make me averse to decorating the interior of the right rumpus room/s – although reproduction is most likely out of the question. There’s far too many of us already and my bloodline has a few bugs. But before I digress too far, let us get back to being balls deep…

Sex with somebody changes everything irrevocably, codependence went out of fashion last millennium and comfort is our frenemy. While crushing pussy sure can be fun, too often I’ve seen a root sooner or later result in a rut. Neither gender is guiltier than the other, for as they say, a bitch is a bitch.
Too many expect too much already, and humping heralds the imminent arrival of further expectations. But before you girls get all Germaine Greer on my ass, this isn’t an issue of commitment, rather one of risk vs. reward: temporary pleasure is not worth the potential pain.

‘Meaningless’ sex could be considered worthwhile if it didn’t come with consequence/s, but humans are by nature erratic and emotional animals. In simpler terms, what has been fucked cannot be unfucked, and truly letting go is a lesson most still have to learn.

..Which leads us back to the idea of the irresistible Übermensch. For those who haven’t spoken to Zarathustra, such superwenches would live to perceive, strew golden words yet perform still more than their promise, and be free both in spirit and heart.
While this might seem like a recipe for Captain Planet, think about it and be honest – with a pair of chest puppies and a makeover you’d totally hit that tight blue body too.

Without truth we lose, freedom is the best thing in the world, and integrity gets me wet. Subsequently, there’s nothing sexier than a hot girl who also happens to be honest, honourable, curious, open, and not secretly plotting to peel the skin off my penis* (that’s a metaphor).

Such discerning discipline when it comes to dicking most probably won’t end my drought for a while, but I’m willing to wait. I’m also willing to become a role model unless you’re religious and trying to taint children more than you do already.

I know there’s posthuman poontang out there somewhere – there just has to be. If 100 typewriter wielding monkeys would eventually bash out the works of the Bard, and Sarah Silverman is somehow fucking funny, female and Jewish all at once, anything is possible.

* if you happen to fit this description OR would like to lease a passable penis with low mileage, contact author. Conditions apply.

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