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.
psyn sez 