Adult Education
I’m a bit of a prude - I admit it. Wilt Chamberlain I am not.
But now that Mother Nature seems to have taken her Prozac, it is finally beginning to seem like spring is upon us. Once again, like every other horny ‘Great-Peckered Horndog’ on the planet, I have an enormous seasonal bulge in my pants that makes it seem like somebody has opened a golfing umbrella in my crotch.
I just can’t help it – IT’S SPRINGTIME! Just walking to the corner store can ultimately leave me wetter than inland Florida after Hurricane Francis!
All guys turn into dogs in heat when the warm weather finally arrives. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that suddenly skirts become shorter and that supple milky flesh begins to runneth over from behind hemlines and cropped tops as women shed their Eskimo attire in lieu of sexier spring wear.
Everything excites me lately – even the Pope’s funeral was like one big ‘Cardinals Gone Wild!’ video!
I’m feeling a bit out of my element here, and the headlines in all the current impulse women’s magazines at store checkouts do little to offer me any comfort. It seems that every few weeks there is another new list of “10 Hot Tips to Make Her Howl Like a Monkey”. Who’s having all this sex? How many tips, techniques, positions, and hints are there out there anyways? At the current rate of my sensual development these days, I must be the sexual equivalent of the slow, retarded kid who sat all by himself in the cloak closet back in Grade Three.
It scares me. I feel like I’m being left behind somehow as everyone else around me is turning into porn stars while I’m evolving into a Benedictine monk. What can I say? I’m a nice guy, not a contortionist.
But dammit! I have fucking needs too – literally! My Charlie Brown’s are beginning to swell up like two ripe juicy passion fruits and I’m afraid that if I don’t find some instant gratification soon I may just spontaneously combust in a vicious explosion, resembling that of having wedged plastic explosive up the ‘Stay Puft’ Marshmallow Man’s ass.
But I’m scared - I can’t help it. I think that without some kind of remedial Sex 101 class, I may be just setting myself up for the embarrassment of the century; on par with Chuck Berry’s extensive library of bathroom piss videos, or even anything that has ever been reportedly perpetrated in the showers at Neverland Ranch.
There has to be some way to cram for the big sex exam and find myself that instant dose of healthy sexual libido, shouldn’t there? So it was with this very perplexing personal conundrum that I finally decided to make a timely foray into the taboo world of Adult Novelty and Video Entertainment. That’s right – that forbidden opaque door beneath those quintuple neon red X’s that brazenly beckons out to us Great-Peckered-Horndogs like an Amsterdam, blue light massage pallor.
I felt almost moth-like in my attraction to the place.
This expedition was not really intended so that I could purchase or rent anything, so much as it was just to simply scope out the forbidden landscape that I have been so, seemingly, missing out on. It was more out of morbid curiosity than that of sheer horniness on my part.
Pornography, or “Adult Entertainment”, has never been my cup of tea per se, but since just about everybody seems to be into it but me, I just wanted to know what the big deal was all about. Between the shapely girls jogging in the park and the ‘Ashley Madison’ dating infomercials, you can’t go 15 feet without having some extreme T&A being shoved under your nose*.
Up until now, I think I’ve done a good job resisting again these less-than-pure impulses; now I am eager to have a patented ‘Oriental Hanging Fuck Basket’ of my very own to place in the corner of my living room to complete the whole trendy feng shui feel to my humble bachelor pad.
Go figure.
The world of mainstream Adult Entertainment is a shocking one to the budding virgin pornophile such as myself. The pre-envisioned notions of soft-core, couple-orientated blue movies quickly gave way to gang bangs, circle jerks, cream pies, and water sports - whatever the fuck that is! When did sex become so, so…ugly?
Apart from the fact that the place pleasantly smelled like my old dorm room**, what greeted me in the aisles of this perverts paradise would have made a back-alley prostitute uncomfortable. It was like walking into Rob Lowe’s closet. Honestly, who would wedge an entire frozen French stick loaf up their ass? Is this what I have been missing out on each time I pass up on the latest edition of Cosmopolitan?
There were no poignant sex tips, or informative insights on dating or romance at all! Just miles and miles of perversion in which you would have to be either a Russian acrobat, or a renowned Kripalu yoga master in order to perform successfully. For a dried up well like myself, this is like falling into a Banda Ache swimming pool without your water wings.
Needless to say, it did nothing to improve my bruised sexual ego.
Not only were the overabundant graphic visuals disturbing, but the written word was just as mentally damaging and uninspiring as well. It seems that there is some kind of recognized “Porno-speak” that couldn’t be any more confusing had it been written in hieroglyphics. Like computer instant messaging services, there is popular understood code of abbreviations and short forms that develops among regular practitioners. Such eloquent literary acronyms as: DP, DA, DV, DVDA, ATM, MMF, MMMF, FFM, MILF, BBW – are you confused yet?
I know my porno like my cat knows nuclear physics. I could literally feel my IQ being swallowed up my ass.
Should I ever decide to fly to Ireland, I’m likely to end up doing hard time in maximum security after reading the ‘Aer Lingus’ logo on the tail wing of the plane. I expect that there could be a slight chance now that I could mistakenly lapse into a hypnotically-triggered state of porno mentality, and end up attacking the stewardess over International waters in a uncontrollable fit of subconscious machismo; and piledrive her through the floorboards of the plane.
My unleashed animal magnetism could be putting the lives of millions at risk!
I wasn’t willing to take that chance. I decided, then and there, that I would exit the premises immediately while I still had my good 20/20 vision intact and a regular heart rate. I was only defeating the purpose of being there by staying any longer. I had all the answers I was looking for. In fact, I had too many. So, after hyperventilating for a little while in the ‘Amateur Muff’ section of the store, I gathered my senses and what was left of my dignity, and bolted for the door; breaking out into the afternoon sun like a diver immerging from murky depths.
Did I feel any wiser or worldly? No. Did I feel any manlier or confident? Of course not! I felt about as sexually stimulating as another Kirk Gibson movie. I would have an easier time masturbating to a Steve Earle album than I would to any of the depraved scenarios being depicted on the back of the newly released ‘Duchess of Pork: IV’ DVD***.
Basically, this was a complete train wreck of a field trip, that’s for sure!
However, there was one positive aspect of this experience that will help me to continue holding my head up high despite my apparent lack of sexual prowess, and that’s the confidence that my quick passage to Heaven has been assured since, from this point forward, I may never be able to masturbate again!
Nevermind the spit-roasting of a fat she-male while she gang sucks a group of circus midgets - I’ll just stick to crying in the shower with a bag of Oreo’s like normal people.
I wonder if there is any sort of government assistance for people who must continually suffer from this dreaded 'Jerry Springer Syndrome' throughout their lives?
* Or an enormous raging hard-on, as the case may be.
** A curious mixture of pot, fart, and Mennon speed stick.
*** Which means either “Digital Versatile Disk”, or “Double Vaginal Doggie” – I forget which.
But now that Mother Nature seems to have taken her Prozac, it is finally beginning to seem like spring is upon us. Once again, like every other horny ‘Great-Peckered Horndog’ on the planet, I have an enormous seasonal bulge in my pants that makes it seem like somebody has opened a golfing umbrella in my crotch.
I just can’t help it – IT’S SPRINGTIME! Just walking to the corner store can ultimately leave me wetter than inland Florida after Hurricane Francis!
All guys turn into dogs in heat when the warm weather finally arrives. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that suddenly skirts become shorter and that supple milky flesh begins to runneth over from behind hemlines and cropped tops as women shed their Eskimo attire in lieu of sexier spring wear.
Everything excites me lately – even the Pope’s funeral was like one big ‘Cardinals Gone Wild!’ video!
I’m feeling a bit out of my element here, and the headlines in all the current impulse women’s magazines at store checkouts do little to offer me any comfort. It seems that every few weeks there is another new list of “10 Hot Tips to Make Her Howl Like a Monkey”. Who’s having all this sex? How many tips, techniques, positions, and hints are there out there anyways? At the current rate of my sensual development these days, I must be the sexual equivalent of the slow, retarded kid who sat all by himself in the cloak closet back in Grade Three.
It scares me. I feel like I’m being left behind somehow as everyone else around me is turning into porn stars while I’m evolving into a Benedictine monk. What can I say? I’m a nice guy, not a contortionist.
But dammit! I have fucking needs too – literally! My Charlie Brown’s are beginning to swell up like two ripe juicy passion fruits and I’m afraid that if I don’t find some instant gratification soon I may just spontaneously combust in a vicious explosion, resembling that of having wedged plastic explosive up the ‘Stay Puft’ Marshmallow Man’s ass.
But I’m scared - I can’t help it. I think that without some kind of remedial Sex 101 class, I may be just setting myself up for the embarrassment of the century; on par with Chuck Berry’s extensive library of bathroom piss videos, or even anything that has ever been reportedly perpetrated in the showers at Neverland Ranch.
There has to be some way to cram for the big sex exam and find myself that instant dose of healthy sexual libido, shouldn’t there? So it was with this very perplexing personal conundrum that I finally decided to make a timely foray into the taboo world of Adult Novelty and Video Entertainment. That’s right – that forbidden opaque door beneath those quintuple neon red X’s that brazenly beckons out to us Great-Peckered-Horndogs like an Amsterdam, blue light massage pallor.
I felt almost moth-like in my attraction to the place.
This expedition was not really intended so that I could purchase or rent anything, so much as it was just to simply scope out the forbidden landscape that I have been so, seemingly, missing out on. It was more out of morbid curiosity than that of sheer horniness on my part.
Pornography, or “Adult Entertainment”, has never been my cup of tea per se, but since just about everybody seems to be into it but me, I just wanted to know what the big deal was all about. Between the shapely girls jogging in the park and the ‘Ashley Madison’ dating infomercials, you can’t go 15 feet without having some extreme T&A being shoved under your nose*.
Up until now, I think I’ve done a good job resisting again these less-than-pure impulses; now I am eager to have a patented ‘Oriental Hanging Fuck Basket’ of my very own to place in the corner of my living room to complete the whole trendy feng shui feel to my humble bachelor pad.
Go figure.
The world of mainstream Adult Entertainment is a shocking one to the budding virgin pornophile such as myself. The pre-envisioned notions of soft-core, couple-orientated blue movies quickly gave way to gang bangs, circle jerks, cream pies, and water sports - whatever the fuck that is! When did sex become so, so…ugly?
Apart from the fact that the place pleasantly smelled like my old dorm room**, what greeted me in the aisles of this perverts paradise would have made a back-alley prostitute uncomfortable. It was like walking into Rob Lowe’s closet. Honestly, who would wedge an entire frozen French stick loaf up their ass? Is this what I have been missing out on each time I pass up on the latest edition of Cosmopolitan?
There were no poignant sex tips, or informative insights on dating or romance at all! Just miles and miles of perversion in which you would have to be either a Russian acrobat, or a renowned Kripalu yoga master in order to perform successfully. For a dried up well like myself, this is like falling into a Banda Ache swimming pool without your water wings.
Needless to say, it did nothing to improve my bruised sexual ego.
Not only were the overabundant graphic visuals disturbing, but the written word was just as mentally damaging and uninspiring as well. It seems that there is some kind of recognized “Porno-speak” that couldn’t be any more confusing had it been written in hieroglyphics. Like computer instant messaging services, there is popular understood code of abbreviations and short forms that develops among regular practitioners. Such eloquent literary acronyms as: DP, DA, DV, DVDA, ATM, MMF, MMMF, FFM, MILF, BBW – are you confused yet?
I know my porno like my cat knows nuclear physics. I could literally feel my IQ being swallowed up my ass.
Should I ever decide to fly to Ireland, I’m likely to end up doing hard time in maximum security after reading the ‘Aer Lingus’ logo on the tail wing of the plane. I expect that there could be a slight chance now that I could mistakenly lapse into a hypnotically-triggered state of porno mentality, and end up attacking the stewardess over International waters in a uncontrollable fit of subconscious machismo; and piledrive her through the floorboards of the plane.
My unleashed animal magnetism could be putting the lives of millions at risk!
I wasn’t willing to take that chance. I decided, then and there, that I would exit the premises immediately while I still had my good 20/20 vision intact and a regular heart rate. I was only defeating the purpose of being there by staying any longer. I had all the answers I was looking for. In fact, I had too many. So, after hyperventilating for a little while in the ‘Amateur Muff’ section of the store, I gathered my senses and what was left of my dignity, and bolted for the door; breaking out into the afternoon sun like a diver immerging from murky depths.
Did I feel any wiser or worldly? No. Did I feel any manlier or confident? Of course not! I felt about as sexually stimulating as another Kirk Gibson movie. I would have an easier time masturbating to a Steve Earle album than I would to any of the depraved scenarios being depicted on the back of the newly released ‘Duchess of Pork: IV’ DVD***.
Basically, this was a complete train wreck of a field trip, that’s for sure!
However, there was one positive aspect of this experience that will help me to continue holding my head up high despite my apparent lack of sexual prowess, and that’s the confidence that my quick passage to Heaven has been assured since, from this point forward, I may never be able to masturbate again!
Nevermind the spit-roasting of a fat she-male while she gang sucks a group of circus midgets - I’ll just stick to crying in the shower with a bag of Oreo’s like normal people.
I wonder if there is any sort of government assistance for people who must continually suffer from this dreaded 'Jerry Springer Syndrome' throughout their lives?
* Or an enormous raging hard-on, as the case may be.
** A curious mixture of pot, fart, and Mennon speed stick.
*** Which means either “Digital Versatile Disk”, or “Double Vaginal Doggie” – I forget which.
1 Comments:
love it.
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