Crazytigerrabbitman Cums Clean
I saw today on the Health Channel about a New Age sexuality workshop being offered to men in order to teach them how to masturbate more efficiently and ultimately show them how to pleasure themselves more intently and enjoyably.
Pardon?
I’m sure this weekend long instructional retreat is very informative and helpful for the participants and all, but I just can't help but feel plain sorry for these guys. After all, what kind of dude doesn't know how to flog his own dolphin? Shit, I could have both my arms cut off in a tragic freak accident and I bet I would eventually grow another arm out of my chest out of sheer necessity to masturbate with. Not that sitting in a circle facing into a group of other hairy men all beating their meat like they were ending world hunger wouldn't be an ideal weekend getaway, but isn't masturbating a God given natural instinct for men like eating, sleeping, and breathing? What kind of a man would actually enroll in a class to learn how to beat off? Geez, if it really comes that unnaturally for some men, perhaps the only thing then that will really help and save them would be an arsenic milkshake.
How can some men not know how to masturbate? Poor-fucking-bastards. Masturbating is like anything else they ever began doing as a young boy. Like skateboarding, riding a bike, or hitting a hanging curveball; masturbating is a skill that we learn early on and which we continue to improve upon with age and experience.
At 33 years of age and still single after nearly a decade, I’m practically a Grand Master – a regular Grand Poohbah of pounding pud. If masturbating were considered an art form, I’d be Vincent-fucking-Van Gogh. In fact, I’ve become so proficient at masturbating lately that when the issue of which degree of ghi I should wear to represent my skills came up at the 'International League of Masturbators', it was determined that my masturbatory prowess transcended mere color and that I could wear any damn belt I please. That’s how good I am at wacking off!
What can I say? I took to it like Oprah Winfrey to a bowl of Fruit Loops.
At first, like most young boys, I didn’t really understand the principles behind what was happening to my penis. I just poked and prodded at it curiously until it erupted like a miniature Krakatoa and sending splendid kaleidoscope explosions of intense color behind my eyeballs as they rolled back into my head like boiled eggs. It was better than the smell of bubblegum hockey cards; it was better than the Super Friends; it was even better than hitting a hanging curveball. Later on in high school, while the bigger, more handsome boys were all luring cheerleaders under the bleachers and fiddling with their complicated undergarments, I was perfecting my solo efforts while locked in the family bathroom and playing out fantasies of nailing the Doublemint twins on bales of hay in my lurid imagination. It may not be something to brag about in the cafeteria the next day over cartons of milk, but it was a developing skill that would better serve me later in life.
It was during this time you see that I really learned how to feel myself out, so to speak. I was mastering the equipment I was born with. Since there was no easy-to-read owner’s manual for my penis issued at birth, I was left alone to my own devices to work out the complicated inner working of my budding manhood. And if the odd blonde Nipplebot should enter into the mental picture while I was doing so - so much the better.
Now, nearly 20 years later, and with a whole wealth of experience in rubbing my monkey, I can orgasm while even watching reruns of Roseanne. It has become something that as a man I pride myself on. I now consider myself to be the Yoda of masturbation. I am able to block out all external stimulus while masturbating apart from the grainy, fleshy images flickering lewdly on the television. I can probably even manage to achieve an El Firmo while sitting in front of an open window within view of my neighbors, or even with my cat staring at me intently. It used to be that I would have to be cordoned off secretly from the world and the cat would have to be locked away in another room so that his seemingly disparaging looks wouldn’t serve to make me feel so pathetic during the deed. Now, I couldn’t care less. Invite some friends over; have the cat pull up a seat and stare all he likes; just nobody block the ‘Teenaged Butt Pirates Vol.12’ on the television screen.
Classes? Bah!
Just issue them a box of Kleenex, some Cocoabutter lotion, and a lifetime membership to 'Spanky's Adult Video & Peepshow' and they'll figure it out.
How does one become qualified to teach such a class by the way? Are there special wacking off qualifications required for such a position? Does one need references? The whole thing just sounds squishy, err, fishy to me.
Pardon?
I’m sure this weekend long instructional retreat is very informative and helpful for the participants and all, but I just can't help but feel plain sorry for these guys. After all, what kind of dude doesn't know how to flog his own dolphin? Shit, I could have both my arms cut off in a tragic freak accident and I bet I would eventually grow another arm out of my chest out of sheer necessity to masturbate with. Not that sitting in a circle facing into a group of other hairy men all beating their meat like they were ending world hunger wouldn't be an ideal weekend getaway, but isn't masturbating a God given natural instinct for men like eating, sleeping, and breathing? What kind of a man would actually enroll in a class to learn how to beat off? Geez, if it really comes that unnaturally for some men, perhaps the only thing then that will really help and save them would be an arsenic milkshake.
How can some men not know how to masturbate? Poor-fucking-bastards. Masturbating is like anything else they ever began doing as a young boy. Like skateboarding, riding a bike, or hitting a hanging curveball; masturbating is a skill that we learn early on and which we continue to improve upon with age and experience.
At 33 years of age and still single after nearly a decade, I’m practically a Grand Master – a regular Grand Poohbah of pounding pud. If masturbating were considered an art form, I’d be Vincent-fucking-Van Gogh. In fact, I’ve become so proficient at masturbating lately that when the issue of which degree of ghi I should wear to represent my skills came up at the 'International League of Masturbators', it was determined that my masturbatory prowess transcended mere color and that I could wear any damn belt I please. That’s how good I am at wacking off!
What can I say? I took to it like Oprah Winfrey to a bowl of Fruit Loops.
At first, like most young boys, I didn’t really understand the principles behind what was happening to my penis. I just poked and prodded at it curiously until it erupted like a miniature Krakatoa and sending splendid kaleidoscope explosions of intense color behind my eyeballs as they rolled back into my head like boiled eggs. It was better than the smell of bubblegum hockey cards; it was better than the Super Friends; it was even better than hitting a hanging curveball. Later on in high school, while the bigger, more handsome boys were all luring cheerleaders under the bleachers and fiddling with their complicated undergarments, I was perfecting my solo efforts while locked in the family bathroom and playing out fantasies of nailing the Doublemint twins on bales of hay in my lurid imagination. It may not be something to brag about in the cafeteria the next day over cartons of milk, but it was a developing skill that would better serve me later in life.
It was during this time you see that I really learned how to feel myself out, so to speak. I was mastering the equipment I was born with. Since there was no easy-to-read owner’s manual for my penis issued at birth, I was left alone to my own devices to work out the complicated inner working of my budding manhood. And if the odd blonde Nipplebot should enter into the mental picture while I was doing so - so much the better.
Now, nearly 20 years later, and with a whole wealth of experience in rubbing my monkey, I can orgasm while even watching reruns of Roseanne. It has become something that as a man I pride myself on. I now consider myself to be the Yoda of masturbation. I am able to block out all external stimulus while masturbating apart from the grainy, fleshy images flickering lewdly on the television. I can probably even manage to achieve an El Firmo while sitting in front of an open window within view of my neighbors, or even with my cat staring at me intently. It used to be that I would have to be cordoned off secretly from the world and the cat would have to be locked away in another room so that his seemingly disparaging looks wouldn’t serve to make me feel so pathetic during the deed. Now, I couldn’t care less. Invite some friends over; have the cat pull up a seat and stare all he likes; just nobody block the ‘Teenaged Butt Pirates Vol.12’ on the television screen.
Classes? Bah!
Just issue them a box of Kleenex, some Cocoabutter lotion, and a lifetime membership to 'Spanky's Adult Video & Peepshow' and they'll figure it out.
How does one become qualified to teach such a class by the way? Are there special wacking off qualifications required for such a position? Does one need references? The whole thing just sounds squishy, err, fishy to me.
2 Comments:
I am speechless. Laughing hysterically, but speechless.
I see the Blogger anti-spamming stuff hasn't worked for you. Or did you enable it after that spammer left the comment above?
BTW: Cann't spel.
Post a Comment
<< Home