 
I wrote me these suckers, too.
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| Fun fact: I'm still continent! |
Blog-Like Thing
May 5, 2013
I’m Dreaming of a White, Viscous, Gooey Ejaculation
(Rolling Fella Redux)
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Probably a reasonable facsimile of my expression upon taking delivery of
a brand new Rolling Fella Bomber
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So, Rolling Fella Bomber XI—or maybe XII, it is hard to keep track, they
literally all look alike—expired the other day. It sputtered and jerked
to a halt, ceasing to move its faux tongue and lips at around the seven-minute
mark of a faux blowjob, just as a real lady probably would do at that point
in a real one.
That hypothetical real lady, however, would live to blow another day. Not so the relatively long-lived RFB XII. Battery replacement and other desperate attempts to revive it only postponed the inevitable, and time of death was recorded as 10:06 p.m., May 2.
The video that I was using for inspiration still had ten minutes to run. It’s an old fave that tells the charming if clichéd story of four young Japanese women, representing a delectable variety of body types, who initiate their new male housemate by forcing him to serially fondle their hooters and be fellated by them. Don’t worry about spoilers here, as I’ve never made it all the way to the end of the tale anyway.
I suppose I could have just finished the task (the task at hand, I’m tempted to say, but my very point is that it wasn’t at hand), but at fifty-seven, spoiled by twenty-first century wonders
like the RFB, I just found the idea too much bother and went to bed.
To what extent the following phenomenon owes to my frequent plugs for the product, both on this site and in my latest ebook, I would not care to speculate, but I had a devil of a time ordering Rolling
Fella Bomber XIII-or-so because it’s on waiting-list status with most online
purveyors of adult goods.
As far as I could tell, there is no systemic breakdown in the delivery
flow of male sex toys as a category. A few random clicks here and there
led me to believe that every other item could be purchased with a promise
of same-day shipping, but most of them being objects to be inserted in
one’s anus, I demurred. Something that purports to fulfill the same function
as the Rolling Fella Bomber, called the A-10 Cyclone, was widely available,
but it had garnered decidedly mixed reviews. And frankly, I’m not keen
to insert my most prized appendage into something called a “cyclone.” Are
you?*
Anyway, the story has a happy ending in that, on the fifth Google foray, I found an outlet that could deliver the item promptly. So here I sit, waiting for the postman to ring, unable to ejaculate until he does, but fully capable of enjoying a visit from the Ghost of Ejaculations Past—in other words, sharing with you how my fondness for the Rolling Fella Bomber evolved.
Let me try to express how an ejaculation provoked by a Rolling Fella Bomber
differs from the more mundane ejaculations we are apt to experience manually
or inside other humans. I’m not knocking those more traditional forms of
ejaculation, mind you; they will always have their place.(Prison, to name
one.) But just as a thought experiment, imagine if you will that last such
conventional ejaculation you experienced. You know, the fizziness of it,
the G-force behind it, and so forth.
Now imagine that you are visibly aroused, and that a tiny Randy Johnson
is standing inside your, er, randy johnson. He’s down at the base, peering
down your urethra, looking for the sign, which will, of course, be for
a fastball straight down the middle. Randy Johnson—and just to be clear,
we’re talking turn-of-the-century, Arizona Diamondbacks vintage Randy,
at the peak of his bird-destroying powers—collects all of your semen as it flows toward him and, with those legendary
wrists and hands, compacts it all to the size of a ball that fits neatly
in his hand.
And then, once he has consolidated this immense quantity of spermatozoa, leaving no child behind, as it were, he winds up and whips that projectile straight down the middle and out your meatus at hyperdrive speed. That, my friends, is how you ejaculate with a Rolling Fella Bomber. I’m here to tell you, the explosive metaphor in the product’s name is not hype. Not in the least.
You may say, “Wow, that sounds like the best blowjob ever!” Well, yes and no. While the unfortunate design of the item, with its freakish, miniature face, is meant to suggest oral sex, and it is classified on some sites as a “blowjob simulator,” the actual sensation isn’t quite like a mouth. Nor is it exactly like a vagina. As to other orifices, I cannot speak from personal experience, but I feel confident in saying that neither is it like a butthole or an eye socket.
Yet it does feel like a very human orifice—a composite of the best features
of existing orifices, or perhaps an entirely new orifice that we humans
just haven’t gotten around to evolving yet.**
Yes, it’s that good. When you experience it for the first time, you really wonder if you’re going to be all right. It is an out of body experience. It seems as if you’re ejaculating not with your own, familiar equipage, but with someone else’s—that of a bull or a wild boar, or Peter North, or some other such synonymous-with-ejaculations critter. (And just to be clear, we’re talking early-Nineties, Christy-Canyon-coating Peter North, at the peak of his powers.)
In fact, the Rolling Fella Bomber is scary good. Yes, “scary good” is a
cliché, but I honestly mean Scary Good, as in, possibly capable of bringing
about the extinction of the human race. One of the online reviews by a
Japanese enthusiast takes the form of a declaration of independence from
what this fellow seems to regard as the tyranny of women. No more dating,
no more chitchat, no more paying some walking STD factory for desultory
service, etc., etc. Free at last, free at last, and so on and so forth.
(One gets the impression that the women of earth aren’t terribly going
to miss this chap.)
I have no doubt that he is articulating the view of many a Rolling Fella Bomber aficionado. It’s just that most are too drained to put feelings into words. My own procreating days are behind me, so my single-minded devotion to a series of Fella Bombers is no one’s loss, but when you have young bucks expressing these sentiments and tossing all their seed into a clump of polyurethane…
People will say that ultimately, the need for companionship will force
young men to marry and face up to their marital duties, which they may
then come to like, to which I say Pshaw. Yes, Pshaw! Companionship can
be covered by a decent roommate—herein defined as a roommate who will spring
for his own damn Rolling Fella Bomber and not borrow yours on the sly.
(Seriously, roommates of the world, don’t even think about it. Using someone
else’s Rolling Fella Bomber would, in theory, constitute the ultimate breach
of roommate etiquette.***)
Well, I would love to sit here and chat with you folks, but the doorbell just rang, and I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. Good luck sustaining humanity, youngsters.
(Click here for some Japanese guy’s demonstration video of the Rolling Fella Bomber, complete with the famous box that I described in detail in my earlier
post.)
| * Though, to be fair, I had the same reservations about a product called “Bomber”
once upon a time. |
| ** I’m not suggesting here that we genetically engineer such a new orifice.
If we’re going to tinker with human sex organs, we need to grow a new set
of genitals in the crook of one of our arms, or some other such place that
we can easily access with our own mouths. That will wipe that smug smile
off the faces of dogs once and for all. |
| *** Then again, I suppose the truly ultimate faux pas would be using the device as a coprophiliac. |
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April 15, 2013
Four Ruminations on My Cock
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Is this a great country? Or what?
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Exceedingly late to the scene, I only recently started watching Season
One of Hung, the HBO buddy drama about a huge, extroverted cock and the clueless high
school basketball coach it deigns to drag around with it.
One episode closed with a playing of a rap song titled “My Dick” by an august personage named Mickey Avalon, a choice stanza of which goes like this:
My dick - locked in a cage, right
Your dick suffer from stage fright
My dick - so hot, it's stolen
Your dick look like Gary Coleman
The series—and more personal events, which I will explain anon—led me to
ruminate on my own cock, as if I needed any excuse to do that.*
Cock vs. Dick
Linguistics journals are choc-a-bloc with studies that seek to determine
exactly where we can draw the geographic line between, say, the realm of “soda” and that of “pop.” But to my knowledge, no one has explored the much more explosive and,
frankly, interesting question of what causes people to opt for “cock” or
“dick.”
My ongoing research, largely internet-based, leads me to postulate that
this line is more ethnic than geographic, with "unabashedly Caucasian"
Americans opting for cock while dick predominates among Asian porn stars, African-American rappers, and Caucasians
wishing to sound African-American (cf Avalon, Mickey).
My dick parts the seas
Your dick farts and queefs
My dick - rumble in the jungle
Your dick got touched by your uncle
Personally, I just can’t countenance addressing my favorite part by a name
that conjures images of foul-mouthed Republican bullies. Not coincidentally, it is also a homonym for an unpleasant person. Cock generates a much higher Q score. I think I can state with confidence that
there is no male in the English-speaking world named "Cock" or
whose given name consists in any small part of "Cock," although
in many regions it is customary for junior high school boys to try to persuade
naïve substitute teachers that there is. **
And at the end of the day (which is probably when you would say such things,
anyway), “Suck my dick” will always sound like a growled epithet, whereas
“Suck my cooooock” is a whispered distillation of languid, consensual,
shimmering hope. Advantage: Cock.
Cocks, Compulsive Drawing of
The movie Superbad ends with a gag about a species of OCD that causes a character to compulsively
draw cocks on everything. It turns out that this is not a recognized psychological
disorder, but you could have fooled me—or anyone else who has set foot
in the boys’ room of a high school anywhere in the world, for that matter.
How many janitors throughout history have spontaneously combusted in the
midst of trying to scour the stalls on their beat cock-free? And yet, those
cocks keep coming back, year after year, ever erect, often in the throes
of joyful and bountiful orgasm.
In sophomore English back in '71, we used readers that were randomly doled
out to us at the start of class and left in the room at the end. We spent
a large chunk of the semester covering Julius Caesar. The script of the play was supplemented by numerous photos of obscure,
toga-clad actors who looked like they all had hangovers—expressions which
contrasted sharply with the ludicrously enormous boners that had been bestowed
on them in one very special edition. Where Caesar ought to be warily informing
Brutus that yon Cassius reads much and is therefore very dangerous, this
rendition of the ancient scene has Caesar musing, improbably, “Beat my
meat on the toilet seat, doo-dah, doo-dah” while ejaculating (with surprising
vigor and range for a man of his years) into Cassius’s famously lean and
hungry face.
At N. University, my former employer in Japan, there was an infamous blackboard
that was removed from a large lecture hall and deposited in the passageway
just outside its doors. Presumably, the thing had to be replaced because
some vandal had painted cocks on it. Specifically, eight upward-pointing,
disembodied cocks—from left to right, each one longer and skinnier than
its neighbor, so that the effect was like a church pipe organ, except that
all eight pipes were simultaneously hurling fountains of semen into the
air.
I assumed that the blackboard was to be hauled off to the dump, but that
there had been some miscommunication that resulted in its resting there
in a very public place for days on end. And then the mystery deepened as
the days turned to months. It just sat there, unremarked upon in any faculty
meeting that I knew of, making a busy and naturally narrow pedestrian thoroughfare
all that narrower, forcing passersby, most of them female, not only to
notice the artwork but to pause beside it, however against their will.
It became a landmark, a veritable Stonehenge of Perpetually Spewing Cocks.
At some point in the second year of its exhibition, when no one else was
around, I leaned over and touched one of the members. I did this with no
small amount of trepidation, for the "work" (as some had come
to think of it) had achieved a veneer of veneration by then, as people
and things who linger too long at universities are prone to do.The cock
smeared at my touch.
I discovered that the phalli weren’t painted on the blackboard at all,
but merely drawn thickly, with great determination, in chalk. Anyone at
anytime could have obliterated the whole work in seconds with a damp cloth.
Personally, I can honestly say that I’ve never gotten into the swing of
things, drawing-cocks-on-things-wise. However, I do take an inordinate
amount of pleasure in saying “My cock” when alone. I’ll be puttering about the apartment or my office on a weekend, and just start muttering, “My cooooooooooock” without thinking.
Isn’t that the damnedest thing? I mean, isn’t that just the god-damnedest thing you ever heard?
My dick - been there done that
Your dick sits there with dunce cap
My dick - V.I.P.
Your shit needs I.D.
Our Local Cock Festival, Pictured Above
Think Americans are the most cock-obsessed people on earth? Check out this holy ritual not far from my neighborhood.
Everyone should have an annual cock-appreciating festival within easy driving
distance. Everyone. I do feel strongly about this.
The Latest News in Cock (Mine)
Some weeks ago I began to feel a discomfort of sorts in the interior of
my cock. It wasn’t severe enough to make me dread trips to the bathroom
or keep me up at night, nor did any unseemly substances begin emerging
from it—but too much time spent on the wrong websites convinced me that
these unpleasantries were only a matter of time. This hard-to-describe
vague symptom came and went, but served nicely to feed my paranoia, since
I had carelessly indulged in a certain experience that might well have
been the cause not all that long before.
Three negative test results later, the symptom has all but faded away,
and I’ve been assured that its proximity in time to what I have heard someone
on NPR describe as a “poor lifestyle choice” is entirely coincidental.
So, yay. Lucked out again.
During the worrisome period, though, being unable—or at least, unwilling—to
disturb my cock by asking it to perform anything but its urinary function,
I had time to view it objectively for once, with a renewed appreciation.
It has served me superbly lo, these fifty-seven years—including forty-four
ejaculatory years and thirty-nine sexually active ones—without complaint.
According to one website, it has been spurting out ejaculate of the highest caliber in a most pleasing
manner since before there were smoke detectors, digital music, or waffle-soled
shoes. It once measured over eight inches when I mashed the end of the
tape painfully into my pubic region and ran it along the long side of the
curve.
It is one of the very few body parts that one can teach to do tricks. The
pancreas does what it does, and God bless it for that, but you can't toss
a tiddly-wink with it. Regarding its most pleasant function, as recently
as last month my cock could perform it three times in a single night, so
long as it is a night on Jupiter.
It has done all of this for me without a peep of protest, until this recent scare.
Old friend, enjoy the remaining down time. You’ve earned it. Henceforth,
I vow to keep you well out of harm’s way. It is the least I can do for
you.
Dear readers, it’s the least you can do for yours as well.
My dick need no introduction
Your dick don't even function
My dick served a whole lunch -in
Your dick - it look like a munchkin...
April 19 Addendum
While not specifically relevant to my cock, all this cock-talk belatedly provoked the memory of this classic moment from Deadwood. Who even knew that "cock-breath" was a thing? Or that there
could be more than one flavor of it?
If anyone out there is contemplating starting a band, I urge you to seize
upon "Seven Kinds of Cock-Breath" before somebody else snags
it.
| * Some wag out there is aching to point out the fact that the verb “ruminate”
comes from the root verb “to chew on.” So, just to clarify: No, I did not
chew on my own cock. But I would if I could, and so would you, wag, if
you have one. |
** That’s not to say that there are no cocks in the phone book, though. Perpend:
* Courteney Cox
* Jay Cocks (critic)
* Olivia Cockburn (birthname of Olivia Wilde)
* John Hancock (Declaration signer and inducer of giggle-fits in countless generations of male social studies pupils)
How would it feel to hit it off with a beautiful young actress, and, just
as things between you are warming up nicely, you discover that her name
is Cockburn? No, no, let me shun that. That way, madness lies... |
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