May 5, 2013
I’m Dreaming of a White, Viscous, Gooey Ejaculation
(Rolling Fella Redux)
Probably a reasonable facsimile of my expression upon taking delivery of
a brand new Rolling Fella Bomber
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
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
|* 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.