Wednesday, May 19, 2010
A Portrait of the Asshole as a Young Man 8
It's a tale as old as time... my time, that is.
As far back as the womb a man has only had one toy, one object that would be with him, always be fascinating, always be fun to play with, and always good to go-- well, at least until age 50.
I always make the joke that the best sex I've ever had is with myself. Except I'm not joking. That thing about women saying they'd trade a lot of sexual encounters for a warm bath and a good book? That's me too, only in place of "warm bath and a good book" you can deposit "Palmela."
Is it always as great as a live woman? No, of course not. Is it quick (sometimes), convenient and to the point? Hell yes! I can tug one out, do minimal cleanup and be right back to doing whatever I was doing before I thought, "I've got the urge to tug one out." With women, even ones who know the score when they hit the door, there's still an elaborate ritual that requires talking and joking to ease tension, awkward removal of clothing, injury assessments ("Don't grab my right ankle, I rolled it yesterday."), post-coital cleanup and the inevitable waltz toward the door.
I can do that whole dance with myself in five minutes. When I was in my teens I could be gone in sixty seconds. I'm a busy man, too busy often for even the most available woman. Plus I'm a loner by nature (an only child) and the more things I can do alone the better. It takes two to tango, and I don't always feel like putting on my dancing shoes.
[Postscript: Two things, really. One, that masturbator's kit in the photo is a hot, brown, watery mess. Two, who was the first human male to beat his meat, and since there was no lube is that how fire was discovered? (Okay, that's three things.)]