A Note To Potential Sex Partners

Dear Potential Sex Partner, In an effort at full disclosure, I feel it’s best to let you in on exactly what you should expect and what I want during the next 25-40 minutes of our sexual intercourse session. I’ll start by saying, for the record: This is not going to be pretty. Consider that a blanket apology for everything that follows. Hey! Touch my balls! It’ll be fun. Honest! C’mon! They’re just down there, hanging around (ball joke!), keeping to themselves. Are they intimidating or something? Is that it? Really? Those little guys? Don’t worry about them. They won’t cause any trouble. Maybe they’ll move around in subtle ways that almost feels like you’re digging through a bucket of worms. But just pretend they’re iron Chinese therapy balls and you’re promoting your own health. If I have to pass wind, I will go down on you. I am a gentlemen, after all. This is my sleight-of-hand trick to keep the flatulence as far away from your smell receptors as possible. While one hand will maintain giving you the pleasure you deserve, the other will be down below to be used for (a) spreading my own cheeks to make sure there’s no whoopee cushion sound effect, forcing the air out with a “pfft” sound instead;

and (b) scattering the floating molecules to destroy the evil fart specter. If you feel my legs kicking a little, it’s because I don’t trust the dispatching power of my cupped hand. Don’t worry. I’ll stop soon enough. Don’t be afraid of the handjob! This is more a piece of advice, as every conversation I’ve had with women lately has had them talking shit about handjobs. “You guys know how to do it better than we do,” you all say, as if you’ve been handed down this Ultimate Truth from the Book of Oprah or something. Two things: (1) Why doesn’t the complaint work both ways, when we’re the giver and you’re the receiver?; (2) The two acts (first-person masturbation and second-person handjobs) are not the same thing. It’s like comparing jazz to ska/punk music; two very different beasts that shouldn’t be in the same conversation. And speaking of jazz, that’s how the handjob should be used. Not as a solo act, but as a background instrument – say, a bassoon – in the midst of a giant jazz band ensemble. It’s part of the act, not the entire show.
Occasionally, I will ejaculate in my own face. Accidentally! Accidentally.

Although, since it’s happened twice now, it’s tough to say it’s just a coincidence. But, in any case, every now and then I end up in a situation where my body placement is in perfect harmony with the trajectory and power of my blast, both of which are in alignment with the various gravitational pulls from distant stars and collapsing supernovas. As a result, I’ll come in my own face. It’s basic physics, people! But, don’t fret. We’ll laugh about it afterwards! Probably, I’ll make some joke about you purposefully sticking your thumb on the end of my penis like you would a flowing hose in order to soak the bully from down the block. But I won’t really mean it. I will, however, mean the request for you to get a towel. And quickly. This is fucking disgusting.


Rick Paulas, Clayton Long, SPLOOGED

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