From the Italian for 'there follows'...
A. refuses to see Shrek the Third because of the role the second film played in his DUI. Leave it to an inveterate gambler to superstitiously draw correlation between attending a children's flick and his subsequent decision to go home, drink a bottle of Scotch while watching The Sopranos, then take the car for a spin at 1 a.m. in search of cigarettes. It's that lack of personal responsibility combined with his own inimitable clumsiness and inability to think things through that has me thinking his recently expressed desire to purchase a firearm will inevitably lead to future legal problems.
Speaking of vicious cycles...
This morning I resumed my quasi-quotidian aerobic routine after a five-day hiatus and it nearly broke me. Even shaving a minute off the final period of maximum exertion, I ended up bathed in sweat, experiencing great difficulty cooling down. My head was a hair's breadth away from degenerating into pounding headache and a cold shower did little more than take the edge off. I am sure the fact that my apartment was 76 degrees didn't help matters.
Speaking of difficult cool downs...
It doesn't take long for me to grow accustomed to morning sex. I have had some significant difficulty letting go of the urges, resulting in an embarrassingly avoidable greater tardiness than usual. The charming thing about male sexuality is that the mind's desire can be greater than the body's, which isn't to say that I have difficulty getting it up but rather than my tank is running low on baby batter by this point. My boys need some time to recover but I must first overcome the psychological desire to recapture the joys of post-coital bliss first thing in the AM. The fact that masturbation is a complete letdown compared to sex with a partner helps some. The fact that my poor distended cock is red, sore and remained somewhat uncomfortably throbbing for some thirty minutes after orgasm will likely help even more.
Speaking of uncomfortable distension...
I always assumed those Brobdingnagian black buttplugs were novelty items; you know, the ones they typically photograph adjacent to a stack of two dozen soda cans to give a sense of dizzying scale. Perhaps for no other reason than to preserve my sanity, I figured they were like bad artwork for the shameless bottom, conversation pieces to be placed adjacent to your framed Tom of Finland originals. Recent experiences on xTube have disabused me of this notion, however. Seeing a man readily impaling his asshole on a two foot long dildo with a girth greater than my thigh only raised more questions than it answered: How is that possible given human anatomy? Where did all the length go? Has the thing passed beyond the rectum, well into the lower intestine? Is he actually displacing bodily organs during all this? And mostly, why?
What possible pleasure can such a creature ever hope to obtain with another human being from that point on that doesn't involve the Howie Mandel-esque act of wrapping a man's skull in latex and ramming it up there?
Speaking of Howie Mandel...
No, wait. I'm done.
Speaking of vicious cycles...
This morning I resumed my quasi-quotidian aerobic routine after a five-day hiatus and it nearly broke me. Even shaving a minute off the final period of maximum exertion, I ended up bathed in sweat, experiencing great difficulty cooling down. My head was a hair's breadth away from degenerating into pounding headache and a cold shower did little more than take the edge off. I am sure the fact that my apartment was 76 degrees didn't help matters.
Speaking of difficult cool downs...
It doesn't take long for me to grow accustomed to morning sex. I have had some significant difficulty letting go of the urges, resulting in an embarrassingly avoidable greater tardiness than usual. The charming thing about male sexuality is that the mind's desire can be greater than the body's, which isn't to say that I have difficulty getting it up but rather than my tank is running low on baby batter by this point. My boys need some time to recover but I must first overcome the psychological desire to recapture the joys of post-coital bliss first thing in the AM. The fact that masturbation is a complete letdown compared to sex with a partner helps some. The fact that my poor distended cock is red, sore and remained somewhat uncomfortably throbbing for some thirty minutes after orgasm will likely help even more.
Speaking of uncomfortable distension...
I always assumed those Brobdingnagian black buttplugs were novelty items; you know, the ones they typically photograph adjacent to a stack of two dozen soda cans to give a sense of dizzying scale. Perhaps for no other reason than to preserve my sanity, I figured they were like bad artwork for the shameless bottom, conversation pieces to be placed adjacent to your framed Tom of Finland originals. Recent experiences on xTube have disabused me of this notion, however. Seeing a man readily impaling his asshole on a two foot long dildo with a girth greater than my thigh only raised more questions than it answered: How is that possible given human anatomy? Where did all the length go? Has the thing passed beyond the rectum, well into the lower intestine? Is he actually displacing bodily organs during all this? And mostly, why?
What possible pleasure can such a creature ever hope to obtain with another human being from that point on that doesn't involve the Howie Mandel-esque act of wrapping a man's skull in latex and ramming it up there?
Speaking of Howie Mandel...
No, wait. I'm done.