Imagine my surprise when I was informed by a tiny little window on my computer screen that somewhere there were lots of hot young women eager to please me--of all people, me! It sounded mighty convenient because I often find myself wondering why there aren't more hot young women eager to please me. I look and look, convinced that there must be an army of such women around every corner. But I never find them. I guess we just keep missing each other.
Recommend this product?
That tiny advertisement on my computer made sense of what I had come to regard as a perennial mystery. Here I was all this time assuming that my legions of hot young devotees were at the mall or perhaps on a picnic (or maybe, just maybe, covered in suds and working at a carwash). But it turns out that they were in cyberspace. And all I had to do in order to connect with them was to click on the little link beneath the face of the one who was obviously just dying for a kind word or a caress or perhaps even a light swat from--of all people--me.
What could I do but click the link? There was no telling how long these hot young women had been waiting. I felt sorry for them, really. I knew they needed the validation that I--and apparently only I--could provide with a certain organ that their message already assured me was huge and perfect. "Aww, shucks," I found myself on the verge of saying, "I didn't do nothin' but let it grow way back when in those puberty days. It sorta happened all by itself, but it is pretty marvelous, ain't it?"
Now I know it's spam when you get a lot of email messages that you don't want from listservs you never heard of. And I also know it's spam when Dubya keeps writing to you after you've explained that part of your tough love program is to refuse to respond to him until he manages to start using the same vocabulary as the rest of us. But what do you call it when you just click on one little link and suddenly fifteen pop-up windows appear on your screen? Is that pop-up spam? And more importantly, how are you supposed to know which of the fifteen windows will lead you to the hot young women who have been waiting who knows how long for--of all people--you?
The more frantically I searched for the women who seemed to be so lonely for me, the more women I encountered. "Ladies," I tried to explain, "I cannot be everywhere. There is only so much Sloucho to go around. You will have to form a line. That's the only reasonable solution. Single-file please--except for you and you. Actually, I suppose you should be double-file, or even triple-file should the notion take you."
The problem, however, is that I had things to do. Although it pained me to turn my back on these hordes of hot young women who had been waiting, yearning, burning for contact with--of all people--me, I determined that the only thing to do was to start closing windows. I'm a busy man, after all--not to mention that Mrs. Sloucho had returned from the grocery store and was making her way up the stairs and would presumably be threatened by the knowledge that my admirers were absolutely legion (and apparently extremely flexible).
But I wasn't dealing with ordinary pop-up spam. I was dealing with hydra pop-up spam, for each time I closed a window, two more opened up. And all the while Mrs. Sloucho's footsteps kept drawing closer and closer. What was I to do? I knew that if I got rid of the two orally inclined Asian women who were leering at me from my monitor, they would doubtless be replaced by three bent-over blondes. Don't get me wrong; I appreciated all the attention that I was getting from these incredibly generous fans of mine, but the timing seemed, well, awkward.
And so as Mrs. Sloucho reached the top of the stairs, I decided not to try to close any more windows, but to click on a link instead. I didn't know where it would take me, but I was relieved when it brought up a page of text instead of pictures.
"Hi honey," I said.
"It's hot," Mrs. Sloucho replied. For a moment I thought that she had perhaps been speaking with some of my admirers, but when she turned on the air conditioner and took her seat at her desk, I knew there was no hidden meaning in her words.
Afraid to do anything lest my computer screen start spitting less than entirely appropriate images at me, I began to read the text of the page whereon I had landed.
Let's Masturbate with Food! was the header.
I'm not kidding. I know you think I'm kidding, so here's the address: http://www.letsmasturbate.com/topics/food.shtml
I figured I was in for some pretty good jokes, and perhaps the things I read were jokes, but they sounded like genuine directions for people who simply can't get over their sexual attraction to the contents of their refrigerator. Don't misunderstand me. I've read Portnoy's Compaint. The concept of putting perishables to onanistic use is not entirely foreign to me (at least so far as humorous fiction is concerned). But I frankly don't know what to make of some of the descriptions that I encountered on this website.
"When I masturbate I break 2 eggs (from the refrigerator) and lubricate my penis head, shaft and balls with the egg gel. I pour the remaining egg on the clean floor. Watching an erotic film I put my penis on the slippery floor. Then I play my penis freely on the floor and think of vaginas. If you have an extra egg, pour it on your rectum. It is really amazing."
Although the site dedicated to masturbating with food is not organized like epinions, I wish it were so that I could give this little tip a rating of Not Helpful. In the first place, I don't know what egg gel is. Is it the white or the yolk or some tiny container of lubricant that the egg carries for special occasions and hot encounters with strangers in airplane lavatories? Even less helpful is the suggestion concerning the pornographic film. I don't have a television in my kitchen, and the carpet in my living room would doubtless soak up the egg before I could complete my task. The author offers no help whatsoever to people in my situation. Neither can I claim to understand the final suggestion, that of pouring an extra egg on my rectum. Why on earth would I do such a thing? And what could possibly qualify such an experience as 'amazing' unless 'amazing' is being used as a synonym for 'sticky'? Moreover, when that last egg dries, shouldn't I expect to be in a bit of a tight spot? If I wanted to glue my butt cheeks together, I would use Elmer's, just as God intended.
"Take a large cucumber and cut both ends off. Using a butter knife or spoon, remove all of the seeds and a little of the cucumber meat so you have a nice 'sleeve'. Adjust to fit the circumference of your penis. Heat the cucumber in the microwave for about 1 to 1.5 minutes. Touch the inside to make sure it's not too hot, it's easy to burn yourself. Just stick your penis in and start pumping. Spin it around, pump up and down, HAVE FUN! The cucumber will stay warm for a looooong time. It is a little messy though. This is the closest thing to a real vagina I have ever felt. In fact, since it's really tight and wet, it feels better than some vaginas I've had!"
Can I get an amen from the crowd when I say that I expected the treatise on self-pleasuring with cucumbers to be directed to women? When I first started reading the description, I assumed the purpose in hollowing out the cucumber would be to put something else inside it (tzatziki sauce perhaps?) in order to facilitate female gratification. It hadn't occurred to me that something so innately phallic could be converted to a vaginal substitute. Well, live and learn! And if that cucumber sleeve is ever too hot, I'm guessing you learn mighty quick.
"Take a small bag (big enough for your penis to fit into). Fill it 3/4 of the way full with flour. Next take the bag and put it between two pillows, insert you penis into the bag and go at it. This is a very good feeling, it is very soft and very arousing."
What? Really, I don't know what else to say. What?
"When I want a good whack, I use Snow Cap Lard from any grocery store. The lard is very slippery, and almost as slick as pig fat. Pig fat, believe it or not, is the best lubrication I've ever used. You can get pig fat from any grocery store, just tell them your wife is using it for seasoning for a stew of some sort. When you use it, make sure it is REAL pig fat, not chicken or turkey or something, which can be irritating."
Indulge me, gentle reader, and please reread the quotation above. Apart from making a distinction I'm not quite sure I understand between 'lard' and 'pig fat,' the writer feels the need to provide us with a cover story when we go to the grocery story to purchase our porcine lubricant. It's as if the writer assumes that the grocery store manager automatically imagines his customers having sex with whatever foodstuffs they purchase. When we shop for food, apparently we have to go out of our way to inform those who see us that we intend to cook and eat the food, lest they jump to the conclusion that we intend to copulate with it, particularly since, of course, we apparently intend to do just that!
My intention before writing this review was to discover the ideal way of masturbating with Spam so that I could share my insights with the world and contribute something worthy of the great fez_monkey to this little write off that he has organized. But I am a peculiarly perverse individual. Once I opened the Spam and removed it from the tin (and I remain persuaded that this is the right way to start any masturbatory exploits with Spam), I became distracted by the odor of the meat. Strangely, the Spam inspired me not so much with lust as with hunger. I thought I would eat just a little bit of it and masturbate with the rest. So you can imagine my shame, shame and eternal shame when I realized that I had consumed the entire chunk of whatever it is that Spam is. I had nothing left but the tin, which was admittedly (and perhaps invitingly) a bit greasy. I told myself to be brave--that I owed it to my fellow write off participants to try to become aroused by the greasy tin.
But even though I tried to tell myself that the tin was hot and young and positively eager for some Sloucho-lovin', I just, well . . . you know. They say it happens to all men now and again. The next time I purchase a container of Spam, I'll know to buy some Viagra too.
Be sure to check out the contributions of the other participants in fez_monkey's Great SpamŪ Writeoff. I have it on the highest authority that they're all hot and young and waiting for--of all people--you!
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