Sex Personals News And Reviews

Are You A Limp Dick…

Preparing for the Inevitable
You know you’re gonna do it, but are you physically ready?

I enjoy sex. My girlfriend enjoys it, too, and hopefully she still does after we’ve finished. That’s important to me. Always has been. I’m not too insecure about my abilities anymore, but that wasn’t always so. There was a time—right up until about last Tuesday—when it was everything I could do not to think about sex and if I’d be able to perform to the level of . . . well, I’m not sure what, but I had to be good. Real good. Mind-numbing. And I’d just freak myself right out trying to prearrange every single moment of a possible sex scenario to make sure I’d be ready.

Sure, today I could just pop a pill bringing about the 36-hour boner (the very thought of which sounds like the definition of erectile dysfunction to me). But let’s be honest, I can scratch off a list of every pill and lubricant, describe the nuances of every delay cream and cock-ring, but let’s be honest, that just wouldn’t be that fun to read about, let alone write. The good stuff, the funny stuff, took place during when we were younger—the more naïve times. When we thought we knew what worked. Sure Viagra’ll give you an ever-lasting erection, but believing that masturbating right before sex guarantees exaggerated endurance is kind of funny. That’s the equivalent of believing your uncle when he says you’ll get a surprise if you pull his finger.

I surveyed a few of my old blokes for humorous nuggets of wisdom they gleaned from locker-room discussions and big brothers. A few of which I’ll lay out for you, a la Studs Terkel. Names have been changed to protect the embarrassed.

Sitting around the counter in an upscale, 1950s diner in Guilderland last week, Kronky Schlumpo and Tito Boomba discussed their approaches to “gettin’-they-shit-right” for the ladies.

“I follow a strict workout regimen,” Boomba said, his Latin accent saucier than ever. “I’ve been following it for years, and it really has taken me a long time to achieve the desired results.”

“Which are,” Schlumpo asked, in his usual blasé attitude, not looking up from his sixth cup of coffee.

“Well, it’s an erection magnification program, really,” Boomba began to explain. “I pulled the idea from those men’s mags, I think. Really it’s just like lifting weights and you approach it as you would any floor exercise.”

“Practice this at home in your bathroom sometime,” Boomba continued, “Before you hop into the shower, work yourself into an erect state and place a T-shirt on top of your member. Now just like you’d curl a dumbbell, bring that T-shirt on up. Start with three, eight-rep sets and work your way up. It’s a simple motion that doesn’t take long to figure out and it builds incredible strength in the foreshaft region.”

Schumplo remained unimpressed.

“You can increase your resistance up, too,” Boomba said. “Start with the T-shirt. Then try a wet washcloth, a beach towel, your backpack. I’ve yet to nudge the coffee table, but I’m no quitter.”

Schlumpo’d heard enough at this point. He sat fuming silently for a few minutes before unleashing a profanity-laden screed about hygiene.

“Look [my friend] if you’d brush your [silly] teeth with a little baking-soda-and-peroxide toothpaste and follow it with an aggressive flossing,” Schlumpo trailed off, leveling his anger. “Look, you can do all the erection-enhancing muscle exercises you want, [brother], but if you’ve got diet-soda-and-tuna-salad breath, you’ll be celebrating the splendor of your monumental boner alone.”

Boomba mulled this over a bit. “Point taken,” he said.

Another friend of mine, Geoffery Luenthal, remembered his first experience preparing for the big night out with a girl he’d met at the nonalcoholic juice bar at his old college.

“To be quite honest, I’d heard too much nonsense by the time my famed “big night” was staring me down,” Luenthal admitted. “I was supposed to yank it before going in—for stamina reasons. I also heard I was supposed to shave my balls or the ladies would ignore them.”

“Initially I thought I was above all the bullshit and I’d make my own rules, but then I got to thinking,” he paused for a moment. “I thought to myself, hey, shaving the balls sounds kind of interesting. So I gave it a go as I was sure that this was going to be the night, complete with that whopper of a porno-style blowjob I’d been begging for for a good two months.

“Shaving was an adventure, me mucking about the college dorm shower with my legs propped up all over the place looking for that smooth shave,” Luenthal said. “I was so taken with shaving, I went the full monty and took it all off. After clearing the shower drain of my pubic carnage, I lotioned up, admired my work and was off.

“Long story short, I never got a blowjob, but I did stick it in. She was like hooking up with corkboard, though, stiff and unwelcoming, nervous and about as passionate as head lice,” Luenthal said. “All I got out of this gig was a quick nut-bust and two weeks of itching my shit as the pubes grew back.”

Travis Durfee… Metroland : New York

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