PNEUMATIC EROTICA pt. 2

I’ve got something I gotta get off my chest.  I pussed out.  I did.  I had this grand plan of getting surgery to remove my genitals and install a motor controller box for a pneumatic penis assembly, but I chickened out. My whole plan, as I had outlined in (Pneumatic Erotica pt.1 28JUL2011), was to cryogenically preserve my genitalia in a jar for future use.  I didn’t want my penis and balls to lose their virility due to old age.  So, I figured that around the age of 102 years old I’d have them thawed out and reattached so that I could continue impregnating 20 year old college students for years to come.  The pneumatic assembly that would be installed into my groin, in the meantime, would suffice until that time came and still allow me to be fully functional and possibly even ENHANCED in the bedroom.  As the assembly had a quick-disconnect fitting, which was the only thing protruding out of the skin, I could attach any number of devices to it.  Attachments that act like a jack hammer where I wouldn’t even have to move and neither would she; another that satisfies every possible orifice of her body all at once; and yet another that would comb her hair and braid it while violating her anus; and yet another still that would give me a massage, and her a massage, and the other girl who joined in a massage, while punching a dude in his mouth, while jacking off a parrot.  Hell, if I wanted to I could hook up a pneumatic hose from my nub to my nail gun for roofing or my impact wrench for taking my car tires off.  Those are the kinds of bad ass attachments that the pneumatic assembly would have been capable of accommodating.  Like I said, though, I pussed out.  I couldn’t go through with it.  

 The funny thing is my brother Dusty, as you all read a little bit about in (HOT ROMANIAN TWINS 16AUG2011) kind of got the short end of the stick in life, if you know what I mean.  He’s somewhat inadequate.  My brother, however, unlike me, apparently isn’t a pussy.  This last weekend, I found out, he actually went and got the surgery.  He’s recovering right now in the hospital and in good health.  They are currently running diagnostics on his equipment such as speed checks, voltage tolerances, pneumatic line pressure checks, etc.  Now… he DID get the surgery, but I ALSO found out that it wasn’t exactly voluntary.  You see, my brother Dusty is, and always has been, an apotemnophiliac (someone who gets pleasure from self amputation or fulfillment from having limbs or body parts amputated).  He was just a toes guy at first, but having gotten down to only his big toe on his left foot in less than a week, I told him he might want to keep that one for balance at least, if anything, and slow down a little.  He would use a hammer and chisel to take his toes down digit by digit, and got off on it, but it never seemed to be enough for him.  Now, from what I’ve gathered, he got impatient just amputating his toes and decided to just go straight for the brass ring.  He took a hack saw to his dick and a sledge hammer to his balls.  Next thing he remembers is waking up in the hospital with nothing but a metal nub sticking out where his dick was and the Platinum Pussy Puncturer model of Pneumatic assemblies, the best on the market, installed.  He can thank his wife for that; she found him on the bed all fucked up and unconscious and called the ambulance.  They replaced what was beef jerky instead of gonads and now he’s a new man.  He couldn’t be happier.  He is also cured, apparently, of his amputation fetish.  I guess smashing your balls to paste and cutting your dick off will do that to a man.  Fuck Zoloft right?

THE UN-GAY BOYS

So my buddy, from work, and I were talking about how utterly and completely heterosexual we are.  How we epitomize manliness at every level all the way to our core.  We set the standard for straight-as-an-arrow masculinity.  In fact, we are so purely hetero male and completely comfortable in our own sexuality that we do things just to PROVE that we are über straight.  I, myself, at least once a week, go to the Rainbow Cactus Club and pick up the first guy I see, get him to buy me a drink, and then take him home and either bang him in the ass or let him bang me, you know, whatever!  I do this because I am SO absolutely sure of my heterosexuality that I test my metal with a gay man every week just so I can say, after getting that nut busted in my face by Hansel, the Norwegian exchange student, “Yep, I totally knew it, definitely still Hetero, just like I thought.”  The next day I come to work and bullshit with my buddy about it.  We’ll say shit like:

[ME]  “Bro, I was jackin’ this dude off last night, at my place, and he busted such a huge nut in my mouth that I could barely say the words: GET OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU FAG, CAUSE I AIN’T GAY LIKE YOU!” 

[RAWBEE] “No shit?  Aw man, yeah I got fucked in the ass last night by this gay ass Brazilian dancer, I was like, YOU HOMOS CAN’T FUCK AT ALL CAN YOU?  YOU GONNA BUST A NUT OR WHAT?”

[ME]  “Oh shit, that’s hilarious!”

[RAWBEE] “I know right.  So this dude FINALLY shoots his wad in my ass and I was like, ABOUT TIME GAY BOY! NOW GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE, CAUSE GUESS WHAT, I AIN’T GAY! SURPRISE!!”

[ME]  “Ha Ha, you told that motherfucker!” 

[RAWBEE] “Shit, I wish you were with me on Saturday night.  I had this one dude’s dick down my throat all the way to my tonsils.  I mean, I was starting to lose consciousness due to lack of oxygen.  Then I gagged, pulled his cock out, and threw up all over his sneakers.  Right after that I looked up at him, laughed, and said, I BET YOU THINK I’M LOOKING UP AT YOU CAUSE I’M GONNA SAY SOMETHING SEXY RIGHT? WELL, GUESS AGAIN! CAUSE THIS GUY AIN’T QUEER!”

[ME]  “Oh Shit bro, you actually said that shit?! That’s awesome! Ha Ha! You’re SO not gay and that dumbass probably didn’t even realize it!”

[RAWBEE] “I know right?  What a dumbass! Dude, it’s ridiculous how UN-GAY we are.”

[ME]  “You’re right about that brotha, let’s go to the REAL club tonight and bang some hot chicks!”

[RAWBEE] “Hell yeah bro!” 

CAT SUIT COMMANDER

I noticed something while my skull was getting molested by Suki, at the barber shop, yesterday (post "Suki's S&M Special" from 8SEP2011).  With all those guys she was “servicing” there were mounds and mounds of hair on the floor.  I asked Suki what she did with all that hair, if anything.  She said she takes it home and makes luxurious garment bags, hats, etc., out of it all.  She takes the hair, puts it on a spinning wheel and weaves it into thread like you would sheep’s wool or cotton.  With that hair thread she then crochets it into those items and sells them on Ebay for a shitload of money.  After hearing that I thought to myself “Damn, all that cat hair, from my five cats at home, that is coating the couches, chairs, floor, and every-fucking-thing else, I could put it to good use as well, just like Suki.  So that night when I got home I took my Dirt Devil portable vacuum and started sucking up every bit of cat hair I could find.  There were 12 Home Depot buckets full of cat hair when I was done.  At that point, I was fucking siked.  My brain was reeling with ideas of what to do with all that cat wool.  At that very moment all five of my cats came screaming into the living room where I was standing.  The first one, being chased by the second, who was being pursued by the third, and the fourth and fifth galloping behind the whole group as if motivating them to go even faster!  The first and second cats jumped onto the glass table in front of the couch knocking over a vase full of water and flowers which smashed on the floor, soaking the carpet.  The third and fourth cats who were hot on their heels couldn’t stop in time before hitting the cascade of water, from the vase, flowing off the table.  They freaked out and veered in all directions, knocking over my T.V., which promptly got smashed, they tore a hole in my couch and knocked over various other items.  Finally, the fifth cat, the last in the line, sees the chaos ahead that the other cats are in the midst of causing, and she panics too!  She hurtles herself out of the way of the mess and directly towards my face, and with its claws, uses my cheeks and forehead as a spring board for getting out of the way, tearing deep gashes in my flesh.  I howl in sharp pain! 

I was so furious at the lack of discipline in my felines that I spent the entire night manufacturing a suit made, completely, out of the fur I had accumulated earlier.  It was perfect!  It fit like a glove!  I was now ready to exert my power as the Overlord of the Cats.  I vowed, out of spite, to run the household as a you would a totalitarian regime.  I didn’t disappoint; the next morning I choke slammed the first cat I saw to set the tone for how things were now gonna be.  The other cats came in after hearing the first cat getting fucked up and started talking their usual shit in an attempt to intimidate me!  I kicked the second cat straight in the teeth and then promptly round housed the third.  By this point, the fourth and fifth ones had gotten the point and quickly fell in line.  I had reestablished my dominance as the head Cat in my household.  “Fuck these cats!” I said to myself,” I’m the king dick now!!”   

SUKI'S S&M SPECIAL

I was sitting in the chair of my local Barber shop getting my hippy-length hair trimmed down by Suki, my favorite Barber [ess].  You see, Suki (probably not her real name, but I don’t know it, so she gets the generic Asian woman name), has this special way of giving a haircut.  It’s the reason she always has a line of about 10 men waiting for her at any given time.  No, you pervert, there’s no happy ending, besides, that’d be pushing it a little don’t you think, considering it’s in a Barber Shop.  You’ve been drinking that blue water that the combs and scissors go into, haven’t you?  What is that shit anyway?  If I had to guess, I’d say it’s definitely Unicorn piss . . . okay, sorry, I’m getting off on a tangent . . . back to the story.  So, Suki is a slender, good looking for her age, 40-something Malaysian?... woman who, considering her talents in the Barbery Arts, was no way in hell a barber in her younger years prior to immigrating to the U.S.   I call her special haircut the Suki  S&M  Special.  She uses clippers for the most part but she literally grabs a hunk of your hair and tugs and tosses your head around while she’s clipping you.  She has this Velcro strap attached to her hand that holds the device in her palm.  So your scalp gets a palm job.  She is aggressive as shit and it reminds me of an S&M party where old business men get spanked and whipped by hot chicks, minus the dildo up the ass at the end of the night.  In addition, whether you’ve asked for it or not, she shaves all the other fucked up shit on your face that other barbers don’t even consider getting.  Your unibrow gets a space put in it like those gaps in a grassy median on the highway with a sign that says “Authorized vehicles only” that everyone uses to turn around in anyway.   Your hairy Sasquatch nose hair gets trimmed using some dangerous buzzing pencil-like device that has to be illegal in the United States and is probably meant for back alley abortions in Singapore.  The only thing that gets aborted by Suki, however, is that rats nest of rock hard snot berries in your nasal cavities.  She gets the briar patch in your ears; those side burns that haven’t been cool since Beverly Hills 90210; the pubic patch just under your lip, cause you’ll never be an artist like you imagined you would be; and your nasty neck hair that has been creeping down, over the years, to merge with your back hair at the collar level.  She finally finishes the hair job off using a vacuum suction tube attached to her palm with a Velcro strap just like the clippers were.  She does the same tugging, yanking, and tossing to suck up all those loose hairs leaving you, at the end, euphoric and disorientated thinking to yourself, “Fuckin’ A, did I just have sex with a tornado?!”   For all of you lucky enough to get a hair job from Suki you’ll appreciate all the years of sexually deviant worker girl experience she must have had prior to being a barberess in Jerkwater, USA.     

LORD OF THE T.P.

I have a secret.  I take pleasure in listening to the ranting frustrations of people sifting through the toilet stalls in a public bathroom looking for a roll of toilet paper.   The kicker is when I’M the one in the stall with that ONE last roll.  It’s usually long after I have finished with my business and I am just sitting on the toilet reading the stall graffiti and just generally relaxing that they come in.  They curse under their breath as they go up and down the aisle of stalls, opening each one until reaching the last one, and then starting from the beginning again and repeating, as if the T.P. gnomes will replenish the supplies in the meantime.  Now, as I am typically the only one in the stalls, since I am the only one who successfully obtained that single roll of T.P., it’s pretty obvious, to outsiders, that I’ve got the goods.  So, what these jackasses always do is after rampaging their way in and out of the empty stalls, repeatedly, they stand right outside of MY stall door.  They know I have the T.P.   Their shoe tips damn near penetrating into my stall perimeter from under the door, as if testing some imaginary line in the sand.  I can hear them breathing and can almost sense the neurons in their brain firing, contemplating whether or not they should bother me for some of my T.P., and how they would even go about asking for something like that.  I just sit there as quietly as possible.  It’s like, if you were in a zombie apocalypse scenario and you were on one side of a door, of an abandoned house, that didn’t have a lock.  On the other side was a horde of the undead just hoping to tear a living human limb from limb, just one shove of that door away from getting to you.  Your only tactical option is to be as quite as possible; not moving; not indicating you are there at all, so as not to alert them.  The outsider finally realizes that decorum dictates that it is extremely rude to ask a fellow shitter for some of their toilet paper because of the potential for them to be in mid-shit.  How would you even transfer T.P. to them anyways?  How would you even determine how much shitting they’d be doing therefore how much T.P. they would need?  Are they a muti-wiper?  What do you do; hand them a wad of it or scoot the whole roll, itself, out from under the stall to them?  If you hand them a wad of loose T.P. then you just determined their fate.  If they get into their stall and the wad amount that you issued to them is not enough; they are screwed.  They’ll have to go caveman style and hand scoop it or sacrifice their underwear.   As far as pushing your T.P. roll out to them (which you would be an idiot to do) you would be screwing YOURSELF.  What if you then needed to go again, all of a sudden, or had leakage while standing up, then YOU’D be in real trouble.  I just sit in silence, that way I don’t even have to deal with that whole rigamarole.  If I WAS asked, though, I would ration out the T.P. like a King rationing out bread and cheese to his serfs.  “ONE double ply sheet, TWO double ply sheets, THREE double ply sheets, now be gone with ye peasant before I set the dogs upon ye!”  It gives you a sense of power and dominance.  Like having an elevated position in combat.  You have the dominant position and therefore all the outsiders must bow to you for offerings of T.P.   As Erasmus of Rotterdam put it, “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king”, and as Rusty Shrew puts it, “In the public bathroom, the man with the last roll of T.P. is king.” 

INTERGALACTIC GUINEA PIGS

Willy, a cute little calico rabbit from the local pet store and about 20 of his buddies have just been sold to the Johnson & Johnson Company for animal testing of their products.  The first test they undergo is getting Listerine poured into their eyes to find out if they need to adjust the alcohol content, down a bit, in order to reduce that stinging sensation in your mouth.  Now is this a bad thing?  I say “No”.  Now before you call PETA on me, here me out… I was thinking about all the women that put on Maybelline eye shadow every day.  Thanks to Willy, and the countless jabs in the eyes from that eye shadow brush encrusted with powder and mica, Johnson & Johnson Co. can ensure you are safe and they don’t get sued when your eye gets blood shot or your cheek gets permanently stained from crying over your boyfriend dumping you.    The customer’s needs always come first.  After all, with mica being used in everything from Asphalt shingles and drywall to capacitors in electronics and heating elements such as those in your toaster, you can never take too many precautions.  Without Willy, how would we ever have discovered that fine balance of, what we now refer to as, “Cosmetics Grade Mica”, that is safe for humans?  So, let’s say “Thanks Willy!” for all that you and your buddies do for the human race to keep us safe.  Now, just as Willy has a special role to play in our society; humans have a role to play in the intergalactic community.  When aliens visit earth to snatch up cows and people every one automatically assumes it is for some kind of malevolent scientific research.  A little known fact about aliens, in general, that you probably don’t know, and that STAR TREK (both original and TNG) is too PG-13 to show you, is that the galaxy is a cesspool of debauchery.  We here on earth, have recently come from the era of Leave it to Beaver  and The Andy Griffith Show, to nowadays,  Jersey Shore and Two and a Half Men, and many communities feel as though the morals of the human race are going down the shitter.  I mean, I remember when Sharon Stone’s Beaver shot in the movie Basic Instinct was, like, almost an NC-17 rating.  Nowadays, that shit would follow a rerun of Sponge Bob Square Pants on the Cartoon Network.  So this has happened in a fairly short period of time, but now imagine, out in the Galaxy, having eons to morally decline.  A good example is of the Planet Xiaxxu.  7,000 years ago, the aliens there were debating on how many times you were allowed to ejaculate on Blucopods (A Xiaxxu version of Earth’s cute puppies).   Thousands of years before the Egyptians, on Earth, were building the Pyramids, the Xaixxuians were trying to figure out NOT whether it was OKAY to jack off on Blucopods, but HOW MANY TIMES in a day you could.  So as you can see, to our observers out in the galactic community, Jersey Shore and Sharon Stone’s beaver shot is the equivalent of “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours” when you were 10 years old; it’s fucking tame in comparison.  Something else you probably didn’t know is that our intergalactic peers have long had a thriving fetish industry.  When you hear of aliens coming down to Earth and anal probing humans don’t snicker at the absurdity of Beings travelling millions of light years JUST to stick something up a person’s ass.  The Galactic fetish industry primarily depends on the product testing (anal probing) of the human race to ensure the safety of its intergalactic customers, just like Johnson & Johnson’s eye shadow is tested on Willy here on Earth.  You see, for example, if hundreds of humans hadn’t died to find out that Glakthor’s Super Nova Dildo (made on Neptune by the way) explodes within five seconds of coming in contact with a warm wet environment, such as a human anal cavity, millions of potential customers; our intergalactic neighbors, may have suffered.   So stand up Human Race! and be proud of the job your doing being the guinea pigs of the alien erotica industry, you are the Willy of your intergalactic community.

NOVA SCOTIA NYMPHOS

I’m a member of the legendary Polar Bear Club of Nova Scotia and each year, in January, we jump into the frigid waters of St. George’s Bay.  I am quite the Plunger now, but that wasn’t always the case.  On my first attempt, I, actually, involuntary converted to the opposite sex.  It was a bitingly cold morning in early January of 1989.  The spot on the rocky shoreline of St.George’s Bay that we had chosen was covered with a light dusting of snow from the night before.  The ebony and emerald ocean frothed up in anticipation of this year’s victims.  That year’s Polar Bear Club consisted of me and 17 young buxom 20-something females in their sexually uninhibited primes.  All of whom were wearing bikinis that allowed me a visual of just how cold it really was that morning.  Two by two by two; the human thermometers displayed the current of the two available temperature indications, HOT or COLD.  It was time to get wet.  We all held hands in a line for moral support, said our 1, 2, 3, GO’s, and vaulted forth into the briny chill of the Bay!  Loud screams and hilarious gasping ensued.   I, however, was in shock.  The water was so frigid that upon my scrotal region making contact with liquid it immediately took the “flight” route of the “fight or flight” instinctual response.   My entire penis inverted; possibly the single most painful event of my life, actually, I take that back, that night in Tijuana was…. Well, never mind….okay, the SECOND most painful night of my life.  By inverted I don’t mean the “I jumped into a pool and that’s why my dick looks like a scared turtle” inverted; that’s just shrinkage.  I am telling you, inverted, as in, I had a vagina now.  Rather than an outward shaft, I had an inward tunnel.  My balls had burrowed so deep into my pelvic girdle that I now, essentially, had ovaries rather than scrotes.  I was terrified!  Not only had I had a catastrophic restructuring of my manhood, but all these beautiful women around me; skin taught and glistening; prickled with goose bumps; horny, as women always are after being doused in freezing water;   were now snuggling next to each other under blankets to keep warm, in obvious need of sexual satisfaction.  My concern at this point was how was I going to satisfy all 17 of these women, as I had originally planned, with my penis inside out and shoved up into me?!  Then, at that very moment, I had an epiphany.  If I now had a vagina, yet was still attracted to all these women, then I suppose that makes me a lesbian, right?  Right!   “Oh, ladies! Guess who doesn’t need a condom anymore!  As an added bonus, after a full night of lesbian scissor sex with those 17 young women, my penis DID end up reverting itself and popped out like a hotdog  switchblade, followed right after by my testicles which popped into my scrotum sacks like dodgeballs into a netted gym bag.  I was all that is man again, or, at least more than I was last night.