Getting Soap In My Dick Hole And Why I'll Never Jerk Off With He
I think we all have our moments of stupidity. Sometimes, though, our moments of stupidity can cross over into the sexual realm, offering moments of hilarity that cannot be conceived of by the average bear.
I've jerked off with just about everything short of bits of glass and sandpaper. Don't bother trying to name other things I probably haven't spanked the Ramburgler with. You're probably right. But that's not the point of this post.
I've grown quite partial to using a bit of shaving cream to smack around my 21st digit whilst I'm in the shower. The good thing about shaving cream is how it stays slippery when wet, offering maximum lubage. It's glorious, I tell you. On top of that, you don't need a hell of a lot to stroke the meat puppet, so it's enjoyable AND economical.
Plus, I don't really use shaving cream for actual shaving. I go through disposable razors like a fiend, though.
But either way, it sure beats the looks I would get from my roommate if I walked out of the room with shampoo, razors, and KY jelly in hand.
Unfortunately, yesterday, I ran out of shaving cream. "Ah well, I suppose my jibberstick will have to go through a day without any loving. I'll live." I thought to meself. But ladies and gents, sometimes habits become routines, and it just isn't so easy. After a few minutes of standing around in the shower, not really doing much of anything, I finally gave in. I had to jiggle my all-beef thermometer.
Let's see.... I had to choose either a bar of soap, my handy dandy Gillette Mach 3, or my bottle of Herbal Essences. While the Mach 3 was looking pretty kinky, I decided that it had to go. And while the bar of soap was looking mighty attractive, I finally gave in to the Herbal Essences when images of some chick in a shower going "YES!! YES!! YES!!" pervaded my every thought.
So Herbal Essences it was. I applied copious amounts to my left hand, readied myself in the corner, and proceeded to lather up Girthy McGirth.
Oh, heavens. I began to understand the commercials more and more. I began to groan. My three nineteen inches of throbbing pink Jesus swelled with pleasure. Faster and faster my hand moved as I thought about Asian schoolgirls, busty blondes, and Jasmine from Aladdin. My face turned skyward as I thanked the Lord for His gift to men.
And that's when my urethra began to burn with the fire of 1000 suns.
It was horrid. My images of large-breasted redheads faded into images of seared penis flesh. My eyes went wide with pain, and water pelted my eyeballs. I began to rub my eyes furiously, forgetting that my hands were covered with Satan's fire.
The reaction was immediate. I began to wail like a schoolgirl.
"OH GOD!! MAKE IT STOP!!" I screeched.
I began to rub the soap into my eyes more as I tried to wipe them with my towel. But the fire in my fallopian fiddler was moving further and further down inside. The commercials lied to me. They promised me a pleasurable experience.
All I felt was death.
Apparently, my floor-mates heard my delirious screams and called 911. Legend has it that before they found me curled in a little ball, passed out on the shower floor, I cried out one last time, damning the company that made Herbal Essences.