Written by Puppetmaster
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Sunday, 21 March 2004

Men reach the middle ages and reflect on just what exactly they have accomplished in life. Some seem satisfied in just knowing that they are “good, or upstanding” in terms of their position in the community, church, place of employment, or as head of household. Others appear less than fulfilled and peruse interests which involve some expense in hope that money can buy happiness. The good news …., YES, money can buy happiness. The bad news is you need to know where to spend it. Some figure a sleek and stylish automobile might just do the trick; yet, everybody except the driver knows that insecure men with fragile egos drive vette’s and such. They are usually no prize to look at either. A word to the wise might be that if you are not really satisfied with life, don’t blow a stack of cash on a sexy set of wheels, you may just draw enough attention to yourself and discover you are butt-ugly too.

Instead of a car, consider investing along the lines of a hooker who does laundry. She dirties the sheets; then cleans the sheets. You can’t go wrong there. Beside, to most hookers every trick looks like a Ben Franklin. If you are looking like an Andrew Jackson, don’t tap the worm can, take a blow and go. Twenty dollar hookers don’t seem to display a real “hygienic” quality to them. In the age of STD’s and all the ilk associated with what’s cheap and feels good, one must be cautious.

Tattoos, piercing and other fads that are becoming popular also pose their share of risks. I have accepted that in order to feel young we have to keep up on what’s “in” regarding fashion and current trends. The same repercussions that are associated with tawdry sex can now also be had at your local tattoo parlor from a needle. Piercing certain areas of your flesh can, as well, subject you to painful urination, albeit through a somewhat obscure transmission. Believe me, it can happen!

I didn’t by a shiny new car or help myself to the various shameless promotions available in my neighborhood. I am comfortable with who I am and what I stand for. Life left unchecked gets listless and dull so I thought I’d redecorate. I already have the bad tattoo, a little reminder that alcohol influenced decisions are not always sound. With full control of my faculties, I braved the needle and received two piercings. The first was dead center of the nipple. It hurt a bit as the needle hit flesh; however, thoughts of all the young babes that would be tormented with lust over my shiny new nipple ring kept the tears from my eyes. Without the aid of alcohol, I was able to deduce that if a shiny new nipple ring would get me young hot babes, think how a “genitals” piercing would wow them; that one really hurt. All the images, of every woman I have viewed— in every Gentleman’s magazine—I have seen in all my life, did absolutely nothing to lessen the pain resulting from a new hole in my penis.

Time is the healer of all wounds; it wasn’t long before I was able to continue on my journey through life with my new adornments. I was un-noticed much of the time and felt sinful as I had some jewelry under my attire. I felt as though I had some type of power in my hidden secret. I felt a surge, when at the butcher shop, I would order three pounds of stew meat, and I’d be thinking “oh yeah, I’m wearing a cock ring”. When I was bored and feeling mischievous, I affixed my penis ring to my nipple ring and proudly marched down Third Street with a stylish swagger to my step, if the town’s people only knew.

As with all my dreams, it finally happened. I was at the beach and a beautiful young and somewhat attractive bikini-clad –sex-object started a conversation over my nipple piercing. Well, that led to an exchange of names, which led to sex. I was ecstatic to discover that she, too, has undergone insurmountable pain and pierced a member of her own genitalia. She shared that her sexual awareness seems to heighten as a result of a pierced clitoris.

I road tested that theory and was astonished to discover that the feelings welling up inside me were an indication that I was about to have the best sexual experience of my life. Then it happened. The jewels of our person became somewhat tangled. We seemed both immobile and inseparable. I was trapped in a precarious position with feelings of vulnerability and uncertainty. Out of nowhere, a large dog jumped up on the bed and started to lick my ass; I was helpless in the jowls of that disturbed canine. My mind reeled. I seemed to have lost track of all sense of time.


It seems so blurry now, almost forgotten. The only reminder of that regretful afternoon is that every time I see a dog—I get an erection.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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