What Would You Do If You Couldn’t Have Sex For a Year?
One of the growing network of hook-up/chat apps for furry men, burly men, and older men and their admirers, recently conducted a poll that asked: how much money would you need to get paid not to have sex for a year? The overwhelming majority said it would take a cool mil just to consider it, which got me to thinking. What would I do if I wanted that mil bad and agreed not to have sex for a year, the definition of sex including jerking off over some hot luscious porn delight.
What would I do, me a highly charged sexual animal ever since I was 13 and first discovered my dick wasn’t just for pissing – what would I do? That is, after I threw my laptop, tablet and smartphone chock full of free porn in one of the Fort Lauderdale canals. Get thence from me Satan!
Now, back in the day, an ancient catch phrase gaining popularity on TV lately, you could always leave this hedonistic world, join the Church and become a priest – even if I was born a Lutheran. (Hell, the only reason Catholic priest Martin Luther rebelled against the Church was he wanted to marry a nun,) But we all know how that would turn out. If I didn’t get into little boys, I’m sure I’d have a seminary bunkmate who’d be on his knees for more than just penance. (A former co-worker of mine who had been studying for the priesthood said the seminary was hotter than a Manhattan gay bar on a Saturday night.)
So, my first thought was that I’d redouble my efforts at the gym. Clean, wholesome exercise, right? About as American as apple pie and high school cheerleaders – female cheerleaders. But that noble notion went down the drain pretty quick since working out usually always makes me hornier. Maybe it’s all that muscular flesh milling around; or maybe it’s getting turned on to myself, narcissistic that I am, as I gaze at my masculinity heaving in the gym mirrors; or maybe it’s those feel good hormones, those endorphins that strenuous exercise creates that go to my dick. Because almost inevitably, I’m shooting a load either with an actual guy or with the help of all that free internet porn. No, exercise would not be the way to go.
Then I thought, maybe, I would hunker down and write my next book of erotic gay romance. Ah, but I remember the feedback I got from the San Francisco publisher who published my first book, a collection of short stories: “They’re good but you need more sex – more sex!” Writing those obligatory sex scenes that any contemporary novel about people – gay or str8 – would need to include would only put me in a state of arousal. And you know once it itches, you gotta scratch it. No, not good.
Well, then, I thought maybe I should become a meth head like I nearly did with my fuckbuddy Mitch had he not conveniently killed himself falling asleep at the wheel one night returning from Key West. After all, while you’re horny as hell when you’re on the shit, you can’t get a hard-on if you were at Auschwitz and the Nazi guard was demanding, “Either get it up or off you go to the showers!” So, technically, physiologically, I wouldn’t be having sex, just wanting it so bad that I would probably rub off what foreskin the docs back in that Jersey hospital nursery left me with when they circed me as a babe til my dick bled. Plus the fact, I’d go broke buying the shit along with the Twinkies and Gatorade I’d be living on before I looked like I had been in Auschwitz. Hell, and if I survived the year without sex and got the mil I’d go through it in about three weeks onTina. But at least the first guy I’d blow would be happy – by that time all my teeth would have rotted out and I’d be gumming his cumhose.
Then the brainstorm hit me – what if I switched pews and went after girls, creatures I have nothing against but in whom I have absolutely no interest in bedding down with. That‘s it, every time I felt that twitch in my dick for that hottie, I’d think of my Friday night at some super str8 club, one that caters to the over 50 crowd so that the chances of any attractive lassies being there without a girdle would be reduced significantly.
Oh, but what about all those other guys – men – creatures with dicks like me – out there sniffing for pussy? I actually prefer guys 45+ and with my luck there would be a few Touch of Gray hotties among the Pillsbury Dough boy trainwrecks who would get me all excited – no, no, no.
No, I think the only way I could beat the male-to-male bonding habit was to find some cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere – how’s Alaska sound? – something like the Unabomber Ted Kaczynski had. No TV, no phone, no modern technology whatsoever, stocked up on enough food so I wouldn’t have to leave the place, paper the walls in girly mags – the bigger the boobs the better – and have as my only reading material back issues of Readers Digest.
And every time I’d thing of eating a guy’s furry beefy butt, or lasciviously licking the undershaft of his big, stiff manpole, I’d imagine some women’s prison matron like the one 6’2” Hope Emerson played in that 1950 Eleanor Parker flick, “Caged,” threading a catheter down my cock.
But wait – I like stuff stuck down my dick!