Friday, December 28, 2007

The Good. The Bad. And the Royal Jelly.

Ladies and gentlemen... I have a confession to make.

Usually, when reflecting upon past experiences, I steer away from the awkward moments... focusing on the triumphs and very little on the tragedies. But in doing so, I think I've kept some wonderful life-stories away from you good folks; stories that could teach you, inspire you, make you laugh, make you cry, or appreciate life a little more.

And that is why I've decided to open up and reveal a few stories about...

My early sex-life.

This may be shocking to believe, and if some of you have to take a deep breath before and after you read the forthcoming statement, feel free to do so. We'll wait on you.


I wasn't always the Golden-God of sex that I am at this very moment.

Exhale. Deeply. Relax... think happy thoughts.

Shocking, right? I'm sure many of you expected me to have skills from the day I popped out of my mum's jelly roll, but... my dear readers... I am only human. Mortal. If you prick me, I bleed. And, in my journeyman days, if you touched me, I came. Immediately.

But those stories will wait. Instead of saving the best for last, I've decided to save the best for FIRST. I'm unpredictable.

Today, I'm revered for my oral skills. Indeed, cunnilingus is truly one of my favorite Sunday afternoon pastimes. And if you talk to any learned girl of the world, they'll tell you that if the guy truly doesn't know what he's doing, it's a pretty shitty experience for the receiver. It doesn't take much to bring a guy to that climax, obviously.

Up down Up down Up down, start, B. Orgasm. "You Win!" *ding ding ding* "boom shacka lacka lacka!"

But women? Their glimmering bottle openers are as complicated to operate as a nucleur reactor... and sometimes just as dangerous.

This is the reason that I bloviate (look it up, pervs) about mah skiiiiillz.

But it wasn't always that way.

Nah suh, I had to earn my chops just like every one else.


Well, I watched a lot of Jenna Jameson girl-on-girl action as a teenager. I took notes. I studied. I did other stuff that's not relevant to what I'm trying to say. But the point is that her educational videos gave me the general idea of how to work that finely tuned instrument. My experiences in the flesh didn't prove to be as successful as the Jamester, but I learned a little more with practice and experience.

My moment of supreme glory took place with a married, black girl who instructed me. Indeed, if we were to use wrestling terminology, she and I stepped inside the squared circle and gave quite the slobber knocker, though not in front of a sold out crowd hanging from the rafters. I was good. I knew it. I found my magic.

But my next opponent wasn't quite the same... caliber... as the Master of the Mocha.

She was... well... sensitive. Very, very sensitive. So when I went for the chow, I did so with the starving sensation of a starved marine entering the mess after 24 hours of slugging through the trenches, and she reacted with the predicted scream of the marine's enemy combatant 24 hours earlier before meal time. Killing makes a man hungry. So do catholic school girls.

I took the hint and slowed down. Gently. Gently. Like rocking a fucking baby to sleep. Like Paul Newman eating that last 10 hard-boiled eggs in Cool Hand Luke. I was trained by a black tiger, damnit, and I didn't have time for this tomfoolery.

But I stayed in the game. I'm not a selfish person when it comes to pleasure.

A few minutes pass when, suddenly, the headlights of a car flash quickly past the window, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.

Jumping up and off of my parents bed, I scrambled for the front door to make sure it was locked so that, if it was them, it could spare some time for fuckin' Emily Litella (dated SNL jokes rock) to get her panties back on and out of the pit of Parental anguish.

But luck was on my side, kids. The headlights were from a car turning around and using my driveway as a pivoting point. Suddenly, I turned towards the bedroom and shouted that everything was okay... that Papa Bear was coming back to the cave of sensitivity. But as I walked (hard) towards that door, my eyes narrowed... my hunger grew... and my mission was clear. I was going to make this girl like my style. Why should I have to be like Rocky in Rocky II and fight right-handed just to throw Apollo Creed off guard? I may not be a southpaw by fist, but I was a natural-born cunnilingus killer, goddamnit, and she wasn't going to stop me!

I shoved the door open. I stomped my foot like a bull and I charged.

And tripped.

On a towell.

And my mouth, wide open, teeth glistening...

hit her...


on the clitoris.

And as I rushed her to the emergency room, I reflected upon the tragedy and learned a hard lesson.


Never leave towels out when you plan to stampede towards a woman's guardian of forever.

The end.

- J.


June said...

God Bless Miss Jameson...will she ever know how much joy she has brought to the world and to men & women everywhere.

.mathr. said...

Was that a question?

June said...

No .mathr, that is a statement, declaration, a testimonial if you choose to say.

THE Justin Dudley whose Century is HIS said...

ignore him. he's just being a douche.


Free Blog Counter