During the holidays we often get nostalgic. We visit with friends and family and talk about all the memories the season reminds us of. Although it may not be relevant and may have nothing to do with friends and family, I have a story to share. I bet it will be more interesting to hear than when Uncle Ned gets drunk at Christmas and tells his gangrene story.
I was seeing an otherwise wholesome girl when she informs me that she’s contracted an infection in her special area. Being new to the city, I figure it is time to start the search for a local doctor. I find a well-recommended family practitioner just a few miles from my apartment and make an appointment.
Fun with Science!
The office reception area looks new. I sign in using a fancy wireless touchpad and flirt with the cute receptionists while I’m waiting for the doctor. Nothing about the experience so far suggests anything out of the ordinary… until the nurse calls me back and I see how tiny the office is. The entire practice consists of the waiting room, the area behind the counter, and a walk-in closet on the side that doubles as the examination room.
I sit on one of those beds with the disposable paper and wait. As I’m watching the various people move about the office it dawns on me that “family practice” is literal in this particular instance. The father is the doctor, his wife is the nurse, and his two collegiate daughters are the receptionists and assistants.
Normally this wouldn’t be a concern, but throughout the entire examination no one feels the need to shut the examination room door. Oh well, I’m not bashful.
Doc: So what are we here today for?
Ken: A girl I was seeing says she thinks she has an infection. I thought I’d look into it, see what my situation is.
Doc: How long have you been with this girl?
Ken: Probably about a week.
Doc: And how often have you had intercourse?’
Ken: Eight times in two days?
I guarantee that mother and daughters heard every word of the examination. I even made eye-contact a few times while I’m delivering the details of my personal life. It might have been awkward for him, knowing that earlier I was fraternizing with his daughters, but it certainly didn’t bother me. And I don’t know what he would have to worry about anyway; the results came back negative. Unless the man doubts the accuracy of his own work, he knows I’m clean.
Maybe when I go back for my yearly physical I’ll ask the cuter girl out. Dinner with the parents can’t be any more awkward than knowing they have access to your blood-test results.
This letter first appeared on the Best of Craigslist, as seen here. In light of recent events, I’m reproducing it here as it seemed uniquely relevant. Little known Guy Needs Girl fact: the success of this ad was part of the catalyst for this site. Enjoy.
Dear Internet Porn,
These last ten years have been quite a trip, have they not? My letter to you now, however, is not one of celebration… I don’t feel like we are the same anymore. We just don’t have that passion we used to.
When we first met I was a loser, and you were there for me. My parents told me that you were no good for me, but I didn’t listen. You showed me that there were plenty of people like myself getting laid. It was beautiful and passionate. Your soft-core erotic videos were a tasteful introduction to my budding sexuality. (more…)
Let me paint the scene leading up to “the incident”.
We are in our living room and it is 3:20pm on a Saturday. We’re watching TV. The roomie gets up to use the bathroom when the following conversation occurs:
Her: “Kenneth! There is porn playing on your computer!”
Me: “Really? How embarrassing.”
Disney - the land of a thousand dreams. Some dream of becoming an imagineer, others dream of dressing like a princess. Me? I want to fuck a Disney character. I’m not talking about the humans. My feelings are more sinister, my needs more raw. When I say I want to get some tail, I mean that I want them to have a tail. Daisy Duck, Minnie Mouse, Bambi’s Mom, I’d fuck them all.
I realize that it is physically impossible to commit sexual acts with a cartoon drawing. I did, however, come close to finding the next best thing. I met a girl who, after our introduction, revealed that she worked at Disney. I nonchalantly steered the conversations towards revealing which character she played. I asked her if she wore a uniform.
“No, ” she replied, “I have to wear a costume.”
Excitement burst through me. I casually probed for more information.
“Oh, are you like Goofy or something?” I asked.
“Ha, I wish. Goofy’s my favorite. No, I’m a girl character.”
I could barely contain myself. Sure, she was no drawing, but this could be an interesting experiment.
My curiosity was the block, however. Disney likes to pretend the characters are real, protecting their secret identity. Employees are a part of this secret cult, strongly discouraged from discussing their roles. The more I asked, the more she pulled away. She told me that she wasn’t allowed to discuss it. Pushing her further caused her to lose interest. Finally, she stopped responding altogether when I asked if her costume was anatomically correct.
Although screwing a girl in an animal suit would’ve done little to quench my secret appetite for cartoonophelia, I did buy season passes to Disney just in case.
We’re about to get pretty personal with each other. This post marks the portion of the blog where whoring my stories out to family and friends for blog traffic might get a little awkward.
I started seeing an older woman and asked her over one night to “watch a movie.” Based on appearances, this woman was as normal as any other. I had no reason to think that this evening would lead to anything less than a good time. She arrives carrying an old wooden box under her arm. The box was the size of a chessboard, but much deeper. At first I’m curious about what is inside but soon I’ve forgotten about it and we’re watching the movie.
Eventually we reach the point of the evening where the TV is no longer the focus and she asks if I want to move to the bedroom. I agree and she picks up the box and brings it with her into my room. I ask again about the box. She replies, “just wait, you’ll see”. The box goes on the floor near the bed and once again I’m distracted.
You'll feel a slight tingle...
Now the ball is rolling. Things are getting pretty heavy when she finally stops and asks if I want to see what’s in the box. When an attractive woman is in your bed, I’m fairly certain sure that you never turn down her offer to see anything. I would love to see what is in the box.
She then asks if I have a spare lamp she can use. Uh, sure.
She drags a lamp across the room and begins unscrewing the bulb. Then she opens the mystery box. Inside is an ancient device that appears to be from the 1920s. I’ve seen enough World War 2 torture scenes to know that this is no run of the mill sex toy. I might be in real trouble. She starts screwing in connectors and clamping wires before turning the lamp back on. A hum starts to fill the room, along with the smell of fear and burning ozone.
Remember, we’re talking about a very beautiful woman. True, she was a woman who uses antique electroshock therapy devices as a form of sexual expression, but I still have faith in her even as the electrified prongs hit my bare, exposed, and naive chest. I truly believed, even while the stream of pure electricity was shooting through my nipple and down my body before grounding itself on my belt buckle, that somehow she held in her hands a magical pleasure device would forever top any sexual fantasy I could ever dream of.
But it wasn’t. It shocked the fuck out of me.
In case you were curious, I’ve found a picture of a similar device on ebay: Vintage Device eBay Listing
I never invited her over for a movie again.
