One of the latest developments in sex toys is the man torso equipped with perma-boner. You may ask why I am aware of this. Well, I’m constantly scouring the markets for the latest devices to sell online. All right. That and I watch porn sometimes.
Now, don’t get all judg-y. I think this silicone man is quite practical and likely to become yet another reason why we men are becoming obsolete. The rabbit vibrator kneecapped us years ago. There’s no way to compete with that bumpy, lumpy, twisty-turny, clit slapping wonder. It’s on when she wants it on. It’s off when she’s done. Sure, it’s not going to roll the recyclables bin to the curb, but oh, the gasms.
I’ve learned to become a friend of the devices. If I can’t do what they do, perhaps I can become a skilled operator. I mean, there’s no way for Siri or Alexa to deliver the dildo. Sure, they can direct Amazon to deliver the dildo, but no fucking drone is going to be dropping a dildo next to her bathtub. That’s where I come in.
“Yes, my crumpet?”
“Can you be a good boy and fetchest thee my pleasure wand.”
“Why, certainly. Shall I pre-lube it?”
“By ‘pre-lube,’ I hope you are referring to slathering on a generous layer of water-based lubricant.”
“Oh, you don’t want me to spit on it?”
“That would be borderline gay, sir.”
“Nah. I spit on mine all the time. Now, if I deep throat that fucker and gag up some bubbly throat syrup, that would be gay. Especially if I shove a zucchini up my ass while I do it.”
“Right. OK. Please don’t spit on it.”
“Fine. Hey, how’s about if I climb in that tub and deliver an orgasm the old-fashioned way?”
“Aw, you’re sweet. I have pilates at six.”
“Time is of the essence. Roger.”
Tough to compete with such a potent love bean stroker. Now, with the well-endowed torso, it’s even tougher. The torso has abs. Fucking abs. It’s hairless. (Most women tell me hair is sexy. Most women lie.) They even accentuated the bulbous nature of the love piston and gave it veins–love’s speed bumps. Fuck.
Sure, there are silicone lady parts, too. Meh. We men can get off in a melon. There’s no shrugging off the need for the rest of the woman. But, the hung male torso is definitely a threat. What do we have that the torso doesn’t? Noise and smell? Christ. It’s fucking over, Johnny. God damn it. We’re un-screwed!