As I thumb through the pages of this month’s Cosmo, I begin to fear my approaching obsolescence. Men are such simple creatures–simple to stimulate and therefore simple to manipulate. In big letters on the cover, it reads, “78 Ways to Turn Him On.” Duh. Put a picture of Cameron Diaz with partial left boob exposure in front of him and mission accomplished. What a waste of 77 ways!
Once I hit page 134 I realized two things:
- I should have invented chardonnay-flavored lip gloss.
- Why the local bar scene has become a sausage buffet.
Female scientists are creating male replacements from the penis outward. Sucks for us. Soon we’ll be relegated to oil changers and grillers. These amazing contraptions can reach places and move in ways no man could ever hope to. The closest I come to vibrating is from drinking a Redline energy drink.
I’m jealous. We men don’t have any such fun toys. We have Leggos … oh, and Paris Hilton. I hear horror stories about men sticking their ding-dongs in strange places like jars of peanut butter and I wonder what this world is coming to (and what else I can spread on my morning bagel). Sure, they make creepy dolls nowadays as well as various silicone receptacles, none of which appeal to any man who has touched a real woman’s skin. Women’s choices are both numerous and inexpensive. We’re doomed.
Maybe it’s because we’re so visual. When I think of a woman using the latest contraption while writhing in pleasure, I receive vicarious stimulation from that little fucker. When I think of myself lubing up a silicone vagina and pounding away while trying not to fall off the bed, I get embarrassed. Think about it. It won’t matter which gender you are. If you stumble upon woman plus toy, you’ll scratch your chin and say, “Hmm.” If you stumble upon man plus toy, if you can manage to hold back the screech, you’ll look for the video setting on your iPhone and never be able to see the man again without chuckling.
If I can’t beat them, I’ll join them. No, I won’t be morphing into cybercock. I’ll learn how to operate the various contraptions. I’ll take a little field trip to the Hustler Store, downtown, and have a (female) salesperson give me tips … I mean, pointers on how to operate the heavy machinery. The store should offer classes and certification. Wouldn’t that be cool? My business card could read “Notary/Master Vibratoriator.” Chicks would dig it and my wall of dildos … or not.
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