The song: “Sex is not the enemy” is performed by a band called Garbage.
That’s no damn coincidence.
But try as “she” might to play the vertebrae of my spine, as one might linger upon piano keys, my member isn’t in your club, and my dick isn’t somewhere on a shelf in Costco.
If I were aware my penis might be used as a tool for subterfuge, I would have wielded it as a baseball bat, to beat the shit out of the thorniest of cacti.
Rather than attempt to masturbate with some garden shears, I will refrain.
For the time being.
To view a man as malleable is an insult, for we are not play-dough, but rather something much, much more.
Something more akin to silly putty.
And thus is my dilemma.
My thoughts lie firmly in my head. And I am with extreme care going to state that I now substitute the word head for head for head, as if the Pope had never heard of the former.
My predicament lies wholly in the indicative, and predicting which maxims I choose to lick and which to follow – I usually ultimately determine that sex is likely similar to watching cartoons on mushrooms.
That in simplicity of: Long slender object – meets slippery hole, that we are all indeed screwed.
Metaphorically of course, or we’d likely live in a much happier world.
Us Ace Spec Folks Notwithstanding.
So no, I do not take kindly to my sexuality.
And while men on average think of sex every 7 minutes.
Women aren’t far behind at 12.
So I’ll go find myself a cheese grater.
