When I was younger, I was consumed with sex. I thought it was the most important thing, hell the only thing. Now that I am older, I realize that I was right. Back in the day it wasn’t as easy as getting on a computer and during a search for free porn. In my day I had to go to the book store, or quietly slip into the adult movie section in the video store. What follows gives you an insight to my troubled mind over thirty years ago.
If my sex life was scored as a baseball game my team would be losing 123 to 0, with my team still waiting for its first at bat. I mean the girls I’ve date have blocked more passes than the New York Sack Exchange. To put it bluntly, my sex life stinks. The closest I have ever got to sex was when I played the number five in my second grade play.
I wouldn’t mind being a virgin so much if I knew I wasn’t the only one in the United States of America, and quite possibly, in the world. I hit an all-time low during my senior year in high school, when I heard a five year old telling his buddies that he got some from the babysitter; who I took to the prom and got absolutely nowhere with. I wouldn’t have believed the story, but I heard that the youngster in question had to marry her and get a job to support the family.
Once I took this girl out and everything was going very smoothly until the movie was over and she said she had to go home. I wouldn’t have doubted her except it was only eight. I quickly shifted into Joe Studly mode.
“Look Sally babe, the night is young and so are we. Let’s live for today, who knows what will happen tomorrow.” You couldn’t have found more corn in Nebraska. It was only the second time in my career that a girl actually got out of my car and called a cab for a ride home. I received the bill three days later.
The basic problem is that today’s society so sexually orientated. Look at commercials on television: “My men wear English Leather or nothing at all.” Or, “Turn him on with Channel No. 5.” I goofed up one day and splashed on my mom’s perfume instead of my usual splash on, Basic Sweat. I turned on a couple of interior decorators, who were remodeling the school bathroom. The last time I was that scared was when I was on a 30 mile non-stop school trip and I had diarrhea.
Television today is so caught up in the sexual revolution it is ridiculous. The success of a show is now measured by bra size instead of quality. The motto is “Bigger is Better,” and they are not talking about budgets. The biggest drug addiction in Hollywood is not cocaine or Quaaludes, it’s silicone. One would-be starlet became so addicted that she went from 36-24-36 to 62-24-36. Those breasts were the biggest parts she ever landed. Rumor has it she’s so well insulated that no heat escapes her body. That’s show biz.
Nowadays fake seems to be in. Hey if you can’t find a girl; then take out inflatable Annie, only $59.99, and reusable. I have, for experimental purposes only, purchased an Annie. In this way I can tell you first-hand how it works.
I picked her up around seven at Mom’s Adult Bookstore, the store with a homely feel. I took her to my house for a quite dinner; my parents were out for the night. After reading the instructions by candle light, over a delicious turkey TV dinner, I carefully removed her from the box. After helping her stretch out and making her comfortable on the floor I began to blow her up. I puffed and panted, and blew and blew; trying to breathe through my nose was difficult as she slowly became aroused.
“Enough foreplay,” I panted, “Let’s get serious.” I gently lifted her and carried Annie to the bedroom.
It was obvious to me this was her first time; I had to do all the work. Her moans of ecstasy sounded like leather pants on a beanbag chair. When it was over I gently stroked her cool skin, it was just like plastic, so was her personality. I lit a cigarette and basked in the glow of my successful conquest. I went to offer her a drag, but my arm hit the headboard and dropped my cigarette on Annie.
She jumped from the bed, ran around the room and jumped out my window, never to be seen again. To make matters worse the cigarette burnt a hole in my satin sheets and would have burnt down the house if not for the waterbed dousing the flames. Like I said, my sex life sucks.