When God Wants to Punish You He Answers Your Prayers

I can say with confidence that sex is wasted on fourteen-year-old boys.  Please don’t ever think I begrudge anyone’s libido.  Not at all, I simply detest the waste of such a precious natural resource.  Sadly, most teenage boys walk around with erections, hard-ons, like cement phalluses, but they have no means of properly enjoying them.  Oh sure, there’s masturbation.  Hell, it got most of us through adolescence without exploding, but that’s a waste too.  It usually amounted to five minutes of fierce rubbing, while looking at the ads for women’s underwear in one of your mother’s lingerie catalogues, and ejaculating into a dirty sweat sock (Victoria’s Secret catalogues were great, better yet, if you were really lucky, your dad’s Playboy).  But that’s not what sex is about.  It’s a cruel joke, to make boys absolutely hypersexual at a time in their lives when they have the least opportunity for sexual congress, and in most cases that sexual dry-spell continues for years.  These terribly tumescent teens are constantly searching for someone to help them, begging, pleading, “Please, anyone, rub me, make me come.  I need a human touch, a person-to-person connection.  Please abrade me, upbraid me, deride me, ride me.  Won’t you help?”  These poor lads must walk the earth cursed, with blue balls, looking in vain, for any sign that a girl might be interested.  You need to keep in mind that a stiff breeze can plunge a teenage boy into heat.  The pitifully terrible truth is that girls at this age haven’t nearly the same intensity of need for sex as their male counterparts.  It is reported that women come into their own, sexually, many years later.  So boys must wander around, like loaded guns, for years, on the verge of orgasm, while girls of the same age have greater dominion over their sexual needs, drives, and urges.  Teenage girls often realize they can wield power over teenage boys.  Girls have the keys to the kingdom and boys want in--..very, very much.  And they say God isn’t droll.  In this case you could say He’s a bit sadistic.  For similar reasons, I believe sex is wasted on priests and nuns, which is rather obvious but worth mentioning.  Just think how much easier their calling would be without all the sexual booby traps waiting for them around every corner.

Hell, during the last year of my marriage sex was wasted on me.  I can’t say us because you were off rolling around in greener pastures.  This brings me to my point:  I love sex and really loved sex with you, so you see I am baffled, totally confused over how I ever let it go, for so long, not for wont of the requisite drive.... I was plenty horny.  I was always horny.  Hell, I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t horny.  What’s more you always, always excited me.  Even now my best jerk-off fantasies have you as their star. So how did our sex life wind up in the craper?  What so cowed me that when I was aroused, I tried my best to hide it from you?   For the first time since I was a kid I started having wet dreams.  How sad is that?  Jenny, I stopped having wet dreams when sex became a staple in my life.   Then suddenly, twenty years later, I was a horny teenager again.  God help me!  I was so scared of precipitating a change in us, our status quo, that I literally sublimated my biological responses.  I would come to bed and spoon with you for hours, all the while making sure that my crotch was at least 2 feet from your ass so you wouldn’t be impaled on my very stiff prick.  Why?  How did things get turned so inside out that I didn’t want you to know how sexually attractive I found you?  Why was I such a craven coward?  I always loved showing you how much you turned me on, but those last couple of years I felt like the real Tom Gallo was missing in action.

Now I’m back to the fifteen year old Tommy with the iron hard-ons, at full mast twenty-three hours a day........Screw Viagra.  I started acknowledging my erections the day you said you were leaving, or maybe I just woke up that day and realized the big hard thing between my legs served a function other than making it difficult to zip up my pants.  All that adolescent exuberance returned, the only difference being that now I have better fantasies and improved handling techniques.  I’ll tell you this, the 7PM floor show, here at The Fractured Fun House, the one the “stripper sisters” put on, is getting me hot and bothered, and the floor nurse is probably wondering why I spend so much time in the bathroom (unless she has a fifteen year old son at home.)  The difference is I no longer care who knows it.  That’s one of the little perks of being a loon.  Now I understand why mature men do such foolish things, like marrying women thirty years their junior, or buying expensive sports cars, or spending loads of money on hair plugs and much younger girlfriends.  It goes a long way to explain how smart w