The Mystery Shot

I brought you, my seven readers, into the office with me for a blow-by-blow account of my vasectomy a while back, and did you know that you have to go back in to test out if it worked? COVID-19 hit so I never went in to have the test; just assumed it all went to plan. 

Then I started hearing from friends where people they have known have had something-or-another grow back or fuse back together, or whatever the heck happens, and they ended up with one kid too many. I don't want to sound insensitive to anyone who is trying to have a kid and cannot, but the idea of being responsible for a third child right now sounds like an absolute nightmare, so I made a point to finally book my test to see if there were any baby-makers in my baby batter.

It turns out Mrs. Noisewater needed to go to the same hospital for something around the same time, so we rode our bikes there together. That morning some guy in Chicago tried to evade an arrest at a police station and shot three police officers, one of which was taken to the hospital we were going to, so every intersection within a square mile was swarmed with cops, probably amounting to fifty cops in all - not exaggerating. So it was tough to find a route in, but I was not going to let a tragedy stand in the way of my nut inspection. No way.

The nurse took down my information, handed me a cup, and said that I could go to the bathroom back down on the first floor. In all the movies they provide you with a nice room that is just for wanking, but that just is not the reality anymore. Maybe they just figure that if people got all that information on their phones, then why provide archaic DVD's, VHS's, and sticky magazines? I get that part, but why make me use a bathroom that everyone else needs to do their #1 and #2? Because while I'm in there doing a #3 all that knocking on the door is going to throw off my concentration. I had to rule out anything with sound because how do I look a someone in the eye who needs the bathroom for an emergency when I'm making them wait because in there pleasuring myself standing over the fold-out baby changing station? Don't judge me about the baby changing station. It's where they sent me and that was the best flat surface available to set down my phone and the vial. 

Nothing like this was afforded to me.

I won't go into too much detail (Yes, I will), but when I was eventually able to finish, I don't want to brag, but because of the recommended three days of abstinence, I powered off a blast Peter North would have tipped his hat to. The initial shot missed the cup, but thankfully I was able to dribble the majority of it into the test tube. When I was cleaning up I felt like Ben Stiller in Something About Mary because that first fleet out was nowhere to be found. That's when the knocking started at the door, but I really did want to get everything tidied up good so that some poor baby's head didn't lie his little head of hair directly into my joy juice. I had a backpack with baby wipes on me knowing I would need to do some clean up, but what good was that when I couldn't find some of it? 

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I guess where that sucker landed will just have to be one of those mysteries for the ages. Hey, the fact that an old man like me can still have a Bermuda Triangle sneaky turbo jettison like that is something to hang my hat on. Or something hanging off someone's hat? 

How you doing out there readers? Sorry for the delay in posts, but I'm going to try to make sure I get around 10 posts per month, even if I'm off to a rough start. Been to any doctors lately? Any good indicators that you're not quite as old as you thought you were? Anything else at all you want to share - doesn't have to be gross like what I have told you?

Mergasm

I had a boner dream the other night.  It wasn't a full on wet dream because I'm too old for those.  I would wager those rear their messy heads somewhere between once every four or five years these days.  A boner dream falls short of those.  It's one where you're on the verge of eruption when you wake up.  Hell, those only seem to cum (come) around once a year or so now that I think about it.

My morning was 10% as sexy as this.

Now, I don't really have a problem with a stiff wake up call on a Thursday morning, but what I do take issue with is that what was happening in the dream was simply me having a wank in my apartment.  Is that the best my brain's run down dream factory could come up with?  Dreams can do anything they want - they can fly me to Jupiter - but what am I doing?  Pulling myself off with my pants around my ankles in my dusty Chicago apartment.  The foreman at my dream factory needs to be fired.

A dream factory within a perfect mind could have had me at a fashion show where the supermodels would walk down the catwalk, backstage to me on a bearskin rug where I'm naked and smoking a pipe, she does the nasty with Doctor Ken, puts on a new outfit and parades back to the catwalk, just in time for a new one come to come backstage, and so forth.  And that's just off the top of my head!

"Take a quick bow and hurry back to the bearskin rug."

As a matter of fact, my boner dream could have taken me to a mythical land of insatiable creatures.  Dr. Ken could have been lying happily in a forest with ferries fluttering around his face, landing gently on his face, when a mermaid comes by.  Or a unicorn.  Hell, make it a winged mermaid princes with a big glowing horn jutting out of her head like a unicorn.  Somehow she rocks that horn; She owns it and makes it sexy.  She saunters over to me horny as hell, tells all the little ferries to piss off, mounts me, grinds away, and her wings are flapping in ecstasy.  Soon she is getting worked up enough to make her horn glow bright red and offers to do crazy horn penetration with me, but I politely tell her I'm not quite ready to take that plunge with her.  But maybe when I get to know her better.

This was the afternoon the woman of my dreams was conceived.

After hours and hours she finally has a powerful mergasm (which everyone knows is a mermaid orgasm) which blasts fairy dust in a 100 yard radius, knocking back the trees within the first few feet of her and making anything in its vicinity hornier than hell.  Which happens to be a centaur named Bill who trots over and pulls "the cable guy" in a porno movie on me, asking if he can join the party.  Mer-Pegasus-Unicorn lady is totally into it, but I'm not a three way dude.  Even if I were, two guys and a girl is not for me, so me and a centaur is totally out of the question - and to be honest a little intimidating.  So I excuse myself and step away to sulk under a tree, pouting about my slutty mythical beast woman who has left me for a giant horse-man.

How can I be expected to compete with this guy?

When they finish up, I thought I had gotten far enough away to get out of the range of her mergasm blast, but Bill made her fire out fairy dust twice as far.  That damn dust works its magic on me, and even though I hate myself by this point, I can't help masturbating.  And there I am tugging away with the stupid little fairies buzzing around laughing at me, and I'm whipping rocks at them, crying, and yelling at them to go away.  And that's where my boner dream would pick up, skipping all that awesome stuff you read about a minute ago . . .

The Iditarod is going on this week, a race in negative 100 degree temperature where you are pulled on a sled by 8 for 8 or 9 days.  Off the top of my head, I would rather do these 5 things for 8 days straight . . . 

1. Cash in an 8 day pass to the Milli Vanilli museum in Austria.

2. Be homeless in San Diego for 8 days.

3. Eat nothing but Taco Bell for 8 days without the use of toilet paper.

4. Not masturbate for 8 days (I might get on the sled and have a wank in the cold after 4 days . . .)

5. Wash Honey Boo Boo's mom's necks for 8 straight mornings.  

That's three necks by my count.


What about you, Seven Readers?  What might you do instead?