You want to know something pathetic? Imagine you're a middle-aged man. You're slowing down. A little. But you've got this new, cock-crazy, nymphomaniac of an on-line girlfriend who wants to get off with you every night. She pouts you a kiss, her sensuous red lips framed by shoulder length curls of silky black hair. Then she tells you, "as soon as my husband falls asleep, I'll meet up with you here. Can you wait twenty minutes or so?"
You say yes, even though you are tired, because your new Cyber-girlie is volcano hot! But she is more than just that. You are rigid in your faith that the two of you share an ethereal, otherworldly, spiritual... connection. Yes, that's it. You connect with this girl in ways you had never imagined, a soul-fusing connection that rushes fire to your muscle and heat to your bone. So, you wait.
And you wait.
And you wait.
You give your head a vigorous shake, like a swimmer clearing water trapped in his ears. Bleary-eyed, you glance up at the clock on the wall. It's one a.m., you're naked, and the furniture is swaying. The ottoman tipped over an hour ago, and now you swear you can hear it snoring.
At a quarter past screw-it, you look down at your cock. You shake your head again, and then for good measure you flap it around. "By god, there's a pulse!" you exclaim, thankful if only for this lone stroke of luck. Then you follow that up with several strokes more. Before long, a chorus of trumpets is blaring. Invisible fans unite in a cheer for the ages, as Rocky Balboa slowly rises from flat on the floor.
Tick tock, tick tock. Yawn.
Searching for something on Hulu to watch, you happen upon an old episode of Will & Grace. "Okay, cool." You say it out loud to make sure you're awake. "I can give the sexiest vixen alive twenty-two minutes more." Such is the powerful hold of otherworldly connection.
But now your stomach, that well-rounded advisor who never betrays you, informs you you're hungry. So you drag your septembering cock into the kitchen to make a sandwich, or anything fast. You swing open the refrigerator door at precisely the moment your vixen rings out that she's finally back. Somewhere adrift in the sea of your mind, island-tanned breasts nipple your face; a pink slit of hope, slowly unfurling, shimmers and sings you her sweet siren song.
Ring! Ring! Rrrring!
Your dick swells to erection in pavlovian response, pointing you back to your laptop world.
"But you're fucking starving!" your stomach reminds you.
Forces at war set your body trembling. You snatch at the first thing you happen to see: a package of Ball Park Franks torn open sometime last week. The franks don't look very fresh, but there's no time to waste. Buns, ketchup, mayo, mustard. Check. You toss everything onto a tray as fast as you can, then shimmy on back to your digital date. You set your tray on the end table, just out of sight, thinking you can dress a hot dog or two and eat on the sly while she's busy rubbing her clit or selecting just the right vibe. But all this thinking lulls Rocky Balboa back into penile soft slumber.
That's when your, "Aha!" moment arrives.
You swivel your camera upward a bit. Then you pull a stale wiener from its plastic wrap pack. You carve a circumferential groove into its flesh with a knife, an inch or so from the tip—all off camera, of course. Next, you tuck your limp dick between your thighs and stuff your sculpted wiener, hardened with age, into your lap in its place. You soften the focus a tad more than a little before aiming your camera back to Cyber-girlie's favorite hotspot locale.
And then you go through the motions. On-camera fingers slicken with chilled wiener juice, while your off-camera hand assembles your late night snack.
