Natural Male Enhancement

Seen from Lower Manhattan, Jersey City has got what is developing into a fabulous skyline. There’s a ferry service that leaves from the World Financial Center every couple of minutes, so I decided to hop on and check things out.

Naturally, I ended up in the bar of the W Hotel, where I met an enchanting Jersey-ite named Gloria. She had everything I love in a woman: big hair, big tits, big booty, big bag of drugs. Naturally, she also had a big mouth.

I let her talk. Nothing I had to say was likely to penetrate her anyway. The key to being a good conversationalist these days is to let the other person do all the talking. What the hell, nobody has anything even remotely interesting to say. The idea was to ply her with drinks, let her talk until she has exhausted all her hot air and then hop on top of her.

New Jersey is the new California. It’s hedonism, great beaches, enormous houses, boob jobs and barbecue grills. California has grown too intellectual, so New Jersey has stepped in to stand up for mental idiocy. I have a cousin who attended Princeton, Schmuckley Dorkman, and his contribution to culture, aside from editing some really vicious right-wing literature for morons, has been a book he wrote about how great it is to be the son of a great man. The book sank like a stone on the day of its release.

Einstein lived in New Jersey, but his brains do not appear to have rubbed off on the general population. When I mentioned this to Gloria, at great risk to my future ambitions for her, she told me, “I know. I have one of his carpets in my home”.

Everything’s big in New Jersey: meal portions, movie seats, automobiles. Brains, not so much. Frank Zappa once wrote “Everything over a mouthful is wasted”. In New Jersey, any intelligence that is not needed for making money is superfluous.

Look, who am I to complain? My whole goal was to bounce on Gloria like a trampoline. How much brains do you need to accomplish that? Just get her loaded and pay the bill. It ain’t exactly E=mc².

So, that’s what happened. After a harrowing car ride with Gloria driving, we arrived at the monster mansion that she shared with her two kids, courtesy of her ex-husband, who certainly must feel like an animal in a steel trap, only instead of being snared by the leg, he got caught by another feature of his anatomy. Essentially, she pulled the lever and hit the jackpot for life. Gloria’s ex must feel happy he got away at all, because she never stopped talking for a minute about spas, nail parlors, the Bahamas, her kids, her friends’ kids. I mean, I could take it for a couple of hours, but a whole day? Fuggedaboutit!

Anyway, we finally got down to the main event. I took off my pants, and she disdainfully laughed, “Oh dear! You can’t be serious. Oh my! This won’t do at all. My dear man, let me give you some advice. You need some Natural Male Enhancement. Listen, I’m tired now. The bus stop is a couple of miles down the road. Good bye.”

Slam!

OK, I admit it. All the years I have spent in the gym have reduced the visual impact of my male sexuality relative to my muscularity. There are machines to pump up arms, legs, back, chest, etc., but for the male dick, nothing. That’s like building a super-powerful weapons delivery system but forgetting to activate the warhead. All these years I have been working out to impress women, but then the moment of decision finally arrives and the matador is revealed to be in the bullring without a sword.

To make matters worse, the ornery, contrarian impulse of women is to confuse matters more. For years they hounded us that they were insisting on more foreplay before the main event, so men bought books and took tutorial lessons on where the clitoris was located and how to satisfy the little bugger. It took years of practice. Now the clitoris is out of fashion. When was the last time you heard about it? Now the fashion has changed. Women want to be pounded hard by big dicks. They took a poll (an appropriate term if ever there was one) that revealed that women in Israel want big, voluminous dicks while the girls in the Czech Republic are insisting on getting pulverized by a human jackhammer.

I was getting more depressed by the minute, until I happened upon a television infomercial for Dr. Rompeculo’s Natural Male Enhancement Program, a combination of pill therapy and growth stimulation by means of a kind of bicycle horn, where you stick your little thing inside and squeeze the bulbous rubber pump, creating a vacuum that expands it. Hey, everything has elasticity, right? The commercial showed a boring-looking dude just like me surrounded by a group of slavish, attentive bikini-clad beauties who were falling all over themselves to do whatever they could to please him. The girls were motioning with their hands to express the size of his thing and referring to measuring tapes and even yardsticks. I said, “That stuff is for me”, and got my credit card ready while I phoned the 800 phone number.

So when the package arrived at my house, I immediately took the whole packet of pills and inserted my little pecker in the bicycle pump, blowing it up to the point where a red light indicating “Danger” started flashing on the gauge. Hell, I was going for broke, and if venturing into the Neutral Zone to get back in Gloria’s good graces was what it took, I was going to shoot the moon. Just to be sure, I took a half-dozen old Viagra tablets that I had been saving for a rainy day.

Miraculously, after about an hour of squeezing the rubber pump, I felt my member start to grow in length and thickness until it could no longer be contained within the confines of the bicycle horn. When I withdrew it, I was shocked to see that it had taken on the rich aubergine color and firm texture of a boudin noir blood pudding from the Mortagne au Perche region of northern France. It glistened and throbbed like a serpeant extending from a tree in the Garden of Eden, proffering a huge red apple in its mouth. Excitedly, I thought, “Let me get into the batter’s box with this Louisville Slugger and I’ll knock a grand slam homer out of the park that will send A-Rod into a paroxysm of batter’s envy eclipsing even his jealousy of Derek Jeter".

I quickly dressed, making sure to wear baggy pants to give my little newfound friend room to breathe, though he seemed to be struggling to break out like the baby Alien monster which he resembled except for the teeth, as it chewed through the guy’s stomach in the science fiction movie. Now Gloria will be forced to prostrate herself in groveling worship of my Latex Solar Beef!

On my way to the subway station, I happened to notice the morcillón sausage on display in the window of Julio’s Spanish Butcher Shop on Amsterdam Avenue. Right there on the sidewalk, I unzipped my pants and released the raging monster within. It’s reflection on the window pane gave the illusion that it was right in the display case next to the coiled sausage, filling me with masculine pride. This was a meal that any Spanish housewife would be proud to present on the family supper table!

I rushed to Port Authority Bus Terminal and took the New Jersey Transport bus to Gloria’s mansion. Arriving there, I ignored the doorbell and used my dick as a doorknocker. BAM BAM BAM! Gloria answered the door. “What, you again?” she said scornfully. But when she saw the gift I was bearing, she screamed in startled admiration:

“Oh my G*d! What a beauty! I haven’t seen anything like that since I was in high school! Are you sure you’re not Italian?”

“No, but I eat a lot of calzone.”

“That must be how you got those giant meatballs”. She said, “Let me call my girlfriend Anita to come over – I don’t know if I can handle all that myself. You’ll love Anita. She’s been on Real Housewives of New Jersey.

“Hello, Anita? Come over right away. I got a real Italian Stallion here [I hope you don’t mind me telling her that you’re Italian], and I need help. On your way, could you stop at Walgreen’s and pick up a large tube of KY Jelly?”

In the meantime, I couldn’t wait for Anita. My cock was throbbing with hunger. Dragging Gloria over to her couch, I told her “Bend over and spread em’, baby, here comes my bullet!” I slammed it into her, BAM BAM BAM! Then I shoved it into her as far as I could and started to grind it around. “Oh oh oh”, she screamed. “Omigod omigod! Harder harder! O papi, you’re the boss!”

Now I was in the driver’s seat. I pulled it almost all the way out and wiggled it around until she begged me for more. “You want some more? Well, here’s some more!” BAM BAM BAM! “Who’s your daddy?”

“You are! You are!”

“Are you my sex slave?”

“Oh yeah! My butt belongs to you. Just don’t stop!”

BAM BAM BAM!

All of a sudden, while I was pounding her like a racehorse, with hard thrusts of my pulsing equine member, she went into hysteria, screaming so hard it scared me: “Give it to me. Give it to me in the trunk of my SUV! Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! Omigod omigod omigod! Give it to me! Leather laces! Bamboo canes! Give me the electric pony harness! GIVE ME THE ENCHILADA WITH THE PICKLE SAUCE SHOVED UP AND DOWN THE DONKEY’S ASS UNTIL HE CAN’T COME ANYMORE!”

At that moment she collapsed, just as I shot her a load of jism that filled up her box so much that it shot out of her mouth like a geyser.

After it was all over and we had lain there for several minutes in mute exhaustion, Gloria found the energy to ask me: “OK, I understand how you got it to be so huge and stiff, but how did you get it to shine like that?”

“Turtle Wax”.

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Posted on 5/25/2009 ( Permanent Link )
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