I consider myself a connoisseur of the phallus. As both a honest lover of the male form and a relative latecomer to the sexual theatre at the spinster-bound age of 20, I have made it my goal to catch up with my peers the months, nay years, that I spent picking scabs on my legs, rather than seeking out the perfect schlong.
So armed with the holy trinity—an iPhone, Tinder, and a respectable B cup set which I felt had been ignored for too long—and lacking an Excalibur, I set out on the Dick Safari (inspired by my idol, Nigel Thornberry), an honest quest for some good old fashioned P.P.T. (pee-pee touch, for the uninitiated).
Buff Coffee Guy
BCG, was, I believed, the man of my dreams. When he opened his mouth though, he spouted about how much he loved Trump, and felt bad for Ben Carson for “being one race too late to be the first Black President.” He had a dick though, so I was down for it. Until he asked me if I would call him Ivanka Trump in bed, after that I had to tap out.
He was thirty and has two degrees in professional French Horn-playing. His hair was greasy and stringy and his D was altogether too large. But he had a dick though, so I was down for it. After him, I think I should be the one with the graduate degree in horn playing.
I’ve gotten a few dick pics from him since—it’s a reminder of some mostly really uncomfortable times. A strike of nostalgia—almost like swinging by your elementary school, reminiscing of the room where you first learned the fundamentals of your e-dick-cation.
I sold myself for a few bottles of decent wine. I owed my friends for trekking out to the outer reaches of Brooklyn with me. I’ve always been a sucker for a good view and some good wine, so I became a sucker for a good view and some good wine.
If you make wine, even prison wine–I’m not picky, hmu.