My Gentle Man Lover

The rumors are true. I have taken a Man Lover.

It's such a cliche, I know. Especially at my age. What am I going to do next, dye my hair? Buy a Porsche? Become a Republican?

Hopefully not. Seriously, could you see me as a blonde? No, for now my supple lapse in heterosexuality becomes the next questionable stain on my curriculum vitae, which it must be noted has been almost entirely clear of what many of my former peers adamantly insisted would be a scatological rap sheet of licentious, bestial faggotry.

But my Man Lover is streets ahead of such wicked depravity. Brecklyn is a class act. He has not one, but TWO bands, for which he provides hand drums and second back-up vocals. He has an amazingly decked-out (or as he says, 'brecked-out') second story loft above a beautifully restored 1968 Chevelle in his friend's garage (he doesn't drive, because of "you know, the enviro-ment, and oil just being... (he makes this great face where he raises his eyebrows and shrugs his shoulders while waving his hands around.)) He's in great shape due to riding his bicycle to and from the gym every day (not to exercise, but to hand out flyers promoting his bands and his landscaping company), which at first I have to say was a bit daunting, but soon found paid off when I enlisted his services to help me move that aquarium my great aunt died in back down to the foyer.

He's a giver. Did I mention that my Man Lover is quite the gentle Man Lover? Indeed. Brecklyn has a tender, seraphic touch, albeit hardy and virile when necessary. I swear, the man has the hands of a Messianic masseuse, or an 11 year old Korean seamstress; they're downright Dickensian.
Which brings me to one of the many issues I have begun to take with patronizing a Man Lover.

Brecklyn is a man. Now I was all for the concept of obtaining a swashbuckling swain, at first. However, the actualization of said desire has brought about it's share of hiccups, and not just due to sensitive gag reflexes. For you see, try as he might sometimes, Brecklyn just is not a woman. I know his attempts are mostly designed to please and entice me, perhaps thinking I would be more responsive to a temperate transition phase, and I can appreciate that. However, his requests to be "titty-fucked" and ongoing references to his "butt-gina" just aren't eliciting our mutual aspirations for desire. Which is probably why I keep sleeping with women.

Yes, this was never meant to be any sort of permanent replacement. I am simply a man of covetous ambition. When I hear talk of the countless hours of joy and delight brought to others by services rendered from a Man Lover, then I am prone to pursue such hedonism. Perhaps I was a bit hasty. I may have jumped the love gun in my acquisition of the first robust specimen I beckoned to play my proxy box. I suppose one hopes to squire a seasoned veteran when partaking in such games of stopgap claptrap and sham ma'am (if you're in the need for a good TSTVTG law firm).
Not to discredit Brecklyn.

He's a good man, and thorough.

Sort of Young, Dumb, and Completely Out of Cum.

I have completely run out of semen.

That's it. That's all there is, not a drop left. Any chances I had for children I actually wanted are now long gone because as I've just said, I am without semen. Now whenever I masturbate to what most would call fruition, all that ejaculates is a puff of smoke. Not even a puff, more like a faint breath, a whisper. It's like if you were to bump into a bottle of baby powder, except instead of a talcum for curing your waiter's ass it's just the remnants of my overdrawn man magma that coughs out. I swear, last time my penis just stuck out a white flag.
What happened? Where did all my white grape juice go (besides my old socks and the floor of the Burger King bathroom)? Donde esta mi semilla blanco?
I happen to know exactly where it went, but first I feel that I should tell you why. Why I let my genitalia reach such a level of barren, destitute failure. Why I've become more dry than my junior high librarian (trust me). Why when some, nay, most men can reproduce said fluids, I have lost the ability to replenish.
The answer? You guessed it... Frank Stallone.

Well, sort of. Okay, not at all really.
The answer of course is the most obvious one, the problem that plagues our entire way of life to no end for which there is no foreseeable cure, nor would we want there to be. The answer is over-masturbation.

I know, I know. How could this be? Every few years I see some article written by an accredited doctor that explains that there is no such thing as too much masturbation (unless you use the "death grip"). If it were possible, wouldn't we all have known when we were 14? I certainly would have. Age 12-15 is when I climbed the Everest of over-masturbation, pushing myself to the dangerous heights and depths of the pubescent male's waning endurance during summer breaks and "sick days", losing Sherpas and oxygen tanks to the frigid, savage snowstorms of multiple daily showers and Jergen's.
And yet I could always continue.
I remember well the first time ever I splooged my face. I was 12 years old, and I had been masturbating for a few months without culmination. I had ordered Playboy's 'The Best of Jenny McCarthy' video for a friend (I'll protect their identity here (it was Austin)), and decided to take it for a test drive. I was home early from school as winter break had just begun, and had the apartment to myself. The video was quite boring, as Playboy videos tend to be. Lots of arty and airbrushed shots of women posing in deserts and studios with perfectly pruned pubic patches of placidity, otherwise known as the stale tail, the vapid vag, the blunt cunt; the hoary quarry, the jejune poon, the ho hum cum bum. The insipid lipped...
Sorry, I got lost in some sort of parallel of euphemisms for uninteresting vaginas (the lackluster sackbuster!)
So, the last segment on this $19.99 mail order VHS is of Jenny McCarthy being photographed on a large bed by a lesser known, though still gorgeous Playmate. As the photo shoot goes on, they each remove more and more articles of clothing until they are both naked, rolling around on the bed taking pictures of their half-hearted lesbian romp. Now I've since seen more than my share of explicit lesbionatic activities, on tape and in person (thank you Denton), but at 12 years old, this was the most sexually exciting thing I had seen since Trading Places; and just like Jamie Lee Curtis' hermaphroditic breasts, I arrived.
Sparing further graphic detail, I required a shower. While I proceeded to make myself look less like someone a camel had spat upon, I was presented with an opportunity to revisit a certain occurrence, one I had just initiated into my daily existence. Which occurrence?
You guessed it... Frank Stallone.

But times have changed, and now my over-masturbation has just become an apt metaphor for selfishness in general. I spent the next 15 years pleasing myself, and mostly myself, to what end? I fostered an environment of self-pleasure and complacency that closed me off from the world, that was so concerned with my own conceit that it derived me of human connection. The only way to transcend, not defeat, mortality is to involve yourself in something greater than the confines of yourself. Essentially, I needed to get out and fuck.
When you truly fuck, you let loose all inhibition and pretext and share in the ecstasy of open-mindedness and discovery. I mean when you really let go and just bang the day and night away, until you're weak and hungry and can't smell your inter-connected stench because you've clogged your nose and every orifice with plugs and jellies and deep, dark inner thoughts that until now you were embarrassed to reveal to yourself, let alone some goofy fuck who's naked on your floor except for a torn and questionably stained argyle sock.

But no, we don't fuck that way anymore. We masturbate so much that when we do experience human interaction, sexual or no, we still are looking to please only ourselves. We become camouflaged in so much of our own juice that we have none left to share with others who may be thirsty. We've become not just a generation but an entire country of self flagellating brats, with our giant forearms and STDs, our loud music and our Dan Fogleberg; our Zima, hula hoops and Pac-man video games, don't you see?
We're a nation that is obsessed with mirrors but hates reflections (just let the pretentiousness soak in... ) We're born into an almost inescapable sense of privilege that continues until death. From that ever dwindling period between abortion and euthanasia it's me, me, me, I deserve this, I can't afford it but so what, I was born here, where's my stuff? So we continue to jerk off, and in doing so we not only squander our personal life-force, but life in general.
We've collapsed our economy and all but guaranteed a terrible life for the next few generations, as well as ensured that our country will continue to fall behind in every aspect of meaningful growth except muscle. Over-fed, over-medicated, over-populated, over-spent, under-educated and willfully full of ignorant resistance.

I'm through jerking off. I've cum all over myself for so long that a sort of second skin has formed around me like a cocoon of aged jism and forgotten dreams, a glaze of spoiled opportunities and mummified spermatozoa; an empty shell of defunct spunk. It's time to share the goo bazooka with the world, and I've got my sights set on...

You guessed it... Frank Stallone.