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xmag.com
: September 2002: I Hate Sex |
I
didn't really hate sex all that much until I started
writing this column. My inner frigid bitch--I call
her Frigidia--only really emerged when I started
churning out anti-sex tirades every month. But even
as my pen spewed sexual vitriol, in the back of
my mind I still counted on my sexuality as something
I could whip out in case of emergency. If needed,
I could shut Frigidia back in the closet, lube up,
and rise to the occasion. But the other night the
occasion did arise--and I realized that once you
let your inner frigid bitch out, there's no going
back!
The
realization came when I ran into one of my old sugar
daddies. I had successfully avoided this doddering
old Texas millionaire for the past year--he was
so physically horrifying that no amount of money
was worth banging him! He had a bad hip, which made
walking difficult--he had to use a walking stick
everywhere he went--so imagine what sex was like!
Many's the time I nearly suffocated beneath his
wheezing 6'4", 280-pound bulk. His hip was so bad
that he could barely heave himself atop me and then
lie there like a white-haired brontosaurus, flapping
his tail every now and then. Not an experience I
cared to repeat, no matter what kind of money was
involved!
But
it just so happened that I was in desperate financial
straits when I ran into him this time, so I swallowed
my disgust, dusted off my box, and told Frigidia
to take a hike. But she refused to obey! I tried
to chase her off with a double Grey Goose on the
rocks, but my date wasn't one to wait around while
I exorcised my demons! He was sitting there, tapping
his foot impatiently! Not only had he not been in
my hallowed pants for over a year; in the interim,
he had also gotten a replacement hip...and he was
eager to try out his limber new moves on me. So
it was ready or not, here I come!
New
hip or no, when we finally got busy he was as clumsy
as ever--and to make matters worse, while he was
laid up in the hospital recovering from the surgery,
he had gained fifteen pounds! With my rusty equipment,
I don't know how I survived the ordeal, but let
me tell you, it was a real marathon. Due to his
advanced age he could barely maintain an erection,
even with his stupid Viagra, and I had to resort
to all manner of sexy hijinks to get him up. Even
then, he would go limp after about three pokes.
And the whole time that bitch Frigidia was laughing
in my ear--"For this you tried to chase me off?
Get over it!" Finally, the old man managed to squeeze
out a few drops and rolled over, satisfied, and
I shot out of bed to go scour my box with ammonia
and Lysol, and to welcome Frigidia back into the
driver's seat. Never again, I swore to her.
Never!
In
the end I collected $300, which my sugar daddy made
sure to inform me was "not for last night, but just
to help you out with bills." Whatever! We--Frigidia
and I--were in a hurry, because it just so happened
that I had a gynecologist's appointment that same
day. Yes, even after the night's horrors, it wasn't
over yet for my beleaguered box. I went straight
from a dick to a speculum, but let me tell you,
after what I had been through, that pap smear was
a cakewalk. But thank God I only go to the gynecologist
once a year--I'm safe for another 364 days. As for
any other foreign objects that want into my private
club...Frigidia is here to stay, and she is one
tough bouncer!
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