I TOOK A BONER PILL: A brief lesson in romance from a person who knows nothing about brevity or romance

    In the past if you, like any red blooded American man, wanted to fuck a hole through sheet rock, it was really up to genetics and the strength of that sheet rock to determine whether or not the feat was plausible. However, with the advent of today’s science and pharmaceuticals, the sky is the limit on what you can perforate with your junk. Trust me on this; I’ve done the leg work for you.

Now if violent priapism is an attractive prospect to you, you’ve basically got two options; 1: Trust in a legitimate drug manufactured by a well-established company (Viagra, Cialis, etc.), or  2: Make a grab for the behind-the-counter pills sold in the 7/11 next to that seedy Mexican restaurant. This story is about the latter.

Tyrannosaurus 2

Jurassic Pork III: Reptile Romance

 You’ve probably been hungover in a convenience store before -Arizona iced tea, a Gatorade, and a five dollar bill on the counter in front of you- and seen that adult bazaar housed in plastic. The douchebag’s toolkit: Electronic cigarettes, fancy condoms, dip pouches you have to refrigerate, etc. But at some point you’ve probably seen the boner pills as well. I’m talking about the ones named after sexual dinosaurs or muscular steeds, and you probably thought to yourself, “What kind of twisted, self-loathing soul actually asks the man behind the counter to hand him such a thing?”

I’m not proud of what I’ve become, but I’ve grown comfortable with it.

Why, then? We’ll say that my girlfriend at the time was going abroad (as a single person), and it was the odd sort of going away gift you give in a relationship not founded on stimulating conversation. To this day I regret not fastening a bow to my dick, but taking a pill that renders all organs, save for one, useless seemed like a reasonable second place.

Day 1-2

Warning: Objects in drawings are less girthy than they appear

I no longer have the lurid packaging, but I Imagine the small plastic capsule’s side effects read something like the following. “Side effects may include: Redness of the everything, all rooms you enter feeling sauna-hot, sheer anger at the stiffness of your own member, sudden skull detonation, general nopery.” I say this because the actual execution was not very far from that. Given these, what ensued could not really be described as the “best sex ever!” promised on the box, not with me spending most of the time trying not to die from a brain aneurism, and my girlfriend being half sure she was fucking a c list batman villain.

An actual coital exchange: “ Uhm, Are… are you okay.” she asked, a look of concern (see: not ecstasy) in her eyes. “Fuck it,” I replied, unaware that my face, eyes, and chest had all blown up a shade of neon red. “Roll over,” I then gritted through my teeth.

If you guess that nobody came, then you’d be correct, but intercourse is far from the reason I bring you this story.

Day 2

I spent the following day largely alone on my couch. I’m not going to say that the pill is long lasting, but I will say that  either it was still working a day after I had taken it, or I was watching  the most tantalizing marathon of “Bizarre Foods With Andrew Zimmern” I’d ever seen in my life.

Zimmern 2

Pictured: eroticism

“Hilarious!” You may say, a look of mirth spreading across your face, “What harmless fun!” Now I have no Idea what’s in the pill, but I feel like whatever it is, it’s highly endangered. So let me clarify something here: This is not the jovial goofball between your legs that you’re used to. It is the t-1000. It is the juggernaut. It is the endgame. It is the Final boss in Street Fighter, and no matter how many times you try to beat it down, it will keep getting back up. It will be the reason, for the first time ever, lopping off your junk will seem a quick and reasonable way to improve the quality your life. There is no down time. When the packaging said that it was going to be working for two days, it meant two motherfucking days. This is not Sprint wireless. There are no rollover minutes.

“At least you must have felt incredibly manly,” the strawman in my head would answer to this. To that I say: There are hypermasculine illusions of grandeur attached to the all-day erection. Power courses through your veins as you stand on the hood of an F-1 car, attracting wanton eyes from everything with ovaries. Whitesnake plays in the background.

F1 Whitesnake 2

Get in, we’re going to pound town

Sounds pretty sweet, right? But let me tell you what it’s really like: You will be hiding an erection in public. Playing tuck and pray while buying groceries, going to Subway, depositing checks, and having brunch with your parents will become your game; the type of game where maintaining eye contact with the 65 year old man selling you a socket wrench is considered a victory . This is the true cost of living dangerously. Follow your dreams.

What’s the moral here, then? It’s that when we think of rat-race intercourse antics, everybody’s mind goes too quickly to the slumping walk of shame., but did anybody ever stop to ask what it’s like to do the walk of false pride through the produce section?

I didn’t think so.

Water glass 2

My kind of girl

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