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I was 19 when I made the frustrating realization that
my life was no longer my own. It belonged to my penis and its purposes.
Even by then I was an avid writer and reader of classics.
I was sensitive. Perceptive. Emotional. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.
But something had been growing. I was a late bloomer.
I thought for a time I had somehow circumvented the insanity I watched overcome my friends.
Namely the effects of puberty's hormonal coctale that directs all conversations, all talk, and all care
toward pursuits of sex, sexual satisfaction, eros.
I thought I had maintained myself. I was utterly shocked and almost angry
by the directness of what my cock could do: orgasm.
Dear young man, I am going to wrap up all of your most beautiful hopes and dreams
the loves you feel for women, the beauty you detect... your inspirations, and the
ephemeral beautiful things that make your soul soar...
wrap them up... then I am going to become, for you,
lust material. Made real in heavy tightened pointed flesh.
And then, my young innocent friend,
I am going to PUMP your jism
in a slippery rhythmic throbbing wave
and let you collapse in desparation
seeing stars, feeling frenzied, dizzy with unreasonalble pleasure.
And then, guess what? I'm going to make it happen again!
and again!
and again!
and again!
Welcome to manhood.
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