Listen to this articleThe road to finding the perfect cock ring is fraught with danger and excitement.
Many, many eons ago, at about the same time that the Indian subcontinent “mounted” Asia, thus thrusting up the 29,000 foot tall planetary boner of all boners, Mount Everest, (this exquisite imagery is enough to make any size queen faint with giddiness and envy, and don’t you just love being able to call it “an erection of galactic proportions?”) I was a 32-year-old, respectable, Word of Wisdom-observing, returned missionary virgin, fresh from the potato fields in Idaho, slowly poking his head out of the repressive closet door. And voilà, Petunia was born.
At first I was very timid and shy, and inched out of the door at a glacially slow pace. I was a brand new princess in training, hadn’t even received my first pair of high heels yet, and experiencing my gay adolescence while tentatively exploring the dark aisles in the closed and deserted “candy store” of the forbidden magical mysteries of gay sex. After the very first taste, all things sexual were new and exciting and the doors on the proverbial closet were blown off of the hinges. The “candy store” was open and having a 90 percent off sale. Emotionally, I was suddenly 16 years old again, and I was hell-bent on experiencing everything that I thought I may have missed during my “straight adolescence.”
As a new inductee into the princess training program, I felt it my deeply personal responsibility to explore the world of gay sex with gusto; to use all my time and talents to honorably earn the Slut Merit Badge; to give the word “whore” a more prominent and regal position in the English language; to plunge deeply into dark places where no man has gone before; and to personally displace Aphrodite as the goddess of love. The whole world became awash in sex. Inside every bathroom stall door was either Senator Larry Craig, or the potential love of a lifetime — or at least the next 30 minutes. Behind every bush and tree stalked the prey “that dare not speak its name,” or George Michael.
It was during these giddy times of exploration and discovery that I first encountered the “You must be 18 years of age to enter” section of the Mischievous Pleasures gift shop. The very first thing to catch my eye here was the cock ring display. During my pursuit of the Slut Merit Badge, I had encountered several strapping young men wearing this intriguing jewelry, and I had become, shall we say, intensely curious. Of course, there is no size chart to help a novice princess in making such a major purchasing decision, and I was too embarrassed to actually ask a question of the sales clerk. So I just chose a middle sized, stainless steel ring, threw the money quickly on the counter and departed before having to engage anyone in conversation. I rushed home clutching the little black plastic bag tightly, lest I loose my very first purchase of Royal Jewelry. I had a date that night with a really hot stud, and was so excited to wear my new ring.
Let me just share that I was frustrated because the ring didn’t come with instructions as to how to put it on. After several excruciating experiments of trying to mash the “boys” through after the shaft, I discovered that one must gently massage the “boys” through the ring first, then pull the flaccid shaft through, like threading a needle. I ask you, would it be too much for the manufacturers to provide such basic information? Then it was off to my date.
As per my nefarious plan, we ended up back at my place in bed and I was excited to see how the ring would affect the whole lovemaking experience. The “hunka hunka manly love” began to pay attention to my “royal jewels,” and nature’s God-given “personal inflatable toy” rose to the occasion. But pain and horror quickly overcame my excitement, as it became evident that the cock ring was too small to accommodate the erection. Since it was made of unrelenting steel, there was no possibility for stretching it out. Never before had I experienced such pain; even the slightest touch was excruciating. “My boys” were slowly being castrated.
Meanwhile, Mr. Hunk was intent on giving “my boys” his undivided attention. Normally, this attention is what a queen prays for. I tried to redirect his attentions to kissing, to alleviate the immediate pain and possibly give the erection time to dissipate. But his groping hands kept finding their mark. Finally about to pass out, in desperation I took charge and savagely attacked his jewels with all the effort I could muster in order to distract him. Thankfully, he became putty in my hands and I was able to give my jewels much needed time to deflate.
I emerged from this experience a sadder but wiser princess, having learned that the moral of this story is to buy and adjustable cock ring until you know what you are doing.
Like always, these events leave us with many eternal questions:
1. Will Jeff Stryker start calling his ample appendage “an erection of galactic proportions?”
2. Could Petunia Pap-Smear as the Goddess of Sex tempt Jason and the Argonauts?
3. Do you think the cock ring was the One Ring of Power from Lord of the Rings?
4. Would it be possible to let you try on the cock ring in the store?
5. If I had been castrated, would I be able to sing soprano?
6. Was it just my imagination, or did I hear Johnny Cash singing “The Burning Ring Of Fire?”
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of “The Perils of Petunia Pap-Smear.”
