Here are just a few paragraphs from Maggie Mayhem’s poetic and insightful Getting Real About Strap-Ons. I certainly learned more about what “doin’ it right” ought to look and feel like than ever I got from viewing random bits of thoughtless porn:
I’ll have strapped myself into the 117-step process that rivals that of the skydiving process, slid nothing but “The Cadillac Of Cock” into the ring, checked my hips, checked my dong, turned around to make sure the butt part was right (cause sometimes that gets criss-crossed and you should start over because it will chaff) and I realize that I’m totally ready to go. It’s time. It is totally time for me to the one in charge of the thrusting and the pacing and the entry and the stuff astronauts worry about pretty much.
And then the moment when you stop and make your best Prince face in the mirror with a sideways stare as you move to grab your member firmly for the first time. It’s like the final step to fully complete the animation process. It starts out at first as a novel feature, something to be giggled at with delight as the laws of physics are studied experimentally. But then, when you remember the task at hand, you have to ignite magic and pull the startup cord up in the brain.
That all happens when you clench your fist around that dick and turn your strap-on on. And maybe that silliness comes from digging back into your brain for those same muscles that turned cardboard boxes into pirate ships and sticks into swords and you were so good you could feel salty air on your cheeks indoors in a landlocked place.
I’ll show you transubstantiation.
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