There I was.
Sitting in the darkest corner of my room, lit only by the glow cast upon the walls by the floor lamp hiding in the farthest corner of the room.
It was probably hiding in shame—disgust even. For I was sitting there, pants haphazardly cast across my ankles, meat scepter in hand.
The glow of that lamp cast shadows of my glorious dong onto my freshly washed sheets sitting only inches away, hanging from the old wooden coat rack by two solitary clothespins.
I had spent the better of an hour, sitting there, twisting my shaft of impregnation like mom twists the pepper grinder at dinner. Hard. Fast. Two-fisted. And with a few deep grunts.
Something about it just didn’t “do th