A little while ago, I was out with some friends who told me that although they are not anywhere near eligible for AARP, they have taken Viagra, just to heighten the sexual experience. The only issue, said one of them, was that he had a hard on for 12 hours.
12 hours!
It got my wheels spinning, imagining what the experience must have been like for this hapless young fellow. So I came up with this...
I suppose most people view Erectile Dysfunction drugs as a means for old men to terrorize their fossilized wives and young mistresses, and as fodder for stale jokes about failed politicians. But the way I see it, you hear what you want to hear with the ad campaigns for these drugs, depending on who you are. Gramps hears that his long dormant pecker might actually twitch when the nurse bends over. I hear that my dick will be harder than Michigan steel, a California Redwood and a New York D.A.’s soul.
I probably don’t have to tell you that I find this concept fascinating.
Now, I hasten to add that I'm 28 years old I don't have any problems in this department, so the attraction was more like those college kids in the 1950's that tried to see how many people they could cram into a phone booth. You know, exactly HOW HARD for HOW LONG could I get? The idea appealed to the scientist in me. Of course, I didn't have any idea that the experience would last 12 hours.
12 hours.
That's 720 minutes.
That's 43,200 seconds.
That's a mighty long time for your member to stand at attention.
So in the spirit of empiricism, I decided to keep a precise log of each hour that passed. The results are printed below for the benefit of future drug-fueled sexual swashbucklers:
HOUR ONE: Great. I have sex four times with my girlfriend. She knows she's in for the long haul, so she came prepared with KY Jelly, the massive "anti-family pack" of condoms and Pizza Hut on her cell phone speed dial. We know we aren't going anywhere tonight. The sex is stellar. She moans, cries and makes some noises you normally hear from the fatty in Human Resources as she devours a Hostess ho ho.
HOUR TWO: Still great. Although, now I have to pee, and my dick is still rock hard. I try to twist my pelvis over the toilet and point my dick down into the bowl. But, I ultimately face the shame of sitting on the toilet like a girl, my rod (and yes, in the condition it's in, it makes sense to call it that) resting against the rim at a rigid 45 degree angle.
HOUR THREE: More sex. I explore her in every position possible. We get a little winded and decide to try less athletic things with my dick. We measure it with a ruler, hang a spoon on the end of it and don a shotglass on its head.
HOUR FOUR: She gives me head, but it isn't very fun because I can't come and after 15 minutes, she has a slight case of lock jaw. We are alarmed at first, wondering how we would explain things if she had to be rushed to the hospital: Me with a visible hard on, and her with an open mouth like a German blow up sex doll. Fortunately, her mouth returns to normal and we order pizza.
HOUR FIVE: Eat pizza. Wang still hard. She takes a bath.
HOUR SIX: We consider doing it again, but watch a Seinfeld rerun instead. I wonder how Jerry got so many attractive women with his stupid bleached white tennis shoes and suburban pantry-stocking housewife jeans. I don't say anything, because if my girlfriend thinks he's hot, I don't want to know.
HOUR SEVEN: Schlong still hard, and I start to get a little irritable. To cheer me up, my girlfriend tries hanging various items of clothing on it. We start slow, with just a sock. We proceed to add one glove, a scarf, and a pair of boxers. Finally when we add a tank top, it droops a little.
HOUR EIGHT: Still hard. We have more sex, but it's kind of like eating the last serving of mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. They tasted good at the beginning, but you don't really want a third helping. On the other hand, a third helping won't kill you. So you eat them, but they’e kind of cold, and you don't feel so great afterwards. Then you wonder why you had the third helping.
HOUR NINE: Had enough of my hard on. My girlfriend asks if it's possible to O.D. on an Erectile Dysfunction drug, and if there is some kind of hotline to call. She then admits that if there is a hotline, she wants the job of being the operator on the other end. We imagine all the different people calling in: "I gotta get to work in the morning!
How can I meet Mr. Beasley from accounting in this condition?” We picture Elmer Fudd and Yosimite Sam with everlasting hard ons, calling the hot line. Funny, except my girlfriend’s Yosimite Sam impersonation sounds more like rabid televangalist. You’d think the idea of my girlfriend sounding like rabid televangalist would automatically cause my penis to soften, but it doesn’t.
HOUR TEN: Hard on jokes are not funny anymore, as my pecker is still rigid. This is one of those: “This will be so funny in hindsight” situations. But right now it sucks. I try to sleep, and find that I am in the realm of pregnant women and women with large boobs in that I cannot sleep on my stomach. As this is how I normally sleep, I cannot get any rest. I am a prisoner of my hopped up dick and I don't like it anymore. I slap it back and forth a few times, watching it spring back up and then decide to masturbate.
HOUR ELEVEN: Even though this is the city that never sleeps, it feels as though my penis and I are the only two citizens of New York who are not sawing logs. We watch late night infomercials, and I make a mental note to buy myself Time Life's Soft Rock Collection and improve my abs.
HOUR TWELVE: At last I'm free! I've never been so happy to be flaccid in all my life. My dick looks curiously deflated and worn out as it droops woozily, and I finally slip into bed and fall asleep. It occurs to me that I will not be trying this again until I’m at least 75.
