I'm at a Loss for Words

For anyone who thought that Peter Jackson ruined Middle Earth, I present you with Leonard Nimoy's Ballad of Bilbo Baggins:

Jesus fuck...

TMI Thursday: Blinded by the White

As a little follow up to the Colin Firth story from last week. Apparently, not only do I boast Horstian distance with my meat howitzer, but I also have impeccable aim. My wife had been borrowing a bunch of books from her friend, and as she read them, she put them on the floor on her side of the bed...right next to and all around the now-defiled Colin Firth mag. While I might have splattered spuzz all over Mr. Darcy, I managed to not hit any of her friend's books. Too bad she wasn't borrowing some Robert Jordan books, because then I could have fired one off into the Eye of the World.

That was a little nerd humor...heavy on the nerd and light on the humor.

Speaking of firing one off into the eye(s), my new favorite commenter, Snowelf, last week gave a warning that, whilst desperately avoiding pregnancy doing my Catholic duty, I needed to be careful not to get any in my wife's eyes. Cause it burns. She's just sayin'.

Which brings us to this week's TMI Thursday story.

I had a love/hate relationship with my penis in Junior High and on into High School. I loved that it gave me the freedom to call the world my urinal. I loved that it could be used to sign my autograph on the snow. However, I hated that it would sometimes decide to stand at attention during films in science class while I idly thought about Jane Smith sitting in front of me and how nice she smelled.

I also hated that it made me think naughty, impure thoughts about various female classmates of mine, and that I would inevitably do what any thirteen-year-old boy does when confronted with a bucket full of lust and a raging hard erection. Back in those days, I was much more fearful of God's wrath than I am now. I used to keep a journal between the mattresses (you know, where most red-blood American kids kept their pilfered Playboys from dad's stock) wherein I would make mention of the fact that I had given in to the sin of lust. Not only would I do that, but I would name the young lady I had fantasized about and then I wrote long passages begging this girl's forgiveness over wanting to bed her. I would apologize profusely about the acts I had done while alone in my room and thinking about the land of milk and honey between her thighs.

Yeah, I was borderline zealot. It's kind of creepy to recall, actually.

This whole hatred of my own personal lustful nature meant that I would hold out for as long as I possibly could before I finally gave in to my desires and cooled the raging fires the hormones had stoked in my loins. This would, of course, lead me to write out another blubbery epistle wherein I begged forgiveness for all the sins of the flesh I had just committed.

Naturally, I never showed these to anyone. My first summer home from college, I collected the five or so notebooks I had filled with my own self-loathing apologies and burned them. Ah, catharsis, you smell of summer, kerosene and ashes.

Now, since I was about the age of four, I had a friend who lived up the street from me who happened to be blonde-haired, blue-eyed and pretty much effing gorgeous. In the eighth grade, all the guys at Salamonie Junior High wanted her. Badly. Now, being that I was friends with her, I tried not to lust after her 24/7 like my friends all did (11/5 was good enough for me). I'm just that kind of guy: if we're friends, I'm not going to want to bang you all the time, just some of the time. Classy, that's me.

Let's call her Jamie, because that was her name.

Did I also mention that Jamie had a perfect body? And was on the track team? Oh, and tanned like Italian leather?

One day, Jamie wore a skirt to school. She had the most perfect legs--you know, because she was a runner--that day, and as I watched her walking across the street to get on the bus, something stirred deep within me. When she sat in the seat next to me, the something turned from a stirring and formed into a smoldering ember of lust and desire. As the day wore on and I stared at her legs in my mind's eyes throughout all my classes, the ember turned into a full-fledged inferno. When I got home, I was burning, and there was only one release.

I went upstairs, closed my door, eased down my pants and took matters into my own hands, the whole time thinking of Jamie's gorgeous legs and body. It had been weeks since I had done this before, and finally, blissfully, I exploded.

When I say exploded, I mean detonated.

Now, some men point straight out. Some curl up like a bratwurst. Me, I stand at an angle. I prefer to think of it like a guard holding a spear, but it's probably more like a Nazi salute. What this does is point my penis straight at my face while sitting in certain positions.

And thusly, when I erupted, I hit myself in the forehead.

In the first few seconds after finishing, I sat there with my ears ringing, my breath quickened, and my heart racing, and my mind saying "Holy fuckshit, you just fired one off and smacked yourself in the forehead with it!" Essentially, I was dazed. I didn't act quick enough, and the massive glob of goo ran down my forehead and into my eyes.

And that shit burnt like a motherfucker.

So, when Snowelf warns that you don't want to get it in your eyes, she might just be sayin', but I'm telling you, should you find yourself in this situation, either duck or have a towel at the ready. And close your eyes while you wipe.

Experience is a powerful teacher.


Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!