My girlfriend asked me to demonstrate my most unorthodox masturbation techniques, and one of my inventions is the Fly on the Island. Catch a small, lively fly. Carefully remove the wings and put it into a pill bottle. Draw a hot bath and get in.
Make your Johnson a bit hard and maneuver it so just the head rises above the surface of the water. Now is the time to introduce the fly to the island. The ideal fly has no wings so he can’t fly away but is small and sprightly enough to run franticly around the island looking for a way off. When I demonstrated this, my girlfriend said I was being mean to the fly. Is this masturbatorial creativity or animal cruelty?
Every once in a while I wonder why so few people write in anymore with ridiculous, Penthouse Forum-style stories or claims of extremely unusual fetishes or practices. Fewer jackasses seem to feel the need to try to trick what they hope are earnest or unwary advice-givers into accidentally granting the desired exposure. I kind of miss them. So I can’t blame this guy for trying. Plus, he did a really good job with the details. And — he got me to run it. At any rate, it’s not nearly as gross or horrible as the story about the Chinese eel that made the rounds of my sex-geek posse last week.
It seems a gentleman was brought in, dying, to a Sichuan hospital where it took the doctors a surprisingly long time to discover the eel lodged where no eel was meant to go. Though dead, it had been alive when inserted, and eels have teeth.
The likely cause was eventually established — he had apparently been drinking with friends and had passed out. His friends had decided it would be amusing to insert a live eel into his anus while he was comatose.
I suppose it’s churlish to chide the guy after his agonizing death and all, but it does occur to me that we do get to choose our friends and one criterion we might consider while doing so is this: does this individual seem like the kind of person who would wait for me to get plastered and then stick a live eel up my ass?
No, I don’t believe this really happened, any more than I believe the fly guy. The eel story has yet to show up on Snopes, but it bears all the hallmarks of an urban legend — no names, no dates, an exotic setting that renders it unverifiable, many uses of “apparently” and “it seems.” It seems one ought not to believe everything one reads, since, apparently, much of what one reads is nonsense.
I’d like to think I’ve done a sort of public service by passing these two disgusting stories on to you, my beloved readers. Anything else you’re likely to encounter today — stepped-in dog poop, a hair in your soup — will seem positively wholesome by comparison. No need to thank me!
Got a question? Email Andrea at firstname.lastname@example.org