Suggested Audio Jukebox:
 Art Garfunkel “Bright Eyes”
 Kelis “Milkshake”
 Robin Beck “First Time”
 Art Garfunkel “Bright Eyes (Reprise)”
 Merrie Melodies & Looney Tunes “Opening Theme”
Sex is an absolute mind field. Whomever is responsible for dreaming up such a ridiculous act really ought to be ashamed of themselves if you ask me. I’m not saying it doesn’t cum without its own exclusive benefits but there are just so many do’s and don’ts to remember. Do make sure you wear protection, do be sure to scrub your genitalia thoroughly an hour before commencement, don’t overshoot the landing stretch by an inch or so as your partner may not be best pleased by any ill-advised rear entry. There’s just so many things to bear in mind; it’s a wonder any actual coitus ever takes place. Yet, when Mr and Mrs Bunny engaged in educational intercourse way back during secondary school; it all appeared something of a cinch. Mount your opposite number and, a few hearty thrusts later, baby rabbit will appear and showing no signs of jaundice. Maybe that shit works for rabbits but humans are far more complex. There are a number of obstacles we are required to traverse before we can so much as unravel the shrink-wrap.
Alas, I was sadly passed over when it came to the birds and the bees. While other boys my age were casting complex spells with their magic wands; I was still trying to suss out the relevance of the somewhat unsightly hanging basket I had been provided. Not that it looked like it had been tenderized with a mallet or anything like that; on the contrary, I have been informed my tallywhacker is far prettier than is customary. However, it still isn’t exactly easy on the eye. It’s okay for the ladies; everything is neatly tucked in like fragrant sheets of linen whereas we get a length of hosing to wrestle. Wrestle it I have. The precise moment I worked out, entirely by myself I might add, that a little rigorous stroking would incite a thrilling explosion; I set to work on milking my gland for all it was worth. Meanwhile my poor mother had the unenviable task of rooting through the linen basket for that elusive second sock; where I was fully aware that I was using it to prop up my rickety bed frame. So many odd socks and such a depleting amount of hand cream in the tub; poor mom.
My first consideration in school was how I measured up to other boys my age. It seemed a fairly even playing field for the most part and there appeared no crime with representing the acceptable average. But there was this one guy; I won’t spill the beans as he may well be reading this now but I can tell you his surname was Phipp. Let’s refer to him as Phippy just as the rest of his peers did back in the shower room. Phippy was no ordinary thirteen year-old, not by a long chalk. Speaking of which, if you fed a piece of chalk into his urethra, placed him in the school yard, and tickled his balls; then he would have an intricate hopscotch design laid out before you could unwrap a Laughing Cow cheese portion. His cock was colossal; thicker than a hundred year-old oak tree and longer than a queue at the post office during your lunch hour, it cast a formidable shadow over every other pecker in class. We were fortunately never exposed to Phippy’s towering inferno at full mast although he did have a chin dimple if that sheds any light. Consequently he invariably showered alone.
The next conundrum posed came with the introduction of pubic hair. I actually remember my very first strand, swaying in solitude like the one teenager at a Barry Manilow concert. I dared not pluck it as I had no real clue as to where the next of its kind would choose to sprout. So instead I groomed it delicately and tucked it below the band of my jockeys, hoping that others would notice its distress beacon. It worked. Before I knew it; I had an entire cluster of disheveled hedge trimmings, a veritable tumbleweed. Mine never got unruly like other poor unfortunates. It provided little more than a bushy veranda to guard my schlong against any powerful solar rays. Beneath it, a similar crop appeared on my testicles but they just looked ghastly and I tried just to deny their existence. All they seemed proficient at was sending a shooting pain to one’s abdomen after receiving a flick or a nudge. Other than that; just a brace of hairy brains with little to nothing of any real note to say. Pointless.
As I have already mentioned, self-defilement offered a little respite from the confusion of puberty. I am assured that there is nothing whatsoever untoward about playing one’s own instrument. Having said that, nobody wants to be mid-stroke when their mother enters the room with a clutch of laundry so we do it in the privacy of our own rooms for the most part. This taught me much about the intricacies of my own weapon of choice although it gave no clue as to how I should go about wielding it in the presence of the fairer sex either. It was clear that it acted kind of like a less shiny genie’s lamp as a few hopeful rubs later and I would be presented with three wishes. But I hadn’t even seen a real-life vagina; other than one or two on cable but they looked like absolute car crashes. So much skin, packed in tight like a quarter pounder, and just asking for relish. I decided that my first rule of engagement should be to work out their coordinates with my middle digit and that proved somewhat mortifying.
It was my first true girlfriend and things had briskly passed first base as I fumbled with her bra strap for several minutes and eventually opted to infiltrate the under-wire. Breasts felt good; warm, squishy and welcoming to all-comers. However, I knew that the loot was buried somewhere else and ultimately it was time to breach the denims and plunder beneath the panty line for the first time. The first thing I came across on my travels was dense shrubbery and, considering this was in the eighties, anything else would have been most unlikely. Instantly I became ensnared in this curly gossamer and half expected the arachnid Queen to swing down and bite my knuckle as a warning not to trespass any further. A little further down it began to hot up and it was there that I lost any remaining dignity. Is that a hole? Maybe this flume leads somewhere interesting? Why is there so much resistance against my finger when pushing into this warren? That’s right I overshot it. It’s typical, you clearly see the signs for the next service station on a busy freeway. 16km…8km…next exit. Then, just as you prepare to hit your indicators you sneeze and, before you know it, it’s back to 16km once more. We never spoke of the incident again.
At seventeen I finally met a girl who seemed like she would assist me on my voyage into manhood. We made plans together weeks in advance and set the date for Valentine’s Day as it seemed like the romantic thing to do in such circumstances. I counted down every day and we enjoyed rather a lot of heavy petting in the interim. Then, after building it up to the absolute hilt, the day arrived for me to sow my first seed. Our first mistake was to visit the local chemist and purchase a prophylactic as, much as Frankie harped on about relaxing, AIDS was kicking asses worldwide and I didn’t wish to play the odds on that one. If I had known about condoms at the time then I would likely have tied a burlap sack around my todger and been done with it. What an utterly contradictory contraceptive they are. One is encouraged to saddle up and even the Jungle Brothers make a point of telling us to wear our Jimmy hats. Should you be fortunate enough to select the correct size, then you still have to get the damned thing on. Once you do you receive your reward; sex without any feeling or friction. It’s akin to sipping a fine Merlot through your ear drum. Trojan can suck my fat one; I may have been fooled by their advertising campaign once but never again will I be so foolish.
Our next error was to assume that we had an empty house to practice our safe sex. As I recall, my parents came home as I slapped my cock furiously to wake it from its self-induced coma. You see, I had also made the mistake of selecting an opposite number who had far more sexual experience than me. It’s hard to perform when your partner is tapping her wristwatch and flicking through shopping networks with a look of sheer boredom on her face. It was alright for her; all she was required to do was to lay back, part her legs, and receive a darn good pummeling from my erect warrior. I had to convince him there was something in it for him and he just wasn’t having a bar of it. I even attempted to insert him limber and all this achieved was to convey my desperation further. In many ways my folks returning home offered me a lifeline as I made my excuses, hurriedly zipped my jeans whilst catching a little foreskin (we have them in the UK don’t you know) in their gnashing teeth, and waddle off downstairs with tears in my eyes to greet my nearest and dearest. Needless to say, I was soundly dumped the very next day, and it was no less than I had expected after my pitiful display of behind-the-ears wetness.
So, you see, it isn’t all plain sailing. I have experience on my side now and know my way around a clitoris better than most but I had to taste the bitter tang of shame before the penny finally dropped. They say you never forget your first time and that is, indeed, accurate. I know as much as I have spent my entire adult life attempting to in vain. If I were offered a part-exchange on my boy parts in return for a vulva to call my very own, then I would gratefully decline. It’s better the devil you know; intelligence suggests that they come with their own set of problems and it has taken me long enough to know what to do with my penis thank you very much. To Mr and Mrs Bunny, I say only this…FUCK YOU BOTH IN YOUR STUPID ASSES. Watership Down may have been as depressing as all hell but at least it was factually accurate. You made it seem so easy, like taking candy from an infant. In truth, it made Rubix appear simple. And yes I too peeled off the stickers in an attempt to come across intelligent.
Nowadays rabbits have become far more rampant and, once again, mankind has been thwarted by bunnies. I blame this whole sorry mess on their entire species; Myxomatosis may seem like an unkind ailment but, as far as I’m concerned, they deserve everything they get. I don’t know whether things have changed since I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Maybe the world isn’t spoon-fed now and instead Debbie Does Dallas has found its way into curriculum. I hope so as I wouldn’t wish what I went through on my worst enemies. This is why we masturbate. The pressure is off; no expectation or need to cuddle up afterwards. Just one brief clean-up job and we’re done. That’s not to say that I’m hanging up my boots and announcing myself retired from sexual combat. I shall carry on mastering my wand and, one day, plan to knock Harry Potter down a few notches at Quidditch. But I’ll never forgive those bunnies. Jessica Rabbit aside, and she’s little more than a shameless cock-tease, they’re all just laughing at us while our backs are turned. “Look… come see what we can do…study my rhythmic stroke and revel in my cum faces.” I hope you enjoy your fornication as I just loaded up my hunting rifle and have your stupid ears right in my crosshairs as we speak. Boom… how’s that for a cum face?