Suggested Audio Lube

 

[1] Lil Louis & The World “French Kiss”

[2] Grace Jones “Pull Up To The Bumper”

[3] Europe “The Final Countdown”

[4] Denis King “Black Beauty”

 

 

climax
noun: the most intense, exciting, or important point of something; the culmination.

 

And so we finally arrive at the all-important climax. I don’t know about you lot but I’ve learned some shit along the way that Sesame Street certainly didn’t teach me. Speaking of which, I bet that nice old Mr. Snuffleupagus is secretly a freakazoid. Behind those long lustrous lashes is an absolute sexual deviant and woe betide anyone who chooses to feed his trunk a peanut. Actually, I would imagine he is the submissive in the partnership and that Big Bird calls all the shots. Whatever their dynamic, there’s definitely something shady about them. You see, even in Jim Henson’s workshop, shit goes down that is way beyond PG-13. How Oscar The Grouch hasn’t come down with hepatitis by now is anyone’s guess. I guess Muppets have kickass immune systems. Anyhoots, enough of dashing those childhood memories, I do believe we have an alphabet to complete.

Up until now I have been relatively restrained as sex is one of the most natural events us humans partake in and deserved to be treated respectfully. However, at the ass-end of our A-Z, things start to get a little queer and I simply cannot allow any elephants in the room who don’t wish to be spoken of. Of course, we shall ease in slowly, find our rhythm before any back door smashing is necessitated. But you may wish to start those baths running in advance. The letter A seems so far in our slipstream now and that naïve boy you once knew has had his innocence well and truly shattered. It turns out that some severely messed up shenanigans plays out behind closed doors and I can’t guarantee you that barnyard animals won’t feature at some point. That’s right, Old MacDonald’s farm was little more than a knocking shop for lecherous mammals all along. Even the poultry was in on the act. Never again will I look at a free-range chicken the same way. It may seem like just a quack quack here and there, but it turns out that they have needs just like the rest of us. All will become clear Grueheads and you may well wish it hadn’t come Z. That’s all I’m saying.

Q is for Quickie

 

We all live hectic lives. Sometimes you just have to grab the opportunities when they come and this can mean condensing a long, hard screw into barely a couple of minutes. There is no time for scented candles or sweet nothings, just a two-minute quickie before the kids arrive home from school. As a rule, speed sex favors the alpha as we can fast-track to those knee trembles with relative ease, while any slow-burning ladies are often left like ticking time bombs by the conclusion. For additional intensity, this scenario can play out in all manner of dicey locales. From the kitchen worktop to a darkened alley, opportunity can strike where least expected and this just heightens the euphoria further. I mastered the art of the quickie during adolescence courtesy of the danger wank. This entails waiting until you hear your mother’s slipper touch down on the bottom rung of the stairs and attempting to thrash one out before she emerges topside. For additional hazard points, calling her name just moments before the rousing finale works wonders although there is always the chance that you’ll come unstuck. This can prove catastrophic as there are some things a parent wishes not to see and their son’s toes in mid-curl is one of them.

R is for Ruminate

 

Things have a tendency to turn awry the moment we begin to second think ourselves. As a male, I know the perils of questioning myself only too well. Is it in a sanitary state? Does it measure up to previous suitors? Have I located the right hole? Why isn’t it touching the sides? Did I remember to turn off the gas hob? Where’s that spider scurrying to? How many days did it take to build Rome? Did she just cry out Clive? Is she playing Candy Crush Saga? Is she texting Clive? Does Clive have a bigger dick than me? Is Clive the reason why I am not feeling any friction? I wonder if Clive has ever been to Rome. You see, it can be an exhaustive process and even more disheartening when the impetus is on us to perform to industry standard. Too much dilly-dally and it can all go flaccid in a heartbeat and, the older we get, the more troublesome it can be to retrieve an erection once floppage occurs. I’m banking on a spot of senile dementia to bail me out when times get hard. Overthinking was my Achilles heel as an adolescent and many a boner wilted as a result of way too much consideration. Now where did you last see Clive? He’s in the closet isn’t he? That’s alright, the spider just crawled in there too. What’s wrong Clive? A dash of arachnophobia? Now be a dear and run along will you. And while you’re at it, would you mind terribly turning off my gas hob?

S is for Scrotum

 

Have you ever heard it suggested that a man’s brain be situated in their lap? Well it isn’t an altogether bogus statement as the scrotum is our southbound equivalent of a fully functioning mother brain. Tasked with supplying to demand, the balls are responsible for generating currency and, without them, the whole penile operation would fall apart. While wisdom is their strong point, dashing good looks isn’t. Pubic hair parading in their vicinity tends to resemble piano wire, they seldom hang evenly, and play second fiddle with good reason. One of my greatest fears is the ripeness of old age as I hear they end up as depth charges once gravity takes effect. They may never be the poster boys for genitalia but do deserve applause for services rendered. By the way, you ever had a nut sucked like a gobstopper? The jury is out on that one.

 

T is for Tailgate

 

This is where opinions begin to differ. To some, the anus serves only one distinct benefit and that’s actually more of a necessity than anything else. While no other muscle in the human body is better equipped to deposit any undesirable surplus, it also happens to be something of a revolving door, should that tickle your pickle. Suddenly a brave new world of possibility opens up and all manner of rectal fun and games can play out. I’ve been known to engage in a spot of spelunking on many an occasion and have no gripe against being labelled a cave dweller. However, receipt has been a hit and miss affair, if I’m honest. The whole strap-on deal felt a little unnatural to me and, truth be known, I was relieved when it was over. It resembled a backwards bowel movement a little too closely for any real comfort, although I’m sure I would change my tune the moment I finally locate that elusive G-spot and milk it like Pippi Longstocking.

U is for Underling

 

The above artwork, “Dominatrix Teddy”, is © to Preston Craig. If you would like to view more of his work or purchase this art, click the photo which is linked to his gallery on Fine Art America.com

 

Some of us are cut out to be dom during coitus, and others, far more comfortable with sub duties. Here we place ourselves in the safekeeping of our overlords and do pretty much whatever they request out of a sense of sexual duty. This can tend to become somewhat freaky if the master of ceremonies is feeling particularly cantankerous and underlings are known for their ability to replicate animal noises, slather heels, and be defecated upon as punishment for crimes never actually committed. The most important thing here is that both parties are at ease with their chosen roles. I’m happy to sit on the fence on this one as there are pros and cons to both dominant and submissive endeavor. Just remember not to crack that whip too hard as I’m up next remember and there’s a place right here for you over my knee.

V is for Vagitarian

 

Believe it or not, this actually loosely denotes a lesbian but I far prefer utilizing this marvelous term from an alpha perspective. To me, this should represent the minority of males who refuse to engage in cunnilingus. What are you thinking fellas? There’s a world of discovery to be had mid-haunch and ass cracks to burrow those snouts into. Don’t you think you’re selling yourself short? Whatever it is that has wired you for terror when faced with one of these mostly harmless growlers, it may be time to inform your therapist and get their take. Odds on they’ll have you tongue deep in Clitty City before sundown. I am never more luxuriant than when kneading the dough orally so to speak. Many a muffin I have crafted and I’ve rescued some omelettes also. Vagitarians are not to be vilified, simply coerced delicately in the right direction. Think of the nectar you’re missing out on by not partaking and get in before it turns to honeycomb. Even if it has reached this stage, pubic hair makes for glorious dental floss.

 

W is for Wargasm

 

You know those times where you cannot look at your respective partner’s face without wishing to slap it with a haddock? There are two choices here and only one of them entails a trip to the local fishmonger. The other involves concentrating all that simmering vitriol into an attack far less devastating and introduce a touch of pain to the pleasure tally. Nothing too heinous, perhaps some bloody nail tracks for their backs or a mild yeast infection. The Wargasm is safer than the Deathgasm and, more often than not, ends with an unspoken treaty. The satisfaction in making your significant other suitably uncomfortable is sufficient to mend those bridges and some of the best sex ever has no doubt originated from sexual skirmish. I just find it all a tad militant and would trade it for tender Roni caresses any day of the menstrual calendar. Let’s not get this twisted, roaring like Simba before savaging your prey has its benefits, but this oversized kitten is just a sucker for having his belly rubbed.

X is for XXX

 

How could it possibly be anything but. There is porn and then there is porn. In its basic form, it earns itself a single X and is little more than harmless mischief. However, triple that tally and out come those purple people eaters. This was always my issue with XXX features. I could deal with ladies behaving badly but struggled with the battered tools they were only too happy to manhandle or, worse still, consume. As far as I could gather, any male porn star would be required to fuck round corners, and this meant that those members needed to be crooked. Another stipulation seemed to be coloration and anything less than mauve simply didn’t qualify. I have to look at my dick daily and have no complaints about either its shade or grade. Male porn stars, on the other hand, should feel nothing but shame for the spoiled aubergines they bring to the party. To be fair, once you reach XXX, lady parts start to look a bit shabby too. Have you ever attempted to exceed the acceptable weight limit on your travel luggage and failed miserably? Next time you do, take a photo. But not before bludgeoning said case with a wrecking ball. Elasticity is only your friend for so long, that is all I’m going to say on the matter.

Y is for Yardstick

 

There appears to be a myth about men’s penis size and this is one that I feel obliged to dispel. Firstly, there is seldom ever such a thing as seven inches on the soft. Granted, pornography suggests otherwise and it is statistically possible. But most of us men suffer from the same ailment. The moment we awaken to find all of our blood in one concentrated area is one where we are only too happy to reveal our serpents. However, take us skinny dipping at the dead of night, and we become far more reluctant to showcase the spoils. Shrinkage is a fact of life and average girth size a probability. Take them on face value ladies if it gives your men a boost, but remember that a dash of cold water later, they may well resemble a quail’s egg. I’m convinced that mine has decreased in mass since I was eighteen and would blame poor living for its depreciation. Back then, measurements were taken, and not altogether within the parameters of the game either. I would trail it back to its tail just to clock up that extra inch and am assured this was the done thing for many of my brethren. The truth is that nine out of ten Johnsons would be indistinguishable during any identity parade and there’s rarely so much as a cock visor between the stature of one and the next.

 

Z is for Zoophilia

 

I openly admit to being an animal lover and this has even been known to stretch to allowing my pet kitten onto my bed while I sleep. In my eyes, there is nothing nefarious about stroking a pussy after midnight, but it appears I have been somewhat naïve as there’s a whole world of sickness out there for those looking to test some animal-human boundaries. My first introduction to zoophilia came at the tender age of fourteen and bestiality probably explains it more accurately. As hard a stretch as it may seem, I was actually the innocent party, and mortified by the sights I was made privy to. In 1945, George Orwell published a book by the name of Animal Farm and it went on to play a vital part in school curriculum while I was coming of age. However, if ever a film has deviated from its source novel, then the Animal Farm that my friend acquired on pirate VHS was that movie. Interestingly, Orwell didn’t receive a credit and I would imagine that had something to do with the fact that, at no point during his cherished fable, did a woman of the cloth get mounted by a thoroughbred pony. Worse still, this was a whole zoo of wrong, and a fair share of God’s little creatures were shown in a light I wasn’t altogether comfortable with. There were seven of us present for this premiere, six of whom had a whale of a time. I have never been more comfortable being the odd-man out and have never being able to look a gift horse in the mouth the same way since.

I guess there really isn’t all that much separating us from the animals after all. We may like to think of ourselves as the uppermost links in the evolutionary chain and perhaps we’re onto something. But ultimately all of God’s little creatures have the same rudimentary needs. The need for procreation comes to us all and our thirst for recreation is its enabler. At forty-one-years-old, I have led something of a sheltered sexual existence, and there is still much learning afoot as I traverse this particular minefield. It’s times like these that I am left cursing my clown shoes as it is far less dicey tiptoeing through the tulips with hooves. I trust that this has been as enlightening an experience for you as it has for me and also that you’ll think twice now before sliding Animal Farm: The Movie into your toploader. Remember folks, once watched, it can never be unwatched. I should have known better after my first experience with a horse at five-years-old. Fret not, I’m not about to go there.

It was my very first school sports day and I was preparing for the egg and spoon race if I recall. Over in the meadow to my right was a pony, very much like the kind that frequents MacDonald’s plantation. Nothing nefarious here right? Wrong and on so many levels that it just isn’t funny. You see, just as I was perfecting the art of balancing my egg, said nag decided it was time to drop anchor. I guess he was well within his rights, natural habitat and all that. But there was nothing natural about the blackened bratwurst that unraveled between his legs. Imagine a pendulum if you will as this behemoth was just as mesmerizing, albeit for all the wrong reasons. This, in itself, was disheartening enough. However, when you fast forward to Animal Farm-Gate, and witness a nun in full habit get-up taking a length from a similar thoroughbred, 2+2 can finally be put together. Never before had a Hail Mary been delivered with such brute force and I would imagine it was months before this particular member of the clergy could once again take a pew.

Horses were now tainted and, when I sat down to watch Seabiscuit, I dared not peruse the deleted scenes. The entire animal kingdom is clearly at it and I haven’t been on a nature ramble since. The most disconcerting thing is that Mother Nature is actually little more than a pimp. Why do you think there’s no Father Nature? It’s because she takes the cock wherever it’s going and isn’t in the slightest bit fussy about her chosen suitors. However, the thing that really concerns me is that I have made a long and distinguished career out of spanking the monkey. What is to say that said gibbon won’t retaliate at some point and spank me right back? That’s where you lot come in. Should any monkey business appear on the cards then please give me a holler as I hear they have quite the backhander on them and, when all is said and done, they’re practically human. With masturbation off the menu for the foreseeable, I shall have to find myself another pastime. Come to think of it, I believe I still have that egg and spoon around here somewhere.

The Free Range

As we have now concluded our A-Z and animals are no longer deemed quite as sweet and innocent, there seems no other course of action than to lower the tone just a tad further. Fret not as there are certain sights that I have no intention of recollecting. However, the theme feels ripe for the picking, and there’s a whole farmyard of fun to be had as we take to the ultimate saddle. Spare a thought for my dear seventy-two-year-old mother will you? You see, while she is sitting there with her cup of tea, catching up on her soap operas, I’m barely a yard from her coordinates rifling through my search engine for pictorials to embellish this piece. As she glances over out of vague curiosity, I perish to think what is running through her head. Imagine the phone calls once I vacate the room. “I’m a little worried about Richard. Do you still have your chickens? Lock ’em up. Don’t ask. Just do it!” Should you be reading this mom, it’s nothing but a big old misunderstanding. Now, if you wouldn’t mind looking away while I arrange this parting gallery, that’d be swell.