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Get Laid Like MacGyver
The Ol’ In and Out of a Sticky Situation
by Jay Riggio
What defines a “Player”? Some might say that a player is a husky black man with a giant penis, a deep voice and a fantastic fashion sense. Others might tell you that a “Player” is an uncircumcised Jew with a head for business and a neck full of hair. My point being, the term is hard to define. And I use this fact/theory in defense of my days as a “Player.”
At the tender age of 13 the stiffness that had begun to periodically disrupt my daily movements became burdensome. There was literally no rest to the activity of my underdeveloped penis. Everywhere I went, my little guy would grow like a moistened straw wrapper and harden as if it were a 3-day-old cinnamon cruller. All this at the sight of boobies, thighs and necks (I’ve always been a neck man). This sudden change in my life’s priorities was somewhat alarming to me. Wiffleball and Transformers were now for fags. My new shit was making myself cum.
The wonderful realization that my penis had a far greater purpose than pissing must have been too much for my weak little heart to bear. The blood that would fill up my wienie’s shaft regularly seemed to be in competition with the pus that was filling up the pores in my face. The more I whacked off, the more white heads and red, bulbous zits would cover my once baby faced complexion.
As disgusting and awkward as my physical appearance actually was, a false sense of confidence had engulfed my warped mindstate. Under the impression that no other teen had discovered a method of self-gratification, my ego was transformed from that of a porcelain figurine, to a die cast Uzi replica. I was dope, and I knew it. I was a “Player”. In my head, there was absolutely no difference between being a player and playing with oneself. As a player, my way of dress was not that of silk capes and velour Kangols, but of greasy cheeks, bulbous lesions and an awkward growth in my midsection. The act alone was not enough to give me the coveted title of “Player.” Shit, I had to bang some sluts first.
I began to play the field a bit. The field being my childhood home and the bitches, various household items just waiting to be fucked like whores. I was regularly having sex with my sleeping bag. But this bag pumping was the equivalent to fucking a Catholic school virgin. “Stick and move,” I believe was a popular player’s slogan. If I was going to get nuts deep into some Grade A pussy, I was gonna have to stop pissing like a pup and start making some hacks in the old bedpost.
I moved on to much sluttier types. Water filled Ziploc bags were a skank that I would frequent. I would fill two Ziplocs up with warm water, duct tape them together, and Bingo (was his name-o)! The bags always leaked, but a player will go to great lengths to show his member a good time.
One of the many hussies that was “on my shit,” was a little fox fur coat that I’d found in my basement. This was perhaps my first run in with real lovemaking, as opposed to my usual fuck and duck. After I had mounted my fox fur beauty, I would lay next to it, sometimes even holding the soft, silky coat in my grasp. Though our lovemaking was passionate, deep down inside I knew that I didn’t love it. What can I say? I suppose that’s just the way of the player.
Even though my face looked as if it were pounded six days a week with a meat tenderizer, I couldn’t be happier. I was achieving genital climax anywhere from five to seven times a day. On one particular occasion, I was transforming a teddy bear puppet from my boyhood into a sex toy to be reckoned with. The hand opening in the teddy was rough and led to a squeaker in the bear’s head. I lined the coarse interior with duct tape, converting the hand insert into a lean mean vagina machine.
As I positioned the puppet in-between my mattress, I remember a sudden burst of guilt that invaded my brain. The image of my mother walking in on her oily faced son defiling the very symbol of his childhood presented itself before me. But this vivid picture show ended abruptly when I saw/heard myself defending my actions before my horrified mother. “Mom, don’t hate the player, hate the game!” I arrogantly exclaimed.
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Volume 2, Issue 2 contents |
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