The Wiener Connection

You want to know something pathetic? Imagine you're a middle-aged man. You're slowing down. A little. But you've got this new, cock-crazy, nymphomaniac of an on-line girlfriend who wants to get off with you every night. She pouts you a kiss, her sensuous red lips framed by shoulder length curls of silky black hair. Then she tells you, "as soon as my husband falls asleep, I'll meet up with you here. Can you wait twenty minutes or so?"

You say yes, even though you are tired, because your new Cyber-girlie is volcano hot! But she is more than just that. You are rigid in your faith that the two of you share an ethereal, otherworldly, spiritual... connection. Yes, that's it. You connect with this girl in ways you had never imagined, a soul-fusing connection that rushes fire to your muscle and heat to your bone. So, you wait.

And you wait.

And you wait.

You give your head a vigorous shake, like a swimmer clearing water trapped in his ears. Bleary-eyed, you glance up at the clock on the wall. It's one a.m., you're naked, and the furniture is swaying. The ottoman tipped over an hour ago, and now you swear you can hear it snoring.

At a quarter past screw-it, you look down at your cock. You shake your head again, and then for good measure you flap it around. "By god, there's a pulse!" you exclaim, thankful if only for this lone stroke of luck. Then you follow that up with several strokes more. Before long, a chorus of trumpets is blaring. Invisible fans unite in a cheer for the ages, as Rocky Balboa slowly rises from flat on the floor.

Tick tock, tick tock. Yawn.

Searching for something on Hulu to watch, you happen upon an old episode of Will & Grace. "Okay, cool." You say it out loud to make sure you're awake. "I can give the sexiest vixen alive twenty-two minutes more." Such is the powerful hold of otherworldly connection.

But now your stomach, that well-rounded advisor who never betrays you, informs you you're hungry. So you drag your septembering cock into the kitchen to make a sandwich, or anything fast. You swing open the refrigerator door at precisely the moment your vixen rings out that she's finally back. Somewhere adrift in the sea of your mind, island-tanned breasts nipple your face; a pink slit of hope, slowly unfurling, shimmers and sings you her sweet siren song.

Ring! Ring! Rrrring!

Your dick swells to erection in pavlovian response, pointing you back to your laptop world.

"But you're fucking starving!" your stomach reminds you.

Forces at war set your body trembling. You snatch at the first thing you happen to see: a package of Ball Park Franks torn open sometime last week. The franks don't look very fresh, but there's no time to waste. Buns, ketchup, mayo, mustard. Check. You toss everything onto a tray as fast as you can, then shimmy on back to your digital date. You set your tray on the end table, just out of sight, thinking you can dress a hot dog or two and eat on the sly while she's busy rubbing her clit or selecting just the right vibe. But all this thinking lulls Rocky Balboa back into penile soft slumber.

That's when your, "Aha!" moment arrives.

You swivel your camera upward a bit. Then you pull a stale wiener from its plastic wrap pack. You carve a circumferential groove into its flesh with a knife, an inch or so from the tip—all off camera, of course. Next, you tuck your limp dick between your thighs and stuff your sculpted wiener, hardened with age, into your lap in its place. You soften the focus a tad more than a little before aiming your camera back to Cyber-girlie's favorite hotspot locale.

And then you go through the motions. On-camera fingers slicken with chilled wiener juice, while your off-camera hand assembles your late night snack.

Covert culinary creation complete, you sneak a bite and then a glance at Hulu. You recognize the episode that is playing. It's the one where Grace tries on the revolutionary new WaterBra. You LOVE that episode! It's now at the part where her bra has just sprung a leak while she's inside the watercolor exhibit of a snooty art gallery.

This strikes you as funny. More so than ever before.

You're suppressing a laugh while your spiritual connection is bounce, bounce, bouncing on her suction cup dildo. Her raven-black hair swishes to as her golden nipple chain lashes fro. Soon, all thoughts of laughter are completely consumed in the swaying rhythm of her naked, toned torso.

But oh! That nut ball Grace springs another leak. And then another. And then Will plugs a leak with his hand on her boob... and that's when you lose it.

You lunge to your left to cut off the mike, but you're not fast enough. A half-second burst of your laughter peals in Cyber-girlie's ears before guillotine silence slices it dead. She freezes. Her eyebrows pinch down to an unbroken V. It takes no effort at all to read her lips when, in slow motion silence, she mouths, "what...the...FUCK?" The gallows swing of her nipple chain creaks slowly to rest as she continues to glare. Your otherworldly connection is now decidedly more ethereal than spiritual.

And then there's another leak! Now, water is gushing from Grace's left boob, drenching the painting she was admiring just seconds ago. What was once ethereal beauty is now smearing and dribbling in rivulets of mud as it runs down the wall.

Like an orgasm you can hold back not one second more, you throw back your head and let yourself explode in a cackling, storm of laughter. Your chest heaves and it shudders, tears well in your eyes, and your face glows red from the blasts of your laughter. You're laughing hysterically at the Will-and-Grace mess you're in now. Meanwhile, some crazy, delusional demon within you clings fast to the fantasy it can reign you back in and explain away...everything. But your thrashing has upended your condiment tray. A toppling mayonnaise jar bangs against the edge of the table, launching a shower of jiggly white goo that spatters in ribbons and splotches on your crotch and your thighs.

You're screwed and you know it. But your demon is cunning and thinks lightning quick. He has you flick on the mike while you're still gasping and groaning and panting for breath. Commanded once more, you roar out your mandated strains of ecstasy. "Ohhh, yesss! Baby, yesss! Uhh! Uhh! Uhh! [theatrical pause] Uhh! Uhh! Uhh! [theatrical pause] Ooooo...Aaahhhh!" All the while, the non-demon You fights down the urge to say the "theatrical pause" part.

She's not buying any of it. Across six thousand miles of ethereal space, your spiritual connection stares bloodstained daggers into your face.

Your groans of "ecstasy" are so passionately loud, your slobbering Rottweiler Max bounds into the room thinking it's playtime of a whole other kind. But then he smells food. Cyber-girlie's mouth gapes wide at pure insanity now, her breasts hidden behind the smash of her elbows. With eyes clamping shut, she pulls clumps of her hair in her fists. The moment she dares to re-open her eyes, Max leaps into your lap and begins licking mayo splatter off of your thighs. Then he bites your wiener in half and prances off camera with it clenched in his teeth.

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Somewhere out west a tumbleweed blows across a dusty dirt road of a long forgotten town.

Tick...tick...tick....

"So... are we still on for tomorrow night?" you ask in the moment before your chat window snaps icy cold black. And then bold letters blink up at you from Hell's darkest abyss: Connection Terminated.

- End -