Femtrex
My husband just told me he’s had it with our marriage. We hadn’t had sex for seven years and he was tired of Birtha, his inflatable friend. I mean, sure he never had to buy her dinner, drinks, take her to movies or listen to her nag day in and day out. Yes indeed, I totally got that. But I thought she was serving his needs just fine but apparently; Birtha just wasn’t enough for him. Maybe it was because I accidentally deflated her once while sharpening my ginsu knives, or maybe it was that time I used her for a punching bag. I know how Mark hates violence.
I just kept going over and over in my head what could’ve possibly gone horribly wrong. I apologized for Birtha and even came home with Gladeys so he could experience ménage a tois. Was I not a loving caring wife, trying desperately to tend to his needs? Despite all my attempts to salvage the marriage, I was forced to take a long hard (pun intended) look at myself and do a little analytical research into my psyche as to why I was not interested in sex anymore.
Let’s flashback to college; Sophmore year to be exact. I spent all my beloved student loan money on endless nights of refreshing cocktails and cheap men. Lo and behold; I realized money doesn’t grow on trees and that bitch Sally Mae (evil loan company, if you went to college; YOU totally know who they are)…cut me off. At this point; I realized why old Sally was so radical and such a nazi about getting your college money…because it doesn’t grow on trees like I mentioned beforehand. Well, I think to myself; where the hell does it come from?
Eureka! It comes from wallets. Oh, and not just any wallets…nice, expensive leather wallets like the ones from JCPenney…not that Wal-mart bullshit. Where is a place where there is a lot of wallets? Hmmmm, tourist attractions, malls, offices, no wait…strip clubs!! There is a lot of wallets in a strip club and a lot of money being tossed about here and there and everywhere. I thought to myself; if I could just somehow get those people with the fancy pants wallets to somehow throw some of it in my direction; hmmm, how do I go about doing that? Eureka again! I decide to become a dancer. I tried ballet, jazz, tap and then I realized that none of the other gals were demonstrating their cultural dance experience with the wallet-laden individuals. Nope, that wasn’t what was going on at all…They were using a much more powerful tool. The naked body.
It all made sense to me. Naked equals money. Money equals more refreshing cocktails and debauchery. All things I’m a fan of. So I make the ultimate sacrifice and sell my body to the people with the wallets containing the Washingtons and if you’re lucky the Lincolns. So all is well until I start living a more and more lavish lifestyle. Pretty soon; I learn too that the only other thing the same patrons enjoy is directly correlated to being naked. Yup, you got it! Sex. Lots and lots of sex. Pretty soon; I’m making videos and before you know it; I’m a full-fledged porn star. The whole nine yards; gang bangs, dildos, beads, tree trunks and the weekend donkey shows. Pretty soon, nothing excited me sexually unless it was triple C battery powered. That’s a lot of power.
Then one day; my life was changed forever. The day Mark Daniels waltzed into my life. (ha, another dancing reference). He was a fledgling producer looking to make it big time. He started small like the rest of us, in porn. We fell in love, I faked orgasms and lived happily ever after…well, not really.
Happily until I lost my incredible acting ability…and Mark’s loss of self-esteem due to a triple C battery powered tool named Sam. Soon thereafter; even Sam couldn’t do it for me and I just gave up. I thought maybe I hit some sort of sexual climax permanently. Maybe there is a cap on how many orgasm in your life you are allowed to have? If that’s the case; I capped out that a long time ago and now I was done, exiled to an orgasmless existence on the planet. Was this all there was? Apparently so, says the Ladies Home Journal and numerous Christian publications. Now I was suppose to cook stuff, learn to knit and grow shit in a garden or something and wait for death and doom to take its nasty stronghold on my existence. Wow, that sure didn’t sound fun. But I did it. And I was so busy with all that other crap; pretending to be a perfect suburban housewife, cooking, cleaning, laundry and blowing the pool boy…that I had no time or interest for sex. A very sad, meaningless, empty shell of an existence on the planet. .
So let’s fast forward now, Mark tells me he’s done and has needs. I need to do a little more self-analyzing and soul searching in regards to my current situation. I see a commercial on TV with Mike Ditka talking about a little blue pill and how it saved his life and now his broken penis is in working order again and he loves life. Super!! That is exactly what I need. I head over to the Doc’s office only to realize that is for men…I shout at the Doctor; “That’s discrimination”. He agrees and immediately begins working feverishly on the “little pink pill”…He informs me that I will be the first person to get a dosage.
I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait…then alas; one day Doctor Dildo calls me up and says; “It is finished”. I head over to his office; feverish with excitement over the eager anticipation of a healthy, rigorous sex life again. The doctor and I discuss the pill and he even lets me name it. I decide upon “Femtrex”…it has a significant meaning in that; I am a female…that’s where the Fem comes from and I had to “trek” all over to find it…and we added the X to make it sound cooler and more Gen X so the Gen X-ers would hop on it…cuz they are cool and if everyone sees the cool generation buying this product; it will be a smash hit with the less cooler generations.
I gobble handfuls of Femtrex on the way home to Mark…I get home and oh my gawd, my loins are fired up! He is packing and I attack him like a caged lion in heat and the rest is history. Mark is so excited and happy that our sex life is back on track that he has permanently deflated both Birtha and Gladeys and next week we are going to a swingers/nudist colony out in Palm Springs to become one with our newfound sexuality and also maybe videotape some of the encounters for our webcam that we charge 3.99 a minute for folks to watch.
I just kept going over and over in my head what could’ve possibly gone horribly wrong. I apologized for Birtha and even came home with Gladeys so he could experience ménage a tois. Was I not a loving caring wife, trying desperately to tend to his needs? Despite all my attempts to salvage the marriage, I was forced to take a long hard (pun intended) look at myself and do a little analytical research into my psyche as to why I was not interested in sex anymore.
Let’s flashback to college; Sophmore year to be exact. I spent all my beloved student loan money on endless nights of refreshing cocktails and cheap men. Lo and behold; I realized money doesn’t grow on trees and that bitch Sally Mae (evil loan company, if you went to college; YOU totally know who they are)…cut me off. At this point; I realized why old Sally was so radical and such a nazi about getting your college money…because it doesn’t grow on trees like I mentioned beforehand. Well, I think to myself; where the hell does it come from?
Eureka! It comes from wallets. Oh, and not just any wallets…nice, expensive leather wallets like the ones from JCPenney…not that Wal-mart bullshit. Where is a place where there is a lot of wallets? Hmmmm, tourist attractions, malls, offices, no wait…strip clubs!! There is a lot of wallets in a strip club and a lot of money being tossed about here and there and everywhere. I thought to myself; if I could just somehow get those people with the fancy pants wallets to somehow throw some of it in my direction; hmmm, how do I go about doing that? Eureka again! I decide to become a dancer. I tried ballet, jazz, tap and then I realized that none of the other gals were demonstrating their cultural dance experience with the wallet-laden individuals. Nope, that wasn’t what was going on at all…They were using a much more powerful tool. The naked body.
It all made sense to me. Naked equals money. Money equals more refreshing cocktails and debauchery. All things I’m a fan of. So I make the ultimate sacrifice and sell my body to the people with the wallets containing the Washingtons and if you’re lucky the Lincolns. So all is well until I start living a more and more lavish lifestyle. Pretty soon; I learn too that the only other thing the same patrons enjoy is directly correlated to being naked. Yup, you got it! Sex. Lots and lots of sex. Pretty soon; I’m making videos and before you know it; I’m a full-fledged porn star. The whole nine yards; gang bangs, dildos, beads, tree trunks and the weekend donkey shows. Pretty soon, nothing excited me sexually unless it was triple C battery powered. That’s a lot of power.
Then one day; my life was changed forever. The day Mark Daniels waltzed into my life. (ha, another dancing reference). He was a fledgling producer looking to make it big time. He started small like the rest of us, in porn. We fell in love, I faked orgasms and lived happily ever after…well, not really.
Happily until I lost my incredible acting ability…and Mark’s loss of self-esteem due to a triple C battery powered tool named Sam. Soon thereafter; even Sam couldn’t do it for me and I just gave up. I thought maybe I hit some sort of sexual climax permanently. Maybe there is a cap on how many orgasm in your life you are allowed to have? If that’s the case; I capped out that a long time ago and now I was done, exiled to an orgasmless existence on the planet. Was this all there was? Apparently so, says the Ladies Home Journal and numerous Christian publications. Now I was suppose to cook stuff, learn to knit and grow shit in a garden or something and wait for death and doom to take its nasty stronghold on my existence. Wow, that sure didn’t sound fun. But I did it. And I was so busy with all that other crap; pretending to be a perfect suburban housewife, cooking, cleaning, laundry and blowing the pool boy…that I had no time or interest for sex. A very sad, meaningless, empty shell of an existence on the planet. .
So let’s fast forward now, Mark tells me he’s done and has needs. I need to do a little more self-analyzing and soul searching in regards to my current situation. I see a commercial on TV with Mike Ditka talking about a little blue pill and how it saved his life and now his broken penis is in working order again and he loves life. Super!! That is exactly what I need. I head over to the Doc’s office only to realize that is for men…I shout at the Doctor; “That’s discrimination”. He agrees and immediately begins working feverishly on the “little pink pill”…He informs me that I will be the first person to get a dosage.
I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait…then alas; one day Doctor Dildo calls me up and says; “It is finished”. I head over to his office; feverish with excitement over the eager anticipation of a healthy, rigorous sex life again. The doctor and I discuss the pill and he even lets me name it. I decide upon “Femtrex”…it has a significant meaning in that; I am a female…that’s where the Fem comes from and I had to “trek” all over to find it…and we added the X to make it sound cooler and more Gen X so the Gen X-ers would hop on it…cuz they are cool and if everyone sees the cool generation buying this product; it will be a smash hit with the less cooler generations.
I gobble handfuls of Femtrex on the way home to Mark…I get home and oh my gawd, my loins are fired up! He is packing and I attack him like a caged lion in heat and the rest is history. Mark is so excited and happy that our sex life is back on track that he has permanently deflated both Birtha and Gladeys and next week we are going to a swingers/nudist colony out in Palm Springs to become one with our newfound sexuality and also maybe videotape some of the encounters for our webcam that we charge 3.99 a minute for folks to watch.
posted by PE at
Permalink
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home