It truly boggles the mind to consider the sheer volume of, shall we say, novel interactions occurring every moment. Attempting to catalog even a fraction of these intimate encounters, to condense reams of experience into a manageable guide for the aspiring sexonaut eager to break free from the shackles of unsophisticated approaches and venture into the cosmos of connection… well, it’s a task of epic proportions. Imagine a resource designed to arm these explorers for the full-contact sport of interpersonal karate, a compendium etching itself into the very silicon of their understanding (not unlike the silicon of beach sand, and certainly distinct from the silicone enhancing certain mammalian features, though feel free to picture technicians in bunny suits, ethics be damned, contaminating clean rooms with enthusiastic, uh, ejections). Envision using CAD workstations – terminals of the imagination! – to digitally insert yourself and your amorous escapades into the photolithographic printing process, ensuring you don’t forget your UV light mask as you’re processed, diced, and packaged between substrate and heat spreader. (Alright, this is getting a tad… vivid. This recent penchant for parenthetical asides is clearly derailing my focus. From this point onward, a rubber band nipple flick will be the penalty for any further bracketed indulgences.)
Having weathered countless informational bombardments myself, a veteran of synaptic re-wiring if you will, it’s hardly surprising that I devoured this book while, shall we say, electroplating a fortunate companion. This created a suitably receptive environment for new knowledge to flood dormant neural pathways with… let’s call it coital custard. However, after such self-debasement, seeking wisdom from manuals like this feels somewhat absurd. It’s akin to a seasoned cage fighter enrolling in beginner kickboxing – one merely encounters rudimentary steps already long mastered. “But,” I mused, adjusting my posterior for optimal comfort amidst bristly facial terrain, “This doesn’t diminish my duty to assess this ambitious work based on its stated aim. It’s not for those of us orbiting the far reaches of the deviancy galaxy. No, it’s for those seeking an erogenous directory, a Rolodex of romance, for when randomly dialing digits yields only static.” And in this, it undeniably succeeds.
Further reflections, mid-electroplating session:
“I’m struck by the conspicuous absence of the Kentucky Tractor Puller… What’s that? Oh, that tickles, say it again, clearly. Yes, anyway, it’s when you take his… Charlton Heston… into your… Seikan Tunnel… and then clench with the force of a thousand walnuts, visualizing Jean-Claude Van Damme for added intensity. Want a demonstration? Fine. Are you alright? Sounded like a strangled goose. Been hitting the glutes, you see. Then, you take off running, dragging the gentleman behind you like a hirsute Volkswagen. Hilarious when your grip is strong enough to haul him from bedroom seclusion into public humiliation, perhaps even traffic. Tired already? Weakling! Did you think the daily shoe leather chewing regimen was optional? Gums bleeding? Rather piss blood, would you? Thought so.”
“And nowhere in these thousand pages will you find the Skittles Harvest. Stop pretending to be asleep, I can feel your pulse. Skittles Harvest. Partner consumes a bag of Skittles daily for a week, abstinence enforced – no manual or nocturnal emissions allowed. Ah, awake now. Vigilance is key, asynchronous sleep schedules essential. Detect nocturnal arousal? Lightly shank them with your designated stabbing implement. Week’s end, Daniel Plainview gets to… drink your milkshake. Confusing metaphor? You are Daniel Plainview. You. Drink. Their. Milkshake. All of it. Clearer? And here I can’t help but channel (badly) Daniel Day-Lewis: Draaaaaaaaaaainage. Anyway, whip them into a sideways trot, eyes near-full sclera – crazed horse look – haploid cells plotting reproductive platform mutiny. Then, as fruity goodness erupts into your laughing face, gargle, “I can taste the rainbow!””
“Finally, the crossbow fantasy. Post-coital bolt-to-the-shoulder-blades scenario. Recurring dream: treadmill-bound humanoid, Huey Lewis and the News at full blast. Sneak up. Perfect stride moment. Release bolt. Limbs seize, spider-like collapse onto the belt, launched across the room into free weights. The Ted Nugent. Nowhere in this guide.”
