Condom: (n) a thin rubber sheath worn on a man’s penis during sexual intercourse

Sometimes I scold myself for being too candid about my life. There are even family members who think I should spare the public the vivid details of my inanity. But I find that you can never truly achieve heaven until you can say “what the hell?”

I have attempted to use a condom ONCE. (Maybe that’s why I have so many children. I’m thinking there’s a connection somewhere, but shall
not waste your time searching for it.)

I had no instructor on how to place it on my device. I’m sure I did it wrong.

It immediately created two battles: (a) staying on, and (b) me remaining erect enough to grant it a home.

It slipped and slid and I ended up reaching down in the fury and passion of pleasure and ripping it off, finishing ala naturale.

I do understand–this is way too much information. But if I haven’t lost you by now, let me conclude with this thought:

I do not offer my story of the condom because I am suggesting they are worthless, meaningless or should not be applied.

As always, I am poking fun at my fun-poker.

(click the elephant to see what he’s reading!)

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