It’s occurring to me today that readers might be curious about what it’s like for me to wear jackets. If I’m being honest, I rarely wear them when I’m working. Ron’s got a solid reputation in the industry for being clean. Oh sure, the 70’s saw its fair share of crab salad, but by some miracle, he’s never had to deal with anything of the permanent variety.
The first time Ron slapped some rubber on me was when he was 17.
And yeah, it was shocking. He placed that gooey disc over my eye and then began to drape it down my shaft. It felt too tight and snug around me, and I didn’t understand what it was all about. But the moment I was plunged into Shelly Blisky’s hoo-hoo, I started to panic.
“I’m going to drown in my own goo!”
“Stop!! Ronnie, Stop it!” I thought.
But in and out I went, and as expected, the goo followed. Thankfully, there was this tiny little reservoir at the top of my head and it managed to collect most of it. So despite the fact that some of it seeped down around me, I did not drown. I guess that’s obvious since I’m here today to blog the story.
Eesh. Is this too much information? Probably lost a few readers, but I gotta be forthright and honest.
I guess the only other noteworthy story is the time Ronnie covered me again, only this time, the panic was that I thought I had suffered some kind of stroke. I could not feel a goddamn thing. I learned later that Ron had used a rubber with its own numbing cream inside, to delay his ejaculation.
He could have warned me beforehand. Ah, but who am I to complain? For more than 30 years, I’ve been as free as the wind, because my man is a guru of ejaculatory control, and because he’s mastered the art of something George Bush couldn’t with respect to Iraq: pulling out.
