On Humanity and Procreation
I’d like to start off with a question. Think hard for a moment all right? Here it comes: “What is the basis of humanity?”
Now you’re probably answering “God” or “Family” or “legacy,” but you are dumb and you are also wrong. The basis of humanity is Pro-Creation.
Yes that is correct: Pro-creation. It’s been that way forever. Since the dawn of man cavemen would gather around fires with women, only to club them, drag them behind a bush and then fornicate upon them. It’s a proven fact. Not much has changed in modern times, just change “fire” to “keg” and “caveman” to “frat boy.” And instead of all the cavemen screaming shit like “Ooogah-Chuckah!” They probably will just be screaming things like “OHMAHGOD I JUST DRANK 500 BEERS BROHAM, INCUBUS ROCKS, I LOVE TITS.”
I too have fulfilled this primal need; the stories I am about to discuss are not romanticized or beautiful like the movies or softcore porn books with Fabio on the cover. Rather, they are what pro-creation really is, awkward, strange, and somewhat beautifully gross.
My first story is centered on a girl whom I will henceforth dub as “Octave Girl.” This already sounds bad, doesn’t it?
One night, “Octave Girl” and myself were indulging in some carnal delights in my parent’s bedroom. Now I have my fingers up inside her and she’s doing all these sexy pelvis moves and shit, and its just lovely, but suddenly this bitch just goes and ruins it.
In the heat of the moment she suddenly grabs my face and pulls it down an inch away from her own. With her sweaty hands clenched tight to my disheveled hair she cranes her head in circles with her neck and lets out this beastly growl, “OHHH.” Now that would have been fine, since most “Ohhh’s,” exchanged in the throes of passion are usually pretty sexy, but “Octave Girl’s” voice had the tendency to drop about ten octaves every time she did it. And when a typical “Oh,” turns into an “OHHHH,” it suddenly feels like you’re fingering an Old Italian baritone who is trying to serenade you.
So I’m thinking “Oh God did I hurt her?” I stop and ask her, “Are you all right? Are my fingers over stimulating your vulva or whatever the hell it is I’m tending to down here?”
And in here crackly Darth Vader voice she just says, “Sick it in, just the tip.”
Now you may claim that I am not a man because this freaked me the fuck out. You may claim that I am a pussy because after we were done and she was laying in on my bed, her sex hair splattered all over my pillow with her eyes rolled up in her head, and her hands on her midsection, I sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed with my hands clamped as if I was just about to curl into a ball.
And when the first words that come out of your mouth post-sex are “Do you wanna talk about it?” You know you’re fucked.
But alas, I cannot judge “Octave Girl” or her Chewbacca-esque vocalist tendencies since I myself have had quite a few set backs in the throes of passion.
Later on I had taken on my first girlfriend, and one night we were feeling the heat in the throes of intense passion. She went down on me, which was great, but I couldn’t get my dick up. It was horrible, here she was viciously sucking on this limp pasta noodle and I was laying on my back like “Oh God, Oh God.” She finally gives up on my dick and sits up and is like “this isn’t working,” and I’m like, “You think?”
I was so pissed off at my dick the next week. I wouldn’t talk to it. I remember getting out of the shower and seeing its beady little eye starting at me in the mirror and I’d just look at it with contempt and betrayal. “You mother fucker, I trusted you. I trusted you to do one thing in life: erect, and you fucked it up! You pathetic floppy appendage! You comical phallic symbol of failure!”
Between the vocal pitch changes and my rip van winkle of a dick I found that things just were not working out. And I found myself a failure to humanity.
But with this failure to humanity I learned that I couldn’t take life that seriously. I learned that yeah, we all have these primal urges and they’re awkward and fucked up, but we have to enjoy them for what they are; even when they’re terrible and out of our control. From lovers that crave just the tip to dicks that just don’t take the hint; we have to learn to laugh at them. We have to tell these stories and make the humanity pour thorough. We’re a fucking gross race, deal with it and laugh about it.