I have this premature ejaculation problem that really plagues my sex life. After Monday night's show, I decided to hit Lot 61 in Manhattan to gauge the pulse of the New York celebrity scene and hear what the polloi thought of that night's Big Nation Radio episode.
During the course of the evening, I'm introduced to Tara Reid and learn that she's a big fan of the show. Anyway, long story short, I take her back to the Soho Grand for a nightcap and wind up getting her so shit-faced she thinks I'm Steve Buscemi and comes back to my room. I strip her down and am about a condom away from penetration when I feel myself "peaking" too soon. Shit! I try everything: I reach down and squeeze my base, I think of my grandmother, and even punch myself in the balls. No such luck. Then, just as I'm about to spunk on the sheets without telling her, I hear a familiar BUZZ. Yep! My Musclephone was trippin'. I grabbed it and learned that Silvio Samuel plans to compete in both the Regular and Under 202 class at this year's Olympia. I'm simultaneously mesmerized and flaccid by this incredibly important alert.
Suddenly, Tara's moans remind me of both why I'm here and why I always carry Roophies. I briefly envision Silvio striking a most muscular in BOTH weight classes and miraculously I'm ready to go again. Seeing how Tara is actually moaning from cardiac arrest and not excitement, I dispense with the condom and enter the loose and well-worn wizard sleeve of Tara's American Pie. The excitement of being with a dead celebrity indeed proves too much to hold back. I'm just nanoseconds away from the first artificial insemination of an unconscious Hollywood starlet when I hear it again. BUZZ. BUZZ.
Shit! It's too late. I've pathetically dripped my salvation into the thimble-sized cup known as Tara's belly button.
BUZZ. BUZZ. Suddenly it hits me like a Blechman hug with a boner: I realize it's too late for me but not too late for Tara! I whip out the travel-size Astroglide and lube up my Blackberry Pearl and shove it up Tara's anal stadium. I hear the continual buzzing and look for some kind of reaction on Tara's face. Nothing. I think of calling Mary-Kate Olson to clean up the mess but decide to give it one last chance. "Live! Live! LIVE!" I scream as I pound on her chest with what little I remember from 8th grade CPR training and 'The Abyss'. Nothing. My mind starts to wonder. I wonder what will happen to my car parked illegally on Hudson Street. And what's the name of the really good defense lawyer on MD and what the fuck is so important in bodybuilding at 4:30 a.m. that Tara's ass is still vibrating from incoming text messages.
I begin to cry when suddenly Tara's eyes flip wide open and she starts screaming, "Yes, yes, YES! I'm coming! Ohmyfuckinggod!" Never one to miss an opportunity, I leap back on top of her and fake a few meaningless thrusts so I can take credit for her multiple orgasms. Tara climaxes so loudly that I get a text message from Isaac in Denver telling me to keep it down. When I woke up the next morning Tara was gone, but I found a note she left me on the nightstand. It read:
Thanks Musclephone!
