“C’mon dude, work with me here. I swear I’ll be more selective going forward. GO LIMP YOU BASTARD!”
Okay so maybe taking Viagra wasn’t the smartest idea after all. Let me be clear that I don’t need it; I’m a healthy twenty-three-year-old guy. And I’m hung like Justin Bieber, only thicker. Yeah, I saw the pictures online—color me curious. But back to my predicament: My buddy swore the little blue pill is the ultimate sexual enhancer so I decided to partake. I’d like to point out that most guys don’t regularly get the chance to have a horizontal party with two hot sisters and said chance was presented to me on a silver platter. Before you get grossed out, they’re step-sisters so it’s not as weird as it sounds. And did I mention how fucking hot they are? We’re talking Pamela Anderson from the good ol’ Baywatch days. Not current Pam because let’s face it; a Susan Sarandon she is not. I mean seriously, could Suz be any sexier? She’s aged like fine wine—a vintage I’d drink like a motherfucking Slurpee. Great, now I’m thinking about banging hot MILF’s which certainly isn’t helping my boner situation. I’ve always had a thing for older women.
Anyhoo, I’m getting off track again. Where was I? Oh yeah, I’m sitting in the Emergency Room parking lot talking to my painfully hard dick. The commercials warn that you should seek medical attention if your erection lasts more than four hours. Well, here I am, EIGHT hours and TWO ROUNDS with the sisters later, with a fucking hard-on that won’t quit. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was being punk’d. Who would’ve ever thought I’d be complaining about my dick staying hard for too long? If you’ve never suffered this cruel fate, let me assure you; it fucking hurts. I think I may have actually broken the poor guy. He’s raw from way too much friction and don’t even get me started on how difficult it was to take a piss.
I slam my head back into the seat, take a deep breath, and groan in frustration. I rip the keys out of the ignition and slide out of my truck as carefully as possible. With the front of my shorts tented in the most obvious way possible, I stroll through the automatic doors of North Seattle Memorial and walk up to the lady at the front desk. The look of revulsion on her face as she eyeballs my pocket rocket matches my level of embarrassment.
“May I help you?” she inquires with a side order of stink eye.
“Um…” I nod toward my bulge. “I think I should see a doctor about this.”
Her eyebrows reach her hairline. “What seems to be the problem, sir?”
“My erection-way won’t go own-day,” I whisper in mediocre Pig Latin. “I took some Iagra-vay and I think my ick-day may be oken-bray.”
“I see. So, your chief complaint is that you took some Viagra and you think you may have broken your penis as a result?”
I glare at her. “Lady, do you not know the purpose of Pig Latin?”
I swear to God her lips twitch. “I’m sorry, sir, but the purpose behind Pig Latin is not in the Employee Handbook.”
“Well, it should be,” I mutter.