awaits me every night in my bed. Under the soft, velvety
moonlight, I approach him. Cool shafts of lunar light
accent his strong arms, his vaguely Jewish nose, and
his burning blue eyes. He is the perfect man, a man
among men--almost as if Adonis, Montgomery Clift,
and Stone Cold Steve Austin got together and figured
out how to make a baby. There are other men, to be
sure--about three billion at last count--but there
are no other men who I'd like to, you know, do. But
not only do I want to do him, I want to do him and
do him, and after that, do him after he's been done.
I want to De Doo Doo Doo, De Da Da Da him. I want
him so badly, I could pop a load right here and now.
We both know that I am here for his pleasure. He can
smell my lust as if it's a day-old baloney sandwich
and winks playfully, beckoning me to slip under the
tasteful, zebra-striped sheets.
To my horny delight,
I observe that he has already "pitched a tent."
I reach under the covers and forcefully grab his
pink burrito. Squealing like a Vietnamese pot-bellied
pig, he arches his back ecstatically as if struck
"Do you like when I do
that?" I ask him with equal measures of playfulness
"Oh yes," he gasps as
if running to catch a bus, "I
lllloove it when you do that!"
"Do I know how to touch
your pee-pee better than anyone else touches your
pee-pee?" I query him like a schoolteacher ready
to flunk a student if he doesn't give the correct
answer. "In other words, am I the best pee-pee-toucher
"God, yes," he painfully
grunts as if a chicken bone is lodged in his esophagus,
"you're the tops! The very tippy-tops! The zippety-doo-dah
tippety-tops! And I'm not just saying that!"
"Howzabout if I pinch
your nipple?" I beseech him.
for beseeching me," he says. "Yes, please--pinch
my man-nip as if it were a strawberry you were testing
for ripeness at your local produce store. Pinch
one, then the other, then the first one again, 'til
they stand firm and pointy like pinkish Hershey's
As I squeeze his nips,
he flaps and flails like a speared fish and makes
a screeching sound not unlike that of the giant
pterodactyl in those Japanese monster movies. He's
havin' a GOOD time.
"How about your armpits,
laddie?" I ask. "Should I gently run my fingertips
around your armpit area,
hovering ever-so-slightly above the soft, pale skin
if I were a fat old grey-ponytailed lady in a poncho
performing Reiki healing?"
would never be able to talk to you again if you
didn't pay some erotic attention to my ultra-sensitive
armpit area," he admonishes me. "I wouldn't send
you birthday balloons, and I'd erase your number
from my cell phone."
Fearing such abandonment,
I move my bony, veiny, ten-years-older-looking-than-the-rest-of-me
fingers around his armpit area like a gentle wind
softly blowing the sands of the Sahara. He screams
as if being stabbed repeatedly by a gang of street
toughs, only his screams are those of pleasure...I
you like it if I sucked your dick?" I ask, growing
as bold as
a used-car salesman. "Would it feel good if I just
wrapped my lips around your Love Pole and started
chowing down as if it were a spicy hot link and
I were a Mexican migrant worker on a fifteen-minute
"There is nothing on
earth--nor on Mars or Venus--that I would love more
than if you were to suck my dick," comes his earnest
reply. "If you were to suck my dick, it would be
as if a giant slingshot sent us catapulting into
the astral plane, where nose hairs never grow and
you can eat all the donuts you want without gaining
weight. But both you and I know that this will never
happen. You will never be able to suck my dick."
"WHY?!?" I pout, as if
told that Santa wasn't real.
"Because you just aren't
limber enough," he says.
"How hard is it to suck
he counters, "if it's your own dick, Jim."
"Whatever do you mean?"
I ask, flabbergasted.
"I mean, NIMROD"--he
sits up, quickly losing his erection--"that this
is only a dream, and you're only having sex with
"You mean that YOU'RE
"That's right, Einstein--I'm
you, and you're me. I am he as you are he as you
are me and we are all together."
I suddenly awake, hard
as a rock, and finish the job... sadly, with my
hand rather than my mouth.
I DIDN'T NEED TO LOOK
FAR to find my perfect lover. I didn't need
to look at all. It's always been right there, under
If I could clone myself,
the first thing I'd do is have sex with myself.
I'd grab myself by my greasy hair, shove myself
into bed, and launch into the most perfectly symmetrical
'69' in world history. Who knows my dick better
than I? Who, indeed, has touched it more than I?
Who is more intimately involved with my brain's
pleasure center than I am? Who knows when to go
harder or softer, faster or slower, like I do? Aided
by the miracle of cloning, I'd become my own sexual
biofeedback machine, lost in the forbidden joys
of onanistic solipsism.
If I were able to clone
myself, I'd marry myself in Hawaii or the Netherlands,
or wherever it is that allows same-person marriages.
I'm my perfect match. I not only grasp my physical
needs, but also my emotional needs. No one else
could possibly understand me as well as me and myself
understand each other. I know and accept all of
my darkest secrets. I'd never get into a fight with
myself due to miscommunication. I would take care
of myself, and myself would take care of me in turn.
I'd walk hand-in-hand with myself, strolling through
an apple grove, telling myself jokes.
I wouldn't kick myself
out of bed, I can tell you that much. I fancy myself.
When I see myself walking down the street, I get
a tingly feeling. When I catch a glimpse of myself
in the mirror, I think, "Oooh--I wants me some of
that!" I'm a complete fag about myself...but nobody
else. I don't want to have sex with other men, because
I can't see how it would be pleasurable. I don't
like the stink of men. Don't like their bodies.
Don't share many of their interests or insecurities.
I am disgusted by other men, yet tantalized by myself.
Opposites attract? Not
in my case.
I am attracted to a man--myself.
But I'm not technically
As a friend once said
to me, "What's the only thing cooler than Jim Goad?
TWO Jim Goads. And what's cooler than two Jim Goads?
Nothing. There is nothing cooler than two
It would be arrogant
for me to disagree.
You can call me all the
homo names you want, and I still wouldn't want to
have sex with you--only myself. Me and my good pal
Sigmund Freud have found that the biggest homos
are ALWAYS the ones who make a point of telling
you they aren't homos, always the ones who are calling
everyone ELSE homos, always the ones who are obsessed
with homosexuality far more than any out-of-the-closet
homosexual. So go ahead, ya repressed nelly-boy--tell
me you've never touched a dick. Not even your own,
right? And pretend you've never tried--and failed--to
suck on your own wang-a-dang-diddly-dang, you lying
Civilization is built
upon the fact that 99% of men are unable to suck
their own dicks. If most guys were able to do this,
as the joke goes, they'd never leave the house.
Our entire infrastructure would crash to the ground
as most men sat at home, eternally gobbling their
Only one percent of men
are said to possess the magical combo of penis size
and spinal dexterity to be able to self-blow. If
a dog licks his balls because he can, it follows
that the only reason men don't suck their own dicks
is because they can't. There's a rumor, probably
false, that the ugly-girl-looking rocker Marilyn
Manson had one or more of his ribs removed so he
could auto-fellate. And there's an online joke that
speculates Adam--the first man--originally had his
rib removed for similar reasons.
Sucking my own dick would
bring closure...the circle would be complete. I
would become Ouroboros, the snake eating its own
tail, a self-sufficient mythic creature eternally
reproducing through mitosis and auto-fellatio.
Let the yoga classes