Cartoon Sex Game

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Men are basically lazy. Let's face it, who do you think invented the remote control for the television? It was a married guy who didn't have any kids to change the channel. We're also not the most patient of God's creatures. How many guys out there have, at one time or another, wanted a pocket knife while trying to take your girlfriend's or wife's bra off? Especially the ones with the hidden front clasps which, by the way, I believe are also used to secure the engines to the wings of a Boeing 747. Most of us become grunting animals with a sports game on the television in a bar too. Hell, if it weren't for the beer and car commercials, we'd probably piss in our pants before a televised game was over. As it is, I've seen some guys do just this, only because they didn't want to miss any of the action.

Also, God forbid that a rational thought ever enter our head while we have a hard-on. I'm not really sure, but I think this is the criteria Catholic's use to elect a new Pope. I don't mean they pick a candidate who can still think with a hard-on, although this in itself would be a miracle, but that the new pontiff must be past the age of even getting a hard-on!

Where's all this leading to? Regretfully and humiliatingly, I'm trying to work up the courage to tell you about the first time I ever had a climax with a female was present.

Notice, I said 'female present'! She, or in my case the three of them, didn't share in this experience. They only watched. As a reasonably normal and always horny teenager I had many orgasms before this, but I really don't count beating off while looking at a centerfold in some smelly bathroom as having sex. True, you eventually do come and it's better than nothing, but it's just not the same when you're alone and you DO feel like a jerk after you've finished. Is this why some people call it jerking off?

My sex life didn't begin with shapely, beautiful, walking wet-dreams throwing me down the on playground and fucking my brains out. Way back then, if a girl liked you, she hit you a lot and pestered you in the most annoying way. To a boy who couldn't even spell hormones yet, let alone know what they were, this was not a person you wanted to be near. To me, girls were to be avoided. Somewhere along the line, as all 5 and 6 year old boys find out, I realized I was stronger than the girls who were hitting me, so it was only logical that I should start to hit them back.

This was when I first enrolled in the course; Big Brothers - 101. Looking back at this period of time in my life, it's really a shame my school didn't include the subject on their report cards. My parents would have definitely been more proud of me. There were so many Big Brothers, and those of us who attended their classes had a difficult time graduating. Besides learning the relationship between a cold compress and a black eye, I was taught how to properly re-align mangled fingers, the different techniques of stopping a bleeding nose, shown that, yes, I could be lifted up by the ears just like a puppy, and for the last lesson I was amazed to learn the tiny things hanging between my legs had nothing at all to do with how much pee I could retain before I finally had to find a toilet. The small and hard to control rubbery organ, which I seldom pulled out in time anyway, was primarily there for pain! Big Brothers always hit or kicked these first so they must be protected at all times.

With all this new knowledge, I focused my attention on sports and stopped hitting little girls. I felt thought if someone I was competing against in a sport hit me, I could justifiably and probably hit them back without the threat of retaliation from a Big Brother. From the age of 7 until I turned 16, I ran up against a whole different set of problems, though. Not to appear boastful, but I was pretty good at almost every sport I tried out for. I didn't have any silly dreams of becoming an All American. I just wanted to be good enough to make everyone forget about Johnny Unitas, Wilt Chamberlain and Sandy Koufax.

But again, those dreaded girls came out of the woodwork. Thankfully, they had retired their Mohammed Ali like jabs and, more importantly, their brothers were chained up in basements, or in jail where they belonged. The girls now began giving me these strange looks instead of hitting me, and started to ask me to walk them home from school, like I was some kind of bodyguard. A few even suggested we do our homework together. Boy, these frilly little things sure were dumb. I could take the garbage out at home by myself! I had to be told 8 or 9 dozen times, but I certainly didn't need their help doing it. Little did I know all of their kindness made these girls even more dangerous. To be fair, they weren't this way intentionally. Anyway, this was when I enrolled in my second extracurricular studies; 'The Disposition of a Jealous Boyfriend'.

I can't really say this course was more difficult than 'Big Brothers', but I sure did hate all the pop-quizzes. You know the ones I'm talking about, where you walk around a corner and suddenly four or five guys are standing there, looking at you as if you just said something bad about ALL of their mothers. If the female readers of this story think men have no idea what it's like to be gang-banged, you're mistaken! Some of us have a pretty fair idea of what it must feel like. The best result of the class 'Jealous Boyfriends' was that our family doctor and I became close friends. I also learned a lot about hospital emergency room procedures and X-ray machines.

After a particularly hard homework assignment from two jealous guys and three of their friends one afternoon, I was waiting in the antiseptic hallway of my new campus; "The Hospital of Forms, Forms, and More Forms'. As people walked by, I was trying to keep my crotch covered. Being 14 at the time, I thought everyone wanted to see how big or small I was down there. Nobody was really sneaking any peaks, but they kept giving me these funny looks.

"What happened this time, Ken?" a soft voice asked.

It was Mrs. Unbelievable, a young and very attractive volunteer worker I first met when I had my nose broken a couple years back, and who I last saw a few months ago when my friendly doctor finally fixed the hernia left over from my 'Big Brother' days.

"I think my arm and a couple of my fingers are broke this time." I replied, lifting my left hand up and forgetting all about the gown.

Although it hurt like hell and tears came to my eyes, I wanted to show her it beat the shit out of getting kicked in the nuts again.

"That looks painful so why don't you put your hand back in your lap, and we'll get you over to X-ray."

When her gentle fingers wrapped themselves around my wrist to place my hand down, the pain disappeared. I suddenly became aware of two things. Her tits! Those magnificent, missile-shaped mountains of flesh were almost poking me in the eyes. I could even see the white lace covering them up beneath her blouse.

"You can cut my hand off, just don't move." I found myself mumbling.

Luckily, Mrs. Bountiful-Boobs misinterpreted my words.

Enter Fantasy Toons

"You're such a baby! Of course we have to move you. If your arm and fingers really are broken, the doctor will have to reset them but I promise he won't have to amputate your hand."

I almost jumped out of the wheelchair when I felt her hands on my thighs, trying to close the gown.

"Honestly, Ken! I think you're a bit of a show-off! You're always putting this thing on the wrong way."

"Everyone can see my rear end if I wear it the other way!"

"Would you rather they see something else? Oh well, just keep it closed until I get you to X-ray."

I was definitely going to keep it closed! I now had a hard-on you wouldn't believe, and it wouldn't go away!

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" Mrs. Juggernaut-Jugs asked when we reached the elevator.

I couldn't reply. I had lost the ability to speak the moment her tits started bouncing up and down on my head while she wheeled me through the hospital. I then felt her leaning over me, the front of her soft warheads poking into my shoulders now.

"Don't you think you should cover up again?" she almost whispered as the elevator doors opened.

I don't believe I'll ever be more embarrassed as I was then. I looked up and saw two girls, maybe 18 or 19, both of them wearing the red stripped outfits and both of them giggling their heads off while staring at my lap. I must have been dreaming about Mrs. Nike Missiles because my dick was harder than ever and sticking straight up out of the gown I had on backward.

"I'm sure you two have something better to do," my private Florence Nightinggale said, "so stop embarrassing this poor boy and move out of the way."

Just before she pushed my wheelchair, I leaned my head back to beg her to wait for the next elevator. While gazing at the two perfumed beauties only inches above me, my hand slipped and out popped my dick again. I must have looked like someone who just received a lobotomy, cause all I could do was drool over the two lace covered mounds which were about to smother me.

When her hands closed the front of my gown and then patted it in place, I went off like a rocket! My dick sprang free once more and waved around, spraying my cum like I had never done in the bathroom back home.

No, the two girls in the elevator didn't suddenly drop to their knees and start devouring my dick. And no, Mrs. Make-Me-Lose-Control didn't begin to lick my eruption from her fingers and beg me for more. In my mind they did all this, but in reality the two girls began laughing their asses off and Mrs. Baker (the volunteer's real name) jumped away from me like I had some dreadful contagious disease.

After finishing in the X-Ray department, someone else wheeled me over to get a cast put on my broken hand and arm. The coaches at school cried a little, but I didn't tell them what really happened. After all, I still had other limbs to worry about!

Yes, the story of how I acted like a sex pervert by jacking-off in the elevator had run the rumor mill even before I was released. My friendly doctor told me the version he heard, and I gave him mine after he explained Mrs. Baker could be fired because of what happened. The only good thing about the whole incident was how everything was blown out of proportion. All the female nurses kept checking me out with sly smiles, and several offered to help me into my street clothes. Of course, I wasn't as big and didn't come as much as all the rumors said, but who was I to spoil all those dreams (I'm talking about mine, not all the nurses).

I did have a chance to see Mrs. Baker several times later, but she would only smile, say hello, and quickly walk away from me. Can't say as I really blame her. All those rumors were more cruel to her than me, but they did eventually die down.

I know this is shorter than the other stories I have written and not near as hot, but although it isn't the memory I wish I had, I hope you enjoy it just the same. I also made this as humorous as possible, to avoid feeling the embarrassment again. Who wouldn't?