Story time: It’s a tragedy So a few years ago a wonderful f..

Story time: It’s a tragedy So a few years ago a wonderful fan randomly sent me a fucking machine. I’m not sure where you’ve gone, fine sir, but thank you. This was met with some…trepidation in my part. It wasn’t on my wishlist, and I had a feeling it was from a questionable-quality dropshipping company. BUT you don’t look a gift whore in the mouth, ya? So I tested it. On a watermelon. 🍉 This was done for science, and because I value my clam and would not like it jammed to ruin without having a vague knowledge of what specific kind of ruin I’m in for. Like, beat up the pussior but within predictable reason. (Video and pictorial evidence of the melon aftermath exists but has so far been lost to an old iPhone) Essentially, the melon survived and I was…intrigued. Onward: to Clam Town. There was a significant amount of positioning, angles, wrenching joints, and only one attachment…shockingly similar to what one would expect of an initial meetcute. The benefits however…were not without remark: A marvelous lack of mood-ruining speech (if cis men are going to fuck quietly maybe they could also just not talk elsewise?), absolute endless stamina, no requirement to ‘perform’, no bitching about extra toys, AND the rewarding ability to control the speed of jackhammering. Overall, a middling to good opportunity to get decently railed, and get a c-c-c-combo on the toys. FINISH HER style. Even if its make and model limited the quality, power, and positions, it was just overall a good decent indecent time! So last night I’m setting up to get railed. Absolutely dicked down into oblivion. Perpetually and unceasingly pumped. Combo items ready. Hydration nearby. Edible and body high locked and loaded. Clam Town tickets ready 🎫 , not first class by any means but I deserve a vacation! Like many dates with a decent partner, we start well…there’s real chemistry. Everything is going smoothly! Right then I had full confidence that I knew how my night was going to go. … Now here, my vaguely horrified, perverse, or just curious readers, is where tragedy strikes. (Aside: Dudes…we’re used to you lasting only a few minutes. We are often completely ok with it as long as that’s not when you’re DONE with us. As long as you know that most women don’t get anywhere from repeatedly inserting yourself into us like quarters at the arcade.) Ankles behind my ears, getting fully rammed, and— K⃞   l⃞   o⃞   n⃞   k⃞ — oh no. Busted. Not ‘ahegao, busted a nut style.’ No no, more like ‘ 🐕 air-humping sadly into the void’ style. Broken. Like so many dreams, like so many Just Ok relationships that had come before. Broken, useless, and sad. So suffice to say… I hid the body in the trash and toured Clam Town on my own, as you do in such situations. 🪦 😔 In my grief, I’m not sure if I’m in the market for another mechanical friend at this moment. Our endeavors were not a match for a good version of the real thing, of course. I think, in time, I would be open to new experiences. Until then, well…I will look back in vague appreciation of the physical aspects of our relationship, content with the ideal ratio of emotional damage vs pound town parade that it delivered. I am submitting an apology to future living partners as I go through this emotional time. Send flowers, or a contributions and recommendations for a new device 🙏🏻