The Shame of the Imaginary Repression of Man

A few days ago I was granted a gift. A small amount of time that I had devoted to no one but myself. I was absolutely free from any responsibility what so ever. Not a whole lot of time though. Just enough to, say, watch a movie. So I did the logical thing and went to the movies.
I saw ‘The King’s Speech’ because I had already seen everything else that I had wanted to see that was out. The movie was actually really good. Really, REALLY good….. I think. My faint shade of OCD kicked in and tugged away at my thinker strings while I was trying to watch this damn thing.
In the movie Colin Firth plays a guy who becomes King of England, but has a stutter worse than a broken lawn mower. He is married to Elizabeth, who was played by Helena Bonham Carter. She is where my trouble lied. Not because I think she is a bad actor. No. Quite the opposite. I think she is very good. The problem lay in the fact that I have had sex with her.
I’ve not actually had sex with that woman, but I have in my head. I had a sex dream, featuring Ms. Carter, or more specifically a character she played, Marla Singer, about ten years ago. I’m really bad at remembering dreams. The only ones that ever really stick are the sex dreams, and even then, only the really bitchin’ ones. There are a few sex dreams that I carry around in my dream ledger, including the Monica Bellucci dream of ’08, the Natalie Portman dreams of ’07 and ’00, the substitute teacher I had one time in English class dream of ’01, and of course, the literal clusterfuck that was the Spice Girls dream of ’97. Along with its own place in the imaginary coitus hall of fame is the Marla Singer dream.
That dream tried to thrust itself onto the main stage of my thought process as I was watching the movie. I managed to distract myself from my self constructed memories by actually focusing on the movie, but not without some serious thought to other ideas brought about by the combination of the dream and the movie fighting over my attention.
In my head, the woman I saw on the screen had previously been a dirty, dirty girl, even if just in the imagination of an idiot (*moi*). On the screen, she was the Queen of England. So now the thought process comes to its first station: How freaky do royalty get?
Everyone does the nasty. Literally, everyone. Those who haven’t eventually will. It’s human nature. Technology would not progress, art would not inspire, bridges would not be built, wars not fought, chili fries would not satisfy, life on Earth simply would not be possible if it were not for the absolute and finite fact that people like their middle bits to be friends.
There have been a metric fuck ton of people in the world who repress themselves and deny the fact that humans must, and even enjoy, boning. Some found it to be a sin (*Pilgrims*). Some just don’t know what they are missing and refuse to acknowledge it until some higher force deems it okay (*Mormons*). But some just didn’t find it regal enough for them. It was below societal stature to even talk about such ‘beastly’ things. What kills me is the thinking of these folks when out of the public eye, and staring down the barrel of some sweet, sweet loving?
Obviously, Pilgrims, Mormons, and Royalty play hide the scepter. That’s why there is so many them running around. But everyone, EVERYONE, is into something just a little more than the straight forward than the textbook,”Let’s do this as quick as possible as not to anger God”. I’ve never met a Pilgrim, and I’m convinced that Mormons are secretly the freakiest people to own a bed, but I’m really only truly curious about the royalty because of their station in life and the overall pomp and circumstance that comes with it. How do they approach it at all? How do they, as leaders of their people and living epitomes of class and taste, ask their partners, whom retain the earthly privilege of divine right, to do hot, sexy things to them?
Which queens’ wanted to be on top? Which princes’ are kinky little bastards that enjoy a finger in the ass? How many kings’ biggest and most dominating sexual fantasy is to get a hummer while on the royal throne?
That in itself presents another biting situation in my head. How does one of noble birth, or anyone for that matter, ask for a blow job? I mean, without sounding stupid. If one really thinks about it, regardless of where anyone is on the societal spectrum, from king of a people to that guy that shines shoes outside of a barbershop, there is no polite, no regal, or frankly, no romantic way to ask someone for a blow job.
I will take the stance of a man on this because, after all, I’m a man.
Hummer’s are cool. Many people enjoy them. Many people (*I’m looking at the ladies*) don’t enjoy giving them. And I get it. Stuff taste weird. There is no shame in that. Of course that is a massive simplification of a lot of people I have met, known, or heard of. I know that there are loads of women in the world who LOVE to give head, and that there are TONS of guys in the world who would easily pass on a blow-J.
But for those of us who do like them, we have two big (*2*) hurdles to face in order to get our face time (*tee hee*) with the one’s we love.
First, Sucking. There is a lot of stigma that comes from even the word. Most of the world is hard wired from the time we are immature little fuck heads that sucking is something is inherently degrading and therefore funny when someone else is accused of doing so. Although, back then, it was just a word to describe how terrible you are at something (*”You suck at basketball, Pedro. I wish I never picked you for my team”*). As we all grew, so did the definition of the word.
There is a literal, completely non sexual meaning for sucking, but no one cares. 88% of idiot teenage boys will think of mouth sex when they hear a fucking vacuum cleaner. A large percentage of those boys will put that thought and that cleaner both to good use. Ick.
That really only leads to people who disregard the act as something only terrible, or loose (*which they equate to lesser*) people do. And that only stems to folks who disrespect their partners for doing EXACTLY WHAT THEY WANTED THEM TO DO IN THE FIRST PLACE! A giant circle of sexual disrespect and removal of dignity which is really sad and pathetic, but that’s all for another blog.
So to a bunch of people, it might be weird to ask even though they want it because there is so much bad jujo to the idea of sucking; especially if the potential head getter  considers himself highly respectable, or even more so, if they are with someone they truly, really love. How do you, if you’ve never done so, swallow hard enough to ask someone you love to ‘suck’ the most god awfully piece of human anatomy?
Which brings me to my second point.
Aside from the penis being one of the most unpleasant looking, but completely necessary, things in the world, it is also one of the most terribly named things ever. Seriously, fucking ever. I mean like in any branch of any subject the world has ever known. And I’m not just talking about the name ‘penis’. The penis has one of the largest collections of nicknames of anything known to man, and every single one of those names is ungodly awful to the point of making one vomit in rage and embarrassment.
Penis naming falls under two categories: the distastefully sterile or the mind numbingly retarded. Whether penis or cock, phallus or tally whacker,  there is no way to refer to a penis and not feel dumb. Take this moment to think of any nickname for penis that you can. Anyone at all. Say it out loud and I guarantee that you will feel like you either licked a hospital encyclopedia or you will feel like a giant fucking idiot.
I’ll give you a moment. Go ahead……
See? Every goddamn thing we have learned about schlongs since we were children has been built up to fail us when we really need it most. Immature ways of life have made it awkward as shit for the humble, everyday dick sucking enthusiast to ask for the act to be performed on him because years of retarded bullshit has made it hard (*tee hee*) to ask from someone what he wants because he has too much respect for the one he is with and fears projecting the imaginary disrespect he’s been instilled with, or, has too much respect for himself to say the words “Please bob on my knob.”
It’s a lose lose. Somehow.

And then the movie ended. I walked out of the theater knowing that I had seen the end of the movie but feeling that I might have actually missed it because of all the dicks in the way. I’ll probably have to watch it again. I’ll never know if King George enjoyed a nice midnight gobble, or if Queen Elizabeth at one point in her life found nothing more satisfying than being mounted like a lion. At least I’ll always have the Marla Singer dream of ’01


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