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How An Aggravated Consumer Can Snatch A Compatible Fuck Buddy

There is only one real remedy for life's stressors—snapping one off. And that is where this all-too-personal path to consumer paradise reaches its destination point. The VerSpanken!

If you are anything like me, you've all but come right out and declared celibacy, after an aggravating and hauntingly unforgettable cross-section of incorrigible see-you-next-Tuesdays left you ruined for all prospective women of the present or future.

But you're a man. You've got needs. So what do you do? Hey Jack, this is the twenty-first century. An artificial vagina (or anus, or life-like cast of Belladonna's feet, or pair of soiled panties purportedly worn by a porn star) is just a mouse-click away.

Sure. Yeah. But how do you know which one to order? There are a lot of faux-fish in the sea, pthalate or no.

Well, after myriad murky experiences (Burning Angel love doll) and close-but-no-spasm-chasms (Doc Johnson Brown Sugar Anus), I've been placed in a comfortable chair (read: masturbator) that suits me as I'm sure it will suit you.

You might call it the grrreatest thing to come out of Germany since Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS or, at least, shiza porn (if you're cuckoo for the cocoa-flavored starfish). Me? I call it mi amour.

At first you may encounter resistance:

After fifteen minutes of rigorous attempts that left my pointer finger and palms in no condition to masturbate Rammstein-style, I still could not get the stubborn black release button on the top of the "smooth" VerSpanken wiener wand to work. It would not budge, and if the thing would not open despite efforts every bit as violent as The Night of the Long Knives, then I figured I better just let it go before I broke something, on the toy or on myself. Nobody wants to whack it with splints on their digits; that makes squeezing the mushroom tip damn near impossible.

I tried to follow the paper that came with it, conveniently labeled "Training" instead of "Instructions," because instructions are for sub-human troglodytes and training is what you must go through if you and your wiener want to join the Master[bater] Race. But it wasn't happening. No tug was tough enough to part them hard plastic meat curtains.

So I figured just stick it and, if my own veener schnitzel were to get stuck inside, thus requiring surgery or the Jaws of Life, then so be it. After all, "home entertainment for men" is supposed to be every bit as adventurous as anything we watch on the Spike network, right?

Giving it a liberal lick and spit, I did my best to schlep my by-now-wilting weenus in between the two cold, blue folds that looked (and felt) less like a woman's vagina, and more like the mat in a gymnasium. Memories of my high school basketball coach were abruptly conjured by the dull heavy gym mat texture of the two gel folds, and my boner returned. Shirts or skins? You can bet I drew skins!

Thrusting back and forth did little to arouse me since the sensation reminded me of nothing so much as the dread Nickelodeon Gak debacle of my formative boyhood meat-beat years. That had been an incident that had temporarily left me with a purplish-red rash on my Rodman and a severe depletion of confidence when returning to school. Imagine being on the short bus, scratching your crotch raw to the snickering delight of bullies, and arriving at school as the only fat boy in attendance who had to walk around like the Penguin from Batman with little hardening dingleberry balls of slime slithering down and out of his pant leg at recess. Needless to say, this was not a sensation I was keen on repeating.

And leave it to the Germans to invent something that is torturous to assemble, makes you want to cry and comes in aesthetic designs- lumpy, misshapen and, in this case, in a hideous color- that are about as alluring as doing the two-backed beast with the venomous drooling Bitch of the Alien franchise. H.R. Geiger was a German, right? I rest my case...or do I?

Writing it off as a fluke, I moved on to the "Bumpy" Water Wiener, since bumpy was the feeling I liked most, a feeling that immediately brings me back to days of yore when I'd find myself bumping up on an actual vaginal introitus or balls deep in a willing and accommodating butt that hadn't been fully evacuated pre-foreplay. And taking that leap of faith proved to be just the introduction to my Higher Power that I needed!

Yes! Yes! YESSSSSS!!!! You see, the above cons are just the rites of passage to the purest spasmodic solo event of your existence! Once you get these groovy oval-shaped wackadoos going, it's just as advertised—the closest to the quivering, muscle-clenching spazz-out of real one-on-one sexual relations as any pud puller's gonna get.

No other sex toy on the market, with the possible exception of the acrobatics-inspiring Burning Angel Vibrating Pussy & Ass (a good work-out, if nothing else) can totally milk you to the last of your reserves within eight hours of owning it! Maybe the VerSpanken looks like something MacGuyver would gift to John Rambo for neck-slitting situations that call for pocket ergonomics, but that doesn't negate the value of this piece!

All dick and fluid jokes aside, no toy has yet to come (okay, I swear that's the last one) close to replicating that thigh-clenching, body-buzzing, spasmodic sensation of a real life battle with the buffalo gums...until now!

We're talking about a device which comes with variety ("Bumpy," "Smooth," "Wavy"), both in texture and in choice of inserts (FoamyWeiner, or the easily chillable or microwaveable WaterWeiners). 

I tested the veracity of the WaterWeiners name myself by taking it for a test run in the shower, and I can tell you that it holds its head above water, for sure. Turn the H knob up on your shower until the tempestuous blast strips the skin off your spinal column, wait mere seconds for steam to form, slap your favorite pages of puerile smut up on the tile walls of your private stall (they will stick, no tape or lube required; I recommend the Paz de la Huerta issue of Playboy) and fall back to dig in and fuck the bubbles out of this fantastic device!

In no time at all you'll "feel the squeeze" and see stars as you moon over Paz (Oh Paz! I loved you in The Limits of Control!). And, as your baby-creating effluence is funneled down the drain and you swell from your temples to your toes and the big blue vein in between, you'll think of your Uncle Bob as afterglow renders you cum dumb...and you'll thank your lucky stars that there are German people.

The Germans may have a checkered past (Heil!), but the Krouts at Big Teaze Toys are benevolent and remarkable innovators, and the VerSpanken, their key invention, is the greatest thing to come out of Germany since Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS or, at least, David Hasselhoff.

Unlike other marital aids and the like, VerSpanken puts you in touch with your penis, too. By virtue of the fact that your ruby red pecker helmet isn't hidden within a sheath or supplemental surrogate snatch, you can actually get to see him peering up at you with his one eye. 

This compact erectile iron maiden sucks you in and doesn't relinquish its hold over you until the last hot, spasmodic spurt. What else could a cat want out of a pleasure-extolling cum receptacle? If it's aesthetics you're after I advise you bring along a Burning Angel Vibrating Pussy & Ass for visual purposes. Other than that you can leave me and VerSpanken alone, 'cause we've got serious sexual business to tend to, and I get angry when I'm drunk on SEX. Just like ole Ilsa, VerSpanken is a different kind of X. 

In a word? Genie! That's German for genius. 



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