Dir: Kevin Moore
We found our dog Benjamin (a.k.a. Benny, a.k.a. Dogatron 3000, a.k.a. Dogface Killah) over half a decade ago on the street. He is the most handsome and regal Cavalier King Charles Spaniel to ever roam the earth, and being homeless was far beneath him. I’ll never know how long he was walking about in the cold, dark world on his own before we found him because I don’t speak dog, and even if I did, he’s not much of a talker. I do know that he was so emaciated and starved when he came home with us that he ate anything he saw—rocks, poop, garbage, etc. It was a sad sight for such royalty, but because dogs are so intelligent, we were able to break him of this habit rather quickly.
I wish humans were as easy to train. Lord knows that many times over the years, I’ve tried my best to show people the error of their ways and correct them with little to no success. I’m not even talking about monumental life-altering changes or anything technical like adding a new amp service to your home or filling out a preschool application—just basic common-sense stuff like not using teeth when giving BJs (especially when the person has fangs), or not attempting suicide every time I leave the house to go to work. The most futile of my corrective attempts resulted in nearly being waterboarded to death.
Case in point: Have you ever tried to mop up the floodwaters of a squirter? FEMA and the Red Cross combined would be ill-equipped to handle the task; there just aren’t enough sandbags on earth to hold back those tides. Hurricane Sandy victims suffered, but the storm’s aftermath was nothing compared with the complete devastation a female ejaculator can cause to a set of 3,000-thread-count sheets. Many sexually adventurous men have foolishly faced such a threat headlong, full of bravado. I know this because, a lifetime ago, I was once such a man. Then I had to throw away a $3,000 mattress and many sets of expensive linen after my numerous futile attempts to conquer the wrath of Poseidon.
Initially, I was thrilled by the wet and wild experience. I’d have the girl spray my face and head, and I’d use the ejaculate to style my hair. I was in awe of just how much liquid she was able to produce and project again and again and again. After filling up a 20-gallon drum, I was starting to have my doubts about what was really happening. On her second visit, I had her fill a cup with her juices, which I gargled like mouthwash. That’s when it hit me: it tasted a lot like piss.
Regardless of its being urine or ejaculate, I was really enjoying the waterworks. I went and purchased arm swimmies and snorkeling goggles for our third tryst, but I couldn’t get the bed or the sheets to dry fast enough. So I called Bed Bath & Beyond and told the woman on the phone that I was a bed-wetter and needed some assistance. I asked if they offered sponges big enough to cover a mattress? Or maybe rubber sheets? The woman put me on hold. After 20 minutes of waiting for somebody to help me, I hung up.
I was forced to run to a local Sleepy’s mattress shop, and luckily the salesperson was a man. I felt more comfortable talking to him than the woman on the phone. I didn’t feel like I needed to lie, so I told him flat out. “I have this girl who squirts or pisses my bed every time I touch her. What do you suggest for more absorbency? I can’t afford to keep buying sheets every time she comes over.” He could relate to my situation; he told me that although he hadn’t ever had to deal with a dam exploding in his face firsthand, he had watched its debilitating effects on various websites and suggested a few helpful ideas. He directed me to a medical supply store, where I was able to buy adult diapers, king-size absorbent foam pads, and a tarp big enough to cover a boat to lay over my sheets and keep my bed fully protected. Problem solved.
Then, the next night, she came over and pissed all over my white cotton couch.
Read more Skinema from our past issues here.