gr81

I laughed my ass off at this article so I'd thought I would share..


ATOMIC DOG
Performance Anxiety
by TC

The Atomic Dog is a weekly feature that isn't necessarily about weight training or bodybuilding. Sometimes it's about sports in general, sex, women, or male issues of some kind. At times it's inspirational, but it can also be informative, funny, and even a little weird, but hopefully, always interesting and a little controversial. We hope it reflects the nature of Testosterone magazine in that, just as no man is completely one-dimensional and only interested in one subject, neither are we. If it makes you think or laugh — or even get angry — it's served its purpose.


I had sex a couple of weeks ago, and not just with myself. No, this time there was a real live woman involved; someone I’d picked up after a basketball game. Her team had just gotten into the Final Four and she was ready to celebrate.

Personally, I thought I was great. I’ve read all the sex manuals and I’ve picked up more than a few tricks here and there, most of which I’ve written down on 3 by 5 cards and tacked up on the wall behind my bed for easy reference.

The cards are usually a big help but they do have their drawbacks, like the time my roommate played a trick on me by shuffling the cards around. I failed to notice that he’d swapped card number 63 with card number 9. As such, I neglected to take off my Viking helmet in the proper sequence and I gored my date in the liver.

But back to my most recent date. I tell you, I was in top form. I’d rented a teleprompter to replace the cards, screwed my special red "love" bulb into the bedside lamp, and even put on some of that nifty hip-hop music that the girls seem to enjoy so much nowadays. I even fired up the fog machine that I’d bought at an auction.

You may think I was going overboard with that much "atmosphere" but I suffer from a rare psychological malady known as "Spielberg Syndrome." In other words, I can’t get it up unless there are a lot of special effects involved. I used to use live fireworks too, until, well...the incident. You might have read about it in the papers last fall and I’m still making restitution to the City of San Diego for all the fire damage.

Anyhow, with the proper mood set, I went through practically all of my positions; moves learned through years of watching pornography, ballet, and Sonny Chiba movies, the result of which has led me to develop an erotically charged style of love making that revolves around pirouettes and graceful leaps periodically punctuated by deadly kicks to the solar plexus.

Afterwards, I stood over her prone, still quivering body and scowled down at her. Think of Ali standing over Liston back in ‘61, but without the gloves, the ropes, and the thousands of fans and sportswriters, of course. My sweat-covered torso reflected the red light against the wall like some corporeal disco ball. I was man and she was woman. I was just praying that she wasn’t one of those types that equate an orgasm with love. The last thing I needed was some needy chick sending me flowers every day.

Yep, I would have bet a month’s pay that she’d just had the best 60 seconds of her life.

But I was wrong. She gave me a look like my dog does when I stop scratching him on the rump, or like Tim Patterson does when I leave the office while the sun’s still shining. "You can’t be finished already, can you?" she asked. "Twenty thousand guys at the basketball game and I have to let Hair-trigger Harry take me home!" She swore at me, unstuck the wad of chewing gum she had left on the bedpost, popped it back in her mouth, gathered up her underwear and her pompoms and stormed out.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about this ugly scene and after talking to a number of men and women I’ve come to a disturbing conclusion. More and more men–young men with no history of erectile dysfunction–are using drugs like Viagra, Levitra, and Cialis as insurance. Consequently, girls who have only recently begun having sex are harboring the assumption that sex always lasts for four hours; that men are sexual Frank Shorters, slowing down during their marathon-like lovemaking bouts only to scarf down a Power Bar and chug a bottle of Gatorade, after which they collapse exhausted at the finish line and lose control of their bodily functions. The only difference is that there, in the midst of all that excreta is a towering erection, a testament to chemistry and not man’s will to persevere in the face of hardship.

It’s like women have been playing in a league where everyone is using corked bats. Then when you try to play in their league using a normal bat, you don’t hit a home run, you pop up pathetically to the shortstop. Do they pat you on the ass and say, "Better luck next time"? Hell no. You’re booed mercilessly and released outright. Instead of ever risking that kind of humiliation again, you resort to selling insurance and the only time you ever play ball again is in the privacy of your bathroom.

Oh, I fully understand the impetus to use these drugs. Performance anxiety is a very real thing, especially since today’s women are much more articulate about their needs. Some of them make sex sound like they’re trying to talk a novice pilot down after the captain had a mid-air heart:

"Adjust your vector three degrees to the right and decrease thrust by 10 percent...easy with the throttle, easy...don’t worry...you’re gonna’ be just fine...that’s just turbulence...a little more thrust...okay, okay...now punch it! Yes, yes, yes!"

This newfound directness among women even has a name. It’s called the "Samantha Syndrome" after the sexually aggressive character on "Sex and the City." Men feel that they’re expected to perform and perform well. If they don’t, Samantha not only scowls and makes them feel like hamsters, she tells all the rest of the "Sex and the City" girls that you’re a pathetic excuse for a man and then you have to move to another country.

Men regard sex as an athletic event and like athletes, they’re often prone to doubt. They worry that they didn’t get enough rest, or that they shouldn’t have had that drink, or that they’re too stressed out from the workday. They just don’t want to let the fans down because if the fans are disappointed, they’ll start liking other athletes. And the sad truth is with all that stress, it’s very, very hard to perform,

Then there’s the possibility of some unforeseen turn-off. You might pull off her panties only find a tattoo of Fidel Castro with her pubic hair serving as his beard. Or, like Larry David on his HBO TV show, you might be getting it on with a girl when you glance over her shoulder and see a portrait of George W. Bush on her make-up table. In either case, the blood rushes out as fast as the last civilians trying to catch the last HumVee out of Fallujah.

So it’s no mystery that they’re so heavily dependant on erectile dysfunction drugs. It’s not like the pills are hard to get. Almost any doctor will prescribe them to a patient, pretty much regardless of age. And if a man is embarrassed about asking the doctor, there are numerous Internet sites that sell them. It’s an odd little situation we’ve gotten ourselves into. These drugs have become a crutch and many men are afraid to perform without them.

I don’t know the answer. I only hope that someday they invent a pill for women that relaxes their throat muscles so they’ll have an inkling of what we’re going through. "That’s it? My last date was able to swallow a trombone and cough out a John Phillip Sousa march with very little difficulty."

I have to admit that I tried taking one of these pills last night. While I didn’t experience an erection, I had the inexplicable urge to go into the back yard and hurl football after football through a tire hung from a tree.

PreMier

Haha! That was wise!

P-side Inc.

"the post-workout high is more profound than any drug-induced rush imaginable." -Dante B.

gr81

hell yeah. I can't believe that more people haven't read this yet!? whats the deal people