Tits and Ask: Perpetual Arousal… and Other Things That Make it Tough to Go to Church

Nope. Nothing to se here.

DEAR KEN & ARIEL: I’m 29 years old and suffer from what you might call “hard-on madness.” I am erect almost all the time, and it’s cramping my lifestyle considerably. Is there any hope for me?


KEN SAYS: From age 16, most men are slaves to their hard-ons. They wake up before us, and basically lead us around for the rest of the day–if not the rest of our lives. They are proud, insatiable beasts and make no mistake about it, they’re calling the shots. You can try to douse the monster with cold water when it gets a bit rowdy, or start thinking about train wrecks and football scores when you’re afraid of getting called to the front of the class, but the world will see right through ya, buddy. There’s a reason no one I graduated high school with has ever checked in to see if those dramatic stomach pains that kept me spot-welded to my seat back in the day had eventually killed me.

My advice, then, is to revel in this magical time. Trust me, you’ll have plenty of time to complain about your lot in life when you’re sixty-five and find it easier to prune an acre of shrubs than sustain a woody for more than three minutes. Oh, and I’d stay away from churches, schoolyards, Victoria’s Secret and ATM lines. And for those days when you absolutely, positively have to mingle with the masses, carry along a foot-long sub. Hey, better the world think you’re a compulsive snacker than some kinda twisted perv.

ARIEL SAYS: I wouldn’t call that a problem, I’d call it a gift. Consider that as men get older, their ability to, er, raise the roof becomes somewhat dampened, and if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself in your comfy chair, watching The Price Is Right for the sheer thrill of competition, not the prize girls’ asses. If you need further consultation, I’d love to have you to come by my place, say around 7? Just kidding! Ha ha ha ha. Er.

To continue, my dear friend Letitia suggests saying “dead puppies and nuns” over and over (very quietly to yourself, of course–otherwise people will think you are a few Buds short of a six pack). 
Or conjure a disturbing visual, like your grandmother and her dog Friffles being hit by a bus. Even better: Find a nymphette who can soothe the savage beast with a sex drive so killer it leaves yours stranded in the breakdown lane.

It may take a bit of legwork, but believe me, we’re out there.

Got a question? need bad sex advice? Hit us up, Pierre.

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