Are You a Floot, or a Nooter?
John W. Sammon
October 22, 2006
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All my life I have been burdened with an overwhelming sexual desire. That means I want to be doing it twenty four hours a day. Why? Why was I cursed with this? I’m not happy. Who would be. Since I can’t get enough (sex), there’s never enough.
This has interfered with my job and career and has caused me to shun church where I might have eventually (through pleading and sobbing) gained entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven.
Sex! Sex! Sex!
What is it, but a lot of grunting and sweating on other people and writhing around like a couple of worms, you on top, me on top, both of us on top. Me out the window. Running naked through the yard in front of the neighbors.
Castration isn’t an answer. Too painful. And I still want to see it down there.
It’s too much. Think of the time we waste on this. It’s all I ever think about. I could be in a car lot talking to a salesman about a new car I can’t really afford…and yep! I’m not paying attention, but thinking about something else (doing it).
Now I’m being told I’m too old to be thinking such thoughts. Bull! The older I get, the more I think. But I’m also active. I do things. I shop the web for sex-related paraphernalia. I sometimes don’t buy. I just look.
This is revolting. God intended this as a simple act of procreation, and here I’ve gone and turned it into a mental Ebay. Anything is possible.
Am I sick? No, because I’m sick of it. If you admit you have a problem, you’re not sick.
Maybe I should run for political office.
I don’t know why I can’t be a rock star with gray hair. I want to be worshipped, but not for my beautiful body and good looks and huge appendage. Not for those! There’s more to me than something any stud at a bar has.
In the 1960s in London they used to ask, are you a Mod, or a Rocker?
George Harrison cleverly answered, “I’m a Mocker.”
They could ask me, are you a Floot, or a Nooter? (this was the title of a Swedish porn film I once saw).
I’d answer, “I’m a Neuter.”
Androgynously love me! Need me! But not for sex. Not that. Of course I still enjoy it. But value me for my talent…my mind. I could play an electric ukulele, and wear a battery powered body stocking made of Saran Wrap.
I would sing songs that were predictions based on my supernatural clairvoyant powers (proven in numerous previous predictions), with titles such as, “The Corrupt Republicans are Gonna Get Their Butts kicked Next Month Yeah Yeah Yeah!.”
I’m not asking for much. Only to be regarded as a supreme icon, a sort of entertainment deity, instead of just merely flesh, a muscle-bound side of beef, to be used and abused by people for their sick, disgusting compulsions.
Of course that doesn’t mean I would become celibate.
That would be too much.
Not ever having any.
Copyright 2006 by SammonSays.com
All my life I have been burdened with an overwhelming sexual desire. That means I want to be doing it twenty four hours a day. Why? Why was I cursed with this? I’m not happy. Who would be. Since I can’t get enough (sex), there’s never enough.
This has interfered with my job and career and has caused me to shun church where I might have eventually (through pleading and sobbing) gained entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven.
Sex! Sex! Sex!
What is it, but a lot of grunting and sweating on other people and writhing around like a couple of worms, you on top, me on top, both of us on top. Me out the window. Running naked through the yard in front of the neighbors.
Castration isn’t an answer. Too painful. And I still want to see it down there.
It’s too much. Think of the time we waste on this. It’s all I ever think about. I could be in a car lot talking to a salesman about a new car I can’t really afford…and yep! I’m not paying attention, but thinking about something else (doing it).
Now I’m being told I’m too old to be thinking such thoughts. Bull! The older I get, the more I think. But I’m also active. I do things. I shop the web for sex-related paraphernalia. I sometimes don’t buy. I just look.
This is revolting. God intended this as a simple act of procreation, and here I’ve gone and turned it into a mental Ebay. Anything is possible.
Am I sick? No, because I’m sick of it. If you admit you have a problem, you’re not sick.
Maybe I should run for political office.
I don’t know why I can’t be a rock star with gray hair. I want to be worshipped, but not for my beautiful body and good looks and huge appendage. Not for those! There’s more to me than something any stud at a bar has.
In the 1960s in London they used to ask, are you a Mod, or a Rocker?
George Harrison cleverly answered, “I’m a Mocker.”
They could ask me, are you a Floot, or a Nooter? (this was the title of a Swedish porn film I once saw).
I’d answer, “I’m a Neuter.”
Androgynously love me! Need me! But not for sex. Not that. Of course I still enjoy it. But value me for my talent…my mind. I could play an electric ukulele, and wear a battery powered body stocking made of Saran Wrap.
I would sing songs that were predictions based on my supernatural clairvoyant powers (proven in numerous previous predictions), with titles such as, “The Corrupt Republicans are Gonna Get Their Butts kicked Next Month Yeah Yeah Yeah!.”
I’m not asking for much. Only to be regarded as a supreme icon, a sort of entertainment deity, instead of just merely flesh, a muscle-bound side of beef, to be used and abused by people for their sick, disgusting compulsions.
Of course that doesn’t mean I would become celibate.
That would be too much.
Not ever having any.
Copyright 2006 by SammonSays.com
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