Sex and Drugs.

Every morning I take 200mg of Zoloft, followed by anywhere from 0.25mg to 2mg of Xanax spread throughout the day. Let me tell you about how this affects my dick.

In the medical community, they call it "delayed ejaculation", which is a very dry term used to describe a sexual situation involving utter exhaustion and being covered in vaginal fluids. Sound like business as usual? Add being so re-goddamn-diculously pent up and pissed you want to grab the nearest pointed object, whether it be a tweezer or your cunt-of-a-girlfriend's vibrator, and pry out your fucking eyeballs.


In the tongue of the brown people, it's referred to as being unable to acquire one's "nut". Let me explain. I can drill a girl bareback for up to two hours, pounding her with my 6.4 inch rod until her pussy is raw and the sheets are drenched. I'll fuck her until she wails and flails more times than Streisand (pictured left) has performed farewell concerts, but I won't get off. Mind you, these are good looking women, several of which are pumas in the sack. In spite of this, a solid 34% of my sexual interludes end without release. No goof gravy. None. Please don't badger me by asking for photographic evidence to vouch for the attractiveness of these women. I'm not going to give it to you. You don't need it. You're as queer as a sack of hammers.

I don't know if I've made this clear yet, but the situation is a tad inconvenient, and a literal pain in the balls.

Fun fact #47: Delayed ejaculation is one of the most common side effects of taking SSRI antidepressants. You may or may not have known that Fun Fact #47 has spawned one of the greater ironies of the 21st Century, the reality that we live in a world where modern anti-depressants (happy pills) are prescribed to treat premature ejaculation (the condition of being too happy). I've never suffered from being too happy, sexual or otherwise. I take antidepressants to relieve my unprovoked panic attacks, and they do their job. Sometimes I imagine pharmaceutical reps and physicians cackling and gagging between mouthfuls of lobster and Walker Blue. I picture myself bussing tables, collecting champagne flutes caked with lipstick as I piece together their conversation. I try to look busy as I strain to absorb the semi-intelligible chortling of the smarmy red bastards. At some point, amidst the candor and the bull, I stumble upon the great, twisted half-truth: It would have been cheaper to whack off my demons, and better for my prostate too.