I had this boyfriend once. We'll call him Chris Loscar. It was one of those sad unequal relationship. I was always very honest with him, but my candor went unreciprocated. I would confess how entirely not in love with him I was and he would lie about little things to get me back -- you know, stuff like his age and the fact that he was taking other women out in my car.
Anyway, Chris was really into special effects stuff in general and Tom Savini's special effects work in specific. He was really not into condoms. So he pressured me endlessly to go on the pill. I wanted to practice safe sex and I was scared of the pill's side effects. I would have just insisted, but every time we tried to have sex, he irretrievably lost his erection once the condom was on.
So I went to the doctor. The doctor told me that an IUD was probably they best thing for me. But she wanted me to sign a waiver affirming that I had no intention of ever having children ever, ever, ever, no matter what, nope, not me, no way, particularly not in the case where I got a horrible pelvic inflamation as a direct result of the cap she stuck in me and that I definitely would save her harmless in the event that any action was brought by me or any third party.
So I came home and suggested to Chris that he get a vasectomy and he miraculously was able to keep it up that night. In fact, after that he wanted to make up for lost time, only I was no longer so keen to sleep with him. (Yes, I know we should have broken up at that point; it was just that we both had cool hair.)
So one night we went to this industrial night at this club in DC and I was wearing this cool new lingerie and I danced all night. As soon as we got home, however, I developed inexplicable painful stomach cramps. (Can you say "psychosomatic", boys and girls?) So I'm doubled over in pain on the bed, clutching myself and whimpering. And Chris takes off all his clothes and starts literally waving his erection at me.
"But what should I do with this?" he whined.
"You could always cut it off," I choked out and fled for the bathroom.
By the time I returned, Chris had slathered his dick in stage blood and was scraping his survival knife back and forth over it. It looked creepily realistic. I was impressed and started to remember some of what I had originally liked about him.
He went to the bathroom to wash his syrupy genitalia. When he came back he was like, "wow, that really does look pretty convincing; I think I grossed myself out. See, no more hard on." And we both went to sleep.
Obviously, Tom Savini should have worked for Planned Parenthood.
