Sex is all right, okay? Like, it’s fun, I know. I’m a good-enough looking guy on a campus with plenty of good- enough looking girls, I get my fair share, understand? I bring home the odd one- night stand, I’ve had a few tinder flings. You all know the deal.
But there is nothing—and I want to emphasize this here—nothing in this God-given world that could ever compare to the sensations that enrapture every iotum of my being when I get a night alone with myself, some lotion and a towel.
Sure it’s nice when there’s another warm body next to you. It’s nice to share and indulge with another being, one who wants to do the same with you. And yes, sometimes there’s an emotional, spiritual, ethereal connection that seems like it bonds a pair of people for life—or at least 15-20 glorious minutes. The kind of shared feeling that leaves you spent and gasping, wondering how such perfect bliss and contentedness could ever exist in this imperfect world.
But you’ve never beaten off like I have.
I know my body better than Pavlov knew dogs. Better than MJ knows basketball. Better than Spiderman knows webs, or spiders, or whatever. Really well, you get the drift. There was a point in time when God was deciding who’s gonna be a natural at what, and I got self- love. When ol’ Danny Stevens retires for a little “Danny Stevens” time, you just know he’s doing exactly what the powers that be put him on this earth to do.
So to all my past and potential sex partners, I’d just like to say that your efforts are appreciated and not unnoticed. I enjoy your presence and the time we spent together, but you should know: nobody gets me off like Danny Stevens.
