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Rock Hard Weekend

Between a Rock and a Hard-On

by Andrew Kauffman / 26.10.2010

Warning: SNL – Prepare yourself

Screams and sonic violence explode from the television speakers while an absurdly attractive vampire male fucks the human out of a young girl, his super-human technique eliciting a response from her that borders on blasphemous in its delight. Two thoughts immediately vie for my attention- Firstly; True Blood is a crock of shit and secondly, oh great, another media created fantasy for men to contend with.

I’m waiting in a queue at Dis-Chem pharmacy, the scenes of vampire sex still weighing heavily on my mind. Clutched in my sweaty talon is a single dose of Rock Hard Weekend beneath a pack of jelly babies, whose sole purpose is that of camouflage. The coloured woman working the till rings through the items and gives me a stare that one would normally reserve for child molesters and hermaphroditic genetic abhorrations. I leave my money on the counter along with my pride.

I don’t think any male hasn’t wondered if these herbal make-sex-better-pills are legitimate or just a tribute to the unregulated tinctures of the 1900’s. I think that a little part of me wants to believe that a sexual Pandora’s box does exist and that it can be unleashed as easily as buying painkillers, while the majority of my intellect is quite aware how unlikely this scenario is.

I take the single blue and white capsule with a glass of water. Instantly I’m nervous and excited. What if it actually works? Is a pulsating 72 hour erection really a possibility?

Rock Hard Weekend

An hour later the cramps strike. Sweet Jesus, I think I’m going through chemical menopause. Like an unwanted acid-high, I’m experiencing waves of nausea and anxiety. My body temperature soars and dives, fluctuating with alarming frequency.

God, I’m such an idiot. The realisation that I have just paid R100 for what feels like a tropical disease makes me irritable and I snap at those around me like a crocodile with herpes. Still, I haven’t had sex yet… maybe the side effects will be dwarfed by a sexual vigour that Superman would be jealous of?

It’s been 6 hours now and I still feel like shit. I start fluffing myself in the hope that stimulation will override the negative side effects, but my dick is about as interested as a Boer separatist learning about Sharpeville. Depressed, I watch my cock implode like a fleshy black hole.

In my naive excitement this morning, I had invited a girl round for coffee and rough sex this evening. Looking at my watch I realise she’s probably on her way. Shit.

By the time she arrives I’m desperate to be rid of the disease that RHW has bestowed upon me. I forgo any attempt at smoothness or tact and within 4 minutes I’m furiously pounding her, trying to maintain an erection and then, suddenly, it’s over. I get a crack-like head rush and cum all over myself in the confusion. She laughs at me. Although I could never claim to be a talented lover in my normal state, RHW has very efficiently made me worse.

The cramps and heart palpitations return with renewed intensity, feeding of my shame and growing more powerful.

The second day is worse. Cold sweats, hot flushes and nausea are my cross to bear. But due to not being Jesus, I bear it with the grace of an easily offended, militant African general. I refuse to leave my house and spend the entire day sulking.

I wake up on the 3rd day. It’s the Sabbath and I feel fucking fantastic. Immediately I call the same girl from Friday and declare a rematch. She agrees with the enthusiasm of a Jew at a pig farm.

It’s mid afternoon. A few hours of claimed pill-life still lazily float around my bloodstream and I plan on taking advantage of my mood.

She arrives a few hours later and I begin my clumsy seduction. Fortunately she likes me so we begin round 2. The sex is glorious (at least for me) but it’s nothing new or better.

Having survived this ordeal, the only advice I can proffer is: If you are really insecure enough to desire vampire-like sex skills then I suggest you practice by having sex with anything that moves. The sluttier, the better. After a few years of hiding your sausage in millions of suspect and low quality vaginas, you will undoubtedly be a fantastic fucker, but you’ll also have the emotional depth of a shot glass… and Aids.

Rock Hard Weekend

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