The erect phallus is the most potent symbol of desire in mankind's lexicon. The male sex organ becomes aroused with the promise of pleasure and satisfaction, the stiffness of its rigidity a throbbing gauge of carnal appetite. But one of the saddest cruel ironies of fate (and evidence that if there is a God, he's a sadistic bastard) is the fact that in this life, what we want is so rarely what we get. This tool was clearly made for drilling. But in my life experience - both on the internet and off - I've found that those who want my cock are almost exclusively not those whom my cock wants, and that those for whom my cock literally drips with desire, are almost exclusively not those who yearn to be filled up by it. Intelligent design? More like fiendish machinations. I feel like Tantalus in Hell, tempted by the beauty of frollicking nymphs, only to be regularly served up on a platter to the drunken satyrs of Dionysus' retinue instead. Except that I don't know what I've done to deserve such punishment - it just seems to be the way things are. As if there truly were a madman at the wheel.
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