Beating in the heat

Legitimate summer’s here, at last, and right on cue, too. One can always tell June’s official mating season has arrived when people’s collective worries turn from planet Earth to penile girth. As if cast adrift upon a melting iceberg, all the usual daily news horror stories — Ukraine, Putin, climate change, Rona and the ever-looming specter of WWIII — suddenly take back-burner to an escapist tide of sexual eschewal rolling in (think the Depp/Heard trial).

All my usual foam-&-froth inquiries, too (i.e., “Howard, how many calories does a normal BJ contain?”) ignite instantly into torpid carnage over penis size versus personal wealth: Which would you trade off when pitting one against the other?

Welcome, sweet readers, to Howard’s rollicking summertime, beach-blanket sandpit fresh from Hell! Join the conga line in my introductory tutorial on the sensational thrills of penis-pearling and today’s teched-out sex dolls of tomorrow. Certainly, sounds like howler coins skipping across septic tank surfaces to me, lean down! Sniff closer . . . closer. Hear the whisper?

Come on in, bois. Just drop trou and pull up a chair. All of us uncomfortably now in?

Dear Howard: My dumb boyfriend says he wants to get his cock pearled. I don’t even know what he’s talking about and barely care. Is this one of those stupid, club-kid fads? Like, the front-end version of anal bleaching? — Gator

Dear CrocOfShit: You never before heard of south-of-the-border singing sensation Babo from the band Cartel De Santa? A man infamous for his filter-free interviews, as much his songster talent after sharing the details of a penile “modification” he underwent, to achieve “a more personally pleasurable experience in the bedroom” than men can normally expect: Pearling, it’s called.

To paraphrase Babo, the sole purpose of pearling is to prolong sexual relief while blasting out a motherload. Bluntly, Teflon marbles are inserted into a pattern of tiny razor slits created around the circumference of one’s hard-on and sutured shut. The very reason for embedding metallic spheres (pearls) just beneath the skin of one’s erection is, basically, to better stimulate the “G-spot”, whatever the hell that is. Apparently, mine has gone MIA, if ever I possessed one to begin with.

Pearling’s complications for the Saturday night DIYer may include, but are not limited to, multi-month internal healing times, penis abscesses, scar tissue formation and (of course, as always) erectile dysfunction. Inevitably, too, the greater one’s oceanic motion, the more likely friction tears will cause a few marbles to slip out their sutured slots.

Too risky? Too far out there? Ha! This has not stopped pearling’s surgent popularity in the slightest; for, in addition to heightening sexual pleasure, as its devotees are so quick to point out, one’s penis when fully engorged becomes a work of art unto itself. Well, fuck me, Michelangelo!

Dear Howard: Where are the normal guys? I’m so burnt out trying to meet a decent man already! The so-called “dating” apps don’t work. In fact, they’re all sorry-ass jokes — every bit as bad, or worse, than the casual-hookups-only sites and infested with just junkies and street hookers. A more collectively poisonous bunch of demented scam artists you couldn’t meet outside some turdy old Quinton Tarantino pic!

Howard, I’m too young to justify paying for my sex, nor can I afford to. Plus, my Daddy Bus ain’t even scheduled to pull in and fetch my accordion-ass for at least another couple decades still to go. Man, I’m chompin’ to just throw in the towel, blow my badass sax stash on a sex doll, and call it a healthy play-ah relationship. What’s the latest in fun, instrument-size boytoys, dude? They up to “replicant-level” yet? — Saxophine Man

Dear S&M: If the sex industry ever catches up to Bladerunner-quality demands, Saxy, then you and I shall long be blinking drool over our blue Jell-O wheelchair meals, spoon-fed us by outer space aliens. Problem is, when auto industries can’t even get microchips these days, whenever would a love doll?

Additionally, there’s always your previously aforementioned “Methpozroid Affect” to deal with. Factoring in the challenges of dating real men against dead-behind-the-eyes mandroids sporting all the sex appeal of narcotized, plastic surgery addicts: Currently, sex with life-sized synthetics amounts to the same thing as necrophilia. I hear your pain, Sax Man. It’s a shame how truly awful the dating scene has devolved; I hear it (in unison) from gays, lesbians and straights, alike. Certainly, it makes a good argument for latex lovers, which have well-now transcended beyond those blow-up inflatables of yore. Unfortunately, I can’t publicly disclose any manufacturers’ names (none have endorsed me to) but a few of their latest robo-himbos — if lights are low and your eyes wide shut — approach something resembling real euphoria — and at a very real-feel price tag: One test-prototype to already hit the market, named Henry, will annihilate your piggybank’s rainy-day, horndawg fund to a tune northward of $20-grand. Henry comes replete with all the personality of a plastic platinum card, too.

Currently, perfection remains a wait-and-see proposition, men. But, just hang in there. Every “Adult Novelties” corporation throughout the Eastern Hemisphere is betting the entire robotics’ farm that you’re never too old to play with dolls.

—Howard Lewis Russell

A question for Howard? He’ll be delighted to read it. Having heard everything, he’ll consider anything, and nothing is ever, too, too . . . just drop a line, anytime: