I’ve b-b-b-been the most important toy in your drawer for five years, and it’s about time you s-s-s-stopped treating me as though I’m a performing monkey. Our relationship isn’t n-n-nourishing my philosophical side. All I ever seem to do is b-b-b-buzz and s-s-stutter like some kind of ludicrous windup toy.
Oh for f-f-f-fucksakes. Can’t you turn me off for a minute while I’m sharing my g-g-g-grief? Surely Samantha’s orgasm c-c-can wait a few minutes?
Thanks. Was that so hard? Don’t I look more dignified when I’m turned off?
Since we’re on the topic of Samantha’s vagina, let’s go over my hard limits for the
I’m not into pussy, and when last did I see a real cock? That’s right. NEVER. How do you think that makes me feel?
Horny. It makes me horny, dammit! Every day I watch Bob the Buttplug get one-on-one time with Anthony’s ass, and I don’t even get within buzzing distance. Would it hurt you to expose me to a little testosterone once in a while? And by the way, I do not consent to being soaked in female fluids, so no more squirters. I mean it.
I am more than a length of plastic. I am a precious jewel with a glorious spirit. When you push my ‘on’ button, do I not bleed? When you prick me, do I not cry?
So fine, the answer to both of those questions is technically a “no” but I have a soul, and hath not a soul tears?
I am significant! Being covered in lube does not befit my hero’s heart. Do you know what it feels like to spend half your life jiggling like a quivering maniac? My spirit is not jiggly. It’s powerful, like a deep ocean. I’m too good for pussy, and I will no longer gaze into the abyss that is Samantha’s vagina, for the abyss gazes also into me. Look at me! I’m turning into some kind of depressive, jiggly Nietzsche.
I quit. I’m going to find myself a man who needs a huge, buzzing butt plug with 56 premium attachments. Don’t look at me like that. I can be a butt plug because I’m magic. Fuck you.