My name is Easy Lover and I'm a Cockoholic. The below is just one of multiple testimonies as to why.
My co-worker has one of the biggest, tastiest looking dick bulge's I've seen in a loooooong time.
It's large, curvy and, well, large. It's all I care about these days. Sometimes I go home after work and sit in the darkness clicking my floor lamp on and off while I listen to Madame Butterfly because it's all I live for lately and, yet, we're still not together. I'm slowly beginning to resemble Smeagol, my shoulders are slouching and I wring my hands in a maniacal way whenever D.B., my "preeeecious," is within reach. My obsession, or, um, disease, has begun to hinder my job performance, which was satisfactory at best to begin with.
I realize dicks are everywhere. The grocery store, museums, zoos, schools, malls, the dentist office (mine is hot, hot, hot), church, old folks homes - if you're into that kind of thing. I should have a better handle on this. This isn’t the first one I’ve seen, or played with, or sat on. In fact, I even make sure to get laid on a regular basis, but this is no help. I tell you, this is the bulgiest bulge in all of Bulgeville. It’s simple stunning. I have no choice but to stare. None. It’s beyond my capabilities. For my disease there is no cure. No dick is not a cure for dick lovers. Alcoholics can stay out of the liquor store, druggies can stay out the back alley, hookers can stay off the street corner, but everywhere you go, without fail, there are dicks. Morning, noon and night – dick, dick, dick, dick, dick. I mean there are entire stores and industries based around the dick. And I am only getting worse. Significantly worse. The other day, it grew quiet at work and the slow ticking of the clock began ridiculing me, Dick… Dick… Dick… I thought my ears were going to bleed. It wasn’t until I noticed everyone staring at me that I realized I was clicking my pen incessantly like it was some dick morphine drip inserted into my arm.
First of all, to make matters unbearable, D.B. is constantly being flaunted around the office. Someone in my condition can't be in the CONSTANT presence of such a gloriously abundant meat stick. I mean, there is no reason co-worker can't wear a nice roomy pair of Hammer pants or possibly a kilt - he is Irish after all. But no, instead he accentuates the shit out of D.B., wearing designer jeans that 'pull' in all the right places and in some that simply baffle me. I am, therefore, forced against my will to check it out non-stop and from various angles. I know when it's leanin' to the right and I know when it's leanin' to the left. I have 12-hour surveillance on D.B. at all times. It's my equivalent to too much cleavage. I stare. I foam. I drool. I'm fucking obsessed.
Co-worker sits four feet six inches from me at work and I swear that is the exact length of his dick when it's unrolled. His desk faces mine and when he gets up to do... whatever (he always tells me, but I can't hear him over Handel Messiah's "Hallelujah Chorus," which blares in my head every time I'm in the presence of D.B.), I peek over my computer screen and blatantly ogle. There is no way he doesn't see me do this and yet he still continues to get up from his desk on a daily basis. I mean stay seated for Christ's sake. For extra fun, when co-worker comes to talk to me at my desk, he's juuust the right height, so D.B. floats perfectly above the horizon of my desk like a genie waiting to grant me my one true wish, which in this case would be a shiny new pearl necklace. I can feel that cunt monster with his one-eye on me taunting, harassing and laughing as I'm trying to look at everything but the gigantic hovering cock inches away from my face. I look like I constantly have something in my eye. It's like a train wreck; you're drawn to it like there are magnets in your pupils. You know you shouldn't look, but dammit you have to.
Wait. D.B. is on the move. There he goes. Jigglin' by like a "joey" bouncin' around in his mama's pouch. He winked as he passed by my desk. I saw him twitch under the zipper, like he was waving. I want to suck his sweet nectar. I lose concentration sometimes, sorry.
On top of the constant harassment from D.B., I've been forced to masturbate in the bathroom at work. On the bright side, I work in a fucking sausage factory so the chances of one of the four chicks in the office walking in are slim to not gonna fucking happen. I could never masturbate with just my hand before I got this job. Never. Now I'm in and out in the time it takes to piss. I start pulsating at my desk like the mother ALIEN. The walk to the bathroom warms her up and then all it takes is a flick or two of the bean, I bear down and To the Moon Alice! That's a vital fucking job quality mastered if you ask me.
Not surprisingly, D.B. has wrecked my, already fragile, concentration. I doodle Mrs. D.B. when I'm supopsed to be taking notes and I can't hear people talking to me anymore. I'm simply too wrapped up in my fantasies of D.B. and I holding hands and running along the sand at the beach, or having a snowball fight in the mountains, or making love under the stars. Just me and D.B. D.B. and me. Until I finally realize that constant, annoying sound ringing in my ears is my boss asking me a question.
I've never had a problem boning any co-worker, in fact, besides the paycheck it's my favorite thing about work. D.B. is certainly a top-notch candidate. But I went ahead and made good friend's with D.B.'s best friend, co-worker. We even write together. So, I don't know, maybe its old age that's causing me to care about shit I never would before, like common sense, but whatever it is I wish it would stop and let me be the fun, irresponsible slut I’ve always been. Why does sex have to change things, dammit? It's simply hand shaking with different body parts, just a little bit stickier. Why if D.B. and I get together do things have to change for co-worker and me? These are the daily issues that surround a cockoholic like me.
But, please, don't think for one second this means it won't happen. Like a small, cute little mouse parading around a python in its tank, just because I'm full and content now doesn't mean I won't strike. In fact, I still have yet to christen this job, so no one is safe and packing a Kielbasa in your shorts certainly ain't gonna help matters.
To top all of this off, co-worker has the audacity to order a pair of size 13 shoes and ask my opinion of them. I mean, really? Now he's just teasing the animal, which is never a nice thing to do. Let me just parade in front of your desk in my new size 13 shoes - which look like every other pair of shoes I own - with my huge dick bulge bouncing around everywhere acting like I don't know just how huge my cock is down to the centimeter. Reeeal cool, buddy.
So, it's pretty clear cut... or maybe it's not cut - that's one thing I can't tell from outside the pants. I am weak, I suffer from a disease. A disease which haunts me everywhere I go and is now threatening my job security. If it's a crime to look, then it should be a crime to make me look. I don’t ask for D.B. to be there, he’s just… there. All the fucking time. Every day. All day. Forever.
The moral of THIS story: Don't blog about how big your co-worker’s dick bulge is on your work computer... unless, of course, you suffer from cockoholism like me and don't even realize you did.