Lickety Split Sex Column - Painting The Perfect Scene To Whip It Out, Herman Style

Story by John Herman 

| Published Oct 6, 2009

“Sing to me, John,” she moaned.

“Aaand if one day I should become / a singer with a Spanish bum / who sings for women of great virtuuue,” I cooed in perfect alto. “I’d sing to them with a guitar I borrowed from a coffee bar / well what you don’t know doesn’t hurt youuu.”

It was 10:30 p.m., and I was on a fucking roll. I met Barb after the mid-morning yoga session I observe every other Wednesday. It was her sleek twisted-locust maneuver that caught my attention. Immediately, I locked in, casting in her direction the sort of prolonged, stone-faced gaze that compels women to squirm nervously if you bite your bottom lip hard enough. Upon the inclusion of both the lip bite and steadfast nodding of the head into my ocular plea, Barb left the class and met me in the hallway.

“Who are you?” she whispered, scouring my makeup for imperfections. She found none.

“I’m just a male,” I replied. “Let me paint you.”

Barb arrived at my house around 6 p.m. as I instructed her, having agreed to be painted provided that I whip up a succulent dinner. I had already decided that morning to prepare Herman’s smothered gull for supper, a piquant family recipe that delights both the soul and the pelvic girdle. Barb would be an easy catch, about as straightforward as snatching up a field-tripper outside of Morrill Hall.

So, it was about 10:30, Barb had a gut full of Herman’s smothered gull and was trying to find a good pose on my futon as I tormented her with flawless melody.

“And if I joined the social whirl / became a procurer of young girls / then I would have my own bordellooooos,” I sang.

“Paint me, John, paint me!” she cried.

What I hadn’t told Barb was I don’t paint. I’m not even sure what a paintbrush looks like or what canvas is made out of. What I do know is how to put women at ease before whipping out the Hermanconda.

Of all the e-mails (johnsexhermansexual@gmail.com) I have received from readers over the past several weeks, about 60 percent include inquiries about dick management and etiquette (i.e., “John, when should I whip my dick out?” or “John, is it time to whip my dick out?”). The answer to all of these questions is “Believe in yourself.”

When BigSausagePizza.com went live in 2004 and women realized that men could cut a hole in the bottom of a pizza box and unveil their soldiers in an otherwise casual pizza-delivery situation, the game changed for all of us. No longer is it tasteful to just zip and flip. It shows a blatant lack of creativity, a general disinterest with your junior and his capabilities.

Barb was expecting to look back at me and see an easel, a paint set, a brush — anything but a penis. That was the time.