Blowjob in a can

Japanese inventions know no limit of creativity, especially when it comes to solo endeavors

Back during Q-Pounder's single-but-not-frequently-getting-laid era, a close friend returned from Japan with a souvenir that shed some pink on my hopelessly pale shaft. What has since come to be called the "blow job in a can" came to the rescue during one lonely weekend.

The can sat in my medicine cabinet for a few days, serving as a cheap evening laugh when I applied my rogaine before going to sleep (I've since given up on that shit. Nothing can stop these manic hormones coursing through me). The tube, roughly six inches in depth, was as wide as a lubed-up fist. Katakana words like "realistic" and "intense" striped the cardboard exterior. Just beneath its Pringles-style cap, a thin wall of pink foam glistened with lube. It was sliced like an asterisk symbol.

"Oh my God!" my friend yelped. "Baby, don't touch that!" He slapped it from her grip.

One night, after watching short free porn clips (this was before peer-to-peer and torrent took off), I decided to give it a toss. I whipped out my fat yellow bastard and poked him through the pink wall. His shiny tip slid past the flap of foam and into a long band of tight rubber. After some elbow grease, I was in. The rubber membrane stretch to accommodate my mighty girth. I flopped onto my floored mattress and stared up at the popcorn spray-on ceiling of my cookie-cutter dry wall apartment.

If only Andy Warhol had been near by with a camcorder. What he would have captured would not have deviated from the splendor of his finest short film, Blow job, a ten minute video of a guy's face while he's getting a blow job. It was that intense. That real. The katakana hadn't lied. I splooged in a minute flat.

It was, at the time, the best blow job I'd ever had, and I'd had many. (My wife, of course, can deep throat, suck really hard and massage my balls, so obviously this can wasn't on par with her. But this was before I'd met my Hong Kong cream puff). The rubber tube locked downlike a python. The lube, while slick, didn't soak into my tender skin. The foam padding near the end of the tube cushioned my thrusts like a swollen cervix. I blew my load, fully dressed, my feet spasming on the carpet and eyes rolled back in my head. I leaned forward, withdrew, then capped the can and put it back in the medicine cabinet. A strong wave of post-orgasm effect overtook me. I felt giddy. Lazy. I feared the need for pillow talk. I wanted to go do other manly things.

Twenty minutes later I spilled through my door, hard-on in hand, and scoured the medicine cabinet. I booted my computer (in vane. I was to blow my wad well before Microsoft's obnoxious "welcome" screen appeared). I jammed in my cock. The foam "cherry" was no longer intact. The rubber tubing and lube, however, worked like new. Add to this the creamy aesthetic of sloppy seconds. I popped in no time, capped it off, then tossed it in the medicine cabinet and forgot about it.

The next day, a routine visit from a close friend ended in near disaster. "So this is your new place!" my friend exclaimed, stepping through the front door and folding his sunglasses. He eyed the ugly fireplace and thrift-store furniture. He shrugged. "Not bad." Hot on his tail was his own piece of Asian pussy. She walked through and lit the room with her smile before she quickly lost interest in my bland quarters.

"So, uh," I said, knowing I should make this quick, "You wanna see my room?"

They piled in and explored the bookshelf. The young Asian asked, "Can I go to the bathroom?"

My friend and I sat on the mattress and looked at the unframed art prints I'd bought at Hobby Lobby. The toilet flushed. The girlfriend stepped out with an innocent expression. "Wow. Your bathroom's pretty clean for a bachelor."

"Of course," I said, stepping in and showing them the wing of tiled chamber that served as my closet. "Gotta keep the place together in case a young Asian kitten shows up on my doorstep lost and meowing for milk."

The girl nodded, perhaps not getting the then nonexistent reference to an exploit of a fellow Asian Pussy Pounder. She opened the cabinet. "So this is where you keep your toothpaste and stuff?" she asked.

I was frozen, watching her hoist herself onto her tip-toes and reach for the top shelf. The neurons in my brain shook off their residual THC long enough to piece together a horrific prophesy.

"What's this? Realistic? Intense?" She squinted at the katakana. She popped the top.

"Oh my God!" my friend yelped. "Baby, don't touch that!" He slapped it from her grip.

The top drifted toward the linoleum tile like a feather jilted from an owl's coat. The pink opening glowed with bubbly white jism. The Asian watched the can roll toward the toilet. Only when it stopped rolling could she make out the characters along the side that specified its purpose. She shrieked. She embraced my friend and together they howled like radiated puppies.

The apartment tour was over. I was alone again. I locked the door behind my fleeing friends and sulked on my mattress. I looked up. The can was still there, oozing yesterday's loads onto the tile. I snatched it up and cursed it. "I should have thrown you away long ago!" I barked. I froze over the trash can, staring down the knocked back teeth and cum-bubble uvula of passion.

There would be no make-up sex. Only break-up sex. I fucked that can like it was my last request before a firing squad. Then I chucked it in the complex dumpster. Maybe some bum found it. Gave it a little last minute loving on its way to the landfill.

After that, I tried to put the can out of mind. But it was always there, taunting me while I was suffering through teeth-scraping blow jobs or girls with head colds that had to stop every thirty seconds to breath. That perfect blow job. That mouth with no voice.

If anyone is planning a trip to Japan, please bring me back a six-pack. I'll reimburse you. That way next time my wife complains about a sore throat, I can just pop the top and tell her to shake it.

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