When I was a kid about yay big, my dad took my brothers and I to a funeral for one of his good friends. Being a privileged little shit who rejected emotions, the lingering sadness of the entire thing caused me to burst out laughing in the pew while smoke billowed out of my dad’s ears. I knew if I kept laughing, I would endure the same fate as my dad’s friend, so my tactic was to focus on an inanimate object to calm myself down. By happenstance, the object was a 3-foot statue of Jesus that I focused all my brain power in to stop me from having a giggle fit. It worked.
What’s the fucking point, Matt? Valid question, dick.
Point being, I use that same tactic to stop me from prematurely creaming. Whenever I feel a rush of Euphoria rush to my meat popsicle before a semi-respectable time, I hone in on that 3-foot baby Jesus statue from my childhood in my mind, temporarily shooing away the uninvited baby batter. It works 60% of the time, every time.
But if what these college girls are saying is true–30 minutes!–I don’t stand a fucking chance. That’s not sex, it’s a goddamn test of will. A workout. A chore. The only way I agree to bang out for 30 minutes is if I can put a tablet next to her head and cue up a Game of Thrones episode. Otherwise, I’m chill with a six-minute Brazzers session followed by a naked nap. Clean up optional.