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Statistically speaking, it’s the worst thing in the world, right next to world hunger and Limp Bizkit. I am of course talking about whiskey dick. Or as some people call it, The Devil’s Party Prank (okay, that’s a lie – no one calls it that).
Every man has suffered from whiskey dick at least once, even the greatest men. Muhammad Ali has had whiskey dick. Superman has had whiskey dick. Chances are your favorite rapper gets whiskey dick at least 157 times a year.
You meet a cute girl somewhere (a party, a bar, your uncle’s intervention, etc.), and you hit if off. Chances are you’re already a little drunk and that alcohol gave you the magical confidence to approach her in the first place. You two start chatting and getting to know each other. You try to avoid staring at her cleavage and you’re desperately trying to not say anything too stupid. She seems interested in you. You guys keep on pounding drinks. Shot after shot after shot. You’re Charlie Sheen level annihilated. You can’t stop dancing even though there’s no music playing.
You’re having such a good time that you end up going back to your place. You guys get in your room and you start making out, clothes start coming off (always a pretty good sign). You continue to fool around, you suck in your gut because you don’t want her to know that you’ve got an undercover dad bod.
Then, the moment comes. She’s lying under you and telling you she’s ready to get busy with her “fuck me” eyes. You’re ready. You’re horny. You’re dying to fuck her and you’ve got that Marvin Gaye playlist bumping, but then, you look down and something horrific happens: You’ve got whiskey dick.
Here are the 5 phases of whiskey dick.
You’re horny as hell, but your dick isn’t responding to you. Judging by how excited you are, your dick should be as hard as calculus class. Instead, it’s as hard as a philosophy class. You wonder why this is happening. What kind of angry God could create such a frustrating sensation? But then you realize that you had way too many shots of Fireball and your pet snake is pissed at you for it.
“It’s okay! I can find a way to get hard!” you tell yourself. “If Michael Jordan can play a game with the flu then God damn it I can fuck with whiskey dick!” The girl assesses the situation and tries to help. She goes to work on your D, doing everything she can to wake it up. She blows you for 5-10 minutes. She tries to give you a handjob. She holds an alarm clock up to it and screams at it. It’s still as soft as a dangling tube sock. It turns out your dick doesn’t run on wishful thinking and optimism, you delusional piece of shit.
Your sexual frustration continues to bubble up and cloud your mind. All you want to do is have some fucking sex, some political pillow talk, then catch some Zs until noon. You wonder why life would be so cruel to you, a good and decent human being. Your mind starts racing. Is this karma for that one time you farted in that crowded elevator? Possibly. Either way, you’re as angry as 1999 Eminem, dropping f-bombs and lecturing your dick like a disappointed parent.
After an internal existential crisis, you slowly cool down and come to terms with reality. Your dick isn’t gonna get hard tonight, you idiot. And even if it did, it’d only be half hard and you’d be fucking a dissatisfied girl with a floppy and undedicated dick, and she doesn’t deserve such horrors. Your libido slowly fades away, like a polite friend that overstayed his welcome. You tell the girl that you’re not going to be able to fuck her tonight. She might be sexually frustrated, but it’s okay. She probably understands. If you’re lucky, maybe the pathetic dick CPR killed her mood quickly. You tell her she can spend the night. You remind her that she should come over later this week, though. She won’t.
It’s okay, get some sleep, soldier. You can jerk off tomorrow..