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It was the second week of two-a-days for my high school football team, which meant waking up at the butt crack of dawn and slamming full speed into other hormonal teenagers. I was a sophomore, which meant I was a mere crash test dummy for the older guys.
We were running a seven-on-seven drill, where the skill positions would line up across from one another and run through plays. I was a wide-out on the scout team, so my frail, spritely, 15-year-old self would have to run across the field, attempt to catch a poorly-spiraled floater from an assistant coach nursing three elbow surgeries, then get rocked by a 250-pound senior linebacker.
The ball was snapped. I managed to flail my wiry body past the cornerback and get to the middle of the field. The pass was up – a nice, gentle lob right to me. I could practically see our massive starting middle linebacker’s eyes widen through my peripherals. The laces clipped my fingertips as I was pile-driven mercilessly into the ground.
I came to seeing stars, the fanatic howls of 100 teammates, and a few less-than-considerate coaches, just barely audible over a persistent ringing noise. I was so dazed I ran back to the defensive huddle.
“DAMN. White boy got knocked the FUCK out,” I heard our running back say. He would have gone on to start at any college he wanted if it weren’t for his hatred of stoplights and his love of cocaine.
When I made it back to the offensive side of the field, my coach gripped the ball with both hands and put it in front of my muddy facemask. “Dammit Buscemi, catch the damn ball. Pretend that ball is a tit. If it was a tit you wouldn’t let go of it, would ya?”
He had a point. I had never felt the warm rise of a female breast – a terrible bout of acne had put a dead stop to any of the headway I made with the ladies in middle school.
“Psst … Buscemi.” The team’s top wide receiver was standing on the sidelines. “Come over here.”
I trotted over to where he was standing, his hands resting on the collar of his shoulder pads, with the other senior wide outs.
“You ever been laid?” he asked.
He whispered to the group for a moment, then spoke up.
“Yo man, try this. Everybody on the team’s done it.”
He informed me of a technique that was guaranteed to loosen me up and improve my game. I was to go home that night, grab a banana, and pop the peel in the microwave for exactly 10 seconds (any more or less would risk either scalding my peter or drastically reducing the sensation).
“Feels fuckin’ better than pussy.”
I was on the fence for most of the carpool home. I contemplated the proposition, watching the suburban homes fly by through the passenger window. Then it happened. A sign from the God of Fap himself. A Dole banana trucked veered in front of our Plymouth mini-van, which was commandeered by a stressed-out housewife who was already on edge after quitting cigarettes a few months prior.
“FUCK DOLE!” she screamed.
Fuck Dole, I repeated in my head. I knew what I had to do.
That night, I waited until my parents fell asleep and crept downstairs. I tore a banana from the ripe bushel sitting on the counter, put the peel in the microwave as instructed, and consumed the fruit within – potassium prevents cramps, and I wanted to prep myself for the heated session of self-love-making about to ensue.
I took my yellow partner out of the microwave, grabbed the family laptop, headed into the basement, and went to town. I pride myself on having a way with words, but the sensation of the warm, gooey pulp against my virgin penis remains almost indescribable. It was as if Aphrodite herself had reached down from the heavens and grabbed me by the shaft. I was in a beautiful place.
My leg started to kick – a lifelong giveaway of what was to come that prompted a college girlfriend to affectionately refer to me as “Thumper.” I was at the point of no return. Then, I heard footsteps at the top of the basement staircase.
In a single, swift motion uncharacteristic of my athletic ability, I came in Miss Dole, threw her at the trashcan, pulled up my sweatpants and slammed the laptop shut. I looked over to see the big, happy, smiling face of the family dog. I breathed a sigh of relief. Cash ran over near the trash can and started lapping up the mess of spunk and peel dripping slowly down the wall.
“You sick fuck – I can’t believe you actually did it!”
The other seniors joined the top receiver in a raucous laugh at my expense. The players my age looked on in silence, knowing they too could have just as easily fallen victim to the gag. I was unfazed by the ridicule, however. Maybe that’s just because of my shameless nature, or the fact that my game was on fucking point the rest of the season. Maybe it was because it now felt like I was actually having sex with Lisa Ann every time I fired up the old PornHub.
“It was amazing,” I replied.
My teammates never admitted a thing, but I guarantee that the local Giant had to restock a certain section of their fruit department the following morning.
I honestly can’t recommend it enough, even now in my postgrad days with my face cleared up and the prospect of poontang more viable than ever. Seriously. Next time you strike out downtown, ask the cabbie to pull over at the nearest 7-11 so you, too, can pick up a bundle of Potassium Pumpers.
Miss Dole will always be there for you..
Listen to us talk about this bizarre story on the Inside TFM Podcast below:
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