Ladies and Gentlepersons of the Gaggingforit.com.au community, I love to make people gag. I am new to you and while it is a privilege that you consider me an equal, I must point out that I am not and you should elevate me to a loftier standing (preferably deity). I humbly ask this as it is only fair that you understand something about me. This is something that I find hard to admit, but is not a surprise to anybody, least of all my self.

I confess that women find me irresistibly attractive. It is an obvious statement, but one that needs stating. I often wonder what women find attractive, but when it comes to me I suspect it is my Jude Law eyes, my Robert Pattinson lips, my Sean Connery nose and Yul Brenner like testicles: bald, hard and a two pack a day smoker.

But apart from my perfect physical features, I have been told that my most attractive feature is what is referred to as the biggest sexual organ in the body, my brain. If I am standing next too you, then my brain is the biggest organ in both our bodies. So complex an arrangement are the grey cauliflower like blooms encased in my perfectly spherical head, I can believe in the things that do not exist, like Britney Spears credibility, Harmid Karzai’s legitimacy and Hugh Jackman’s heterosexuality. But it is not what I believe to be real that is astounding, it is what I believe that is not real that is: Like men shaving their  balls (who does that? Mine are naturally hairless); or cross eyed airplane stewardesses (Are you talking to me?); or understanding that babies can be  mercilessly vindictive.

But when it comes to nominating a single penetrating quality of swoon, I will quite readily admit that out of all of my attractive qualities, I remain a slave to one, my sensitivity. I am so sensitive I am crying now just thinking about how sensitive I am.

I am so sensitive sometimes when I sit down it hurts. I am so sensitive sometimes my sweat glands produce aloe vera. Sometimes I am so sensitive, I make Enrico Inglesias cry. I am so sensitive I have suckled orphan baby kangaroos from my nipples.

Last night I wrote a poem to my wife, it was so sweet she developed type-two diabetes. This morning I saw on youtube a lion eat a gazelle and while it filled me with raw sexual desire, I needed a tissue to wipe the tears from my eyes (lucky I have a fresh pack of Kleenex next to my left handed mouse).

My sensitivity is like a rod, ribbed for increased satisfaction. It is all I can do not to wear it like a pendant on my hip chain. They say a man with so much sensitivity could never take candy from a baby, but for you would make an exception, especially if it were a baby who had wronged me in the past.

This is my cross to bear. Heavy it may be I remain committed to this burden. Sometimes I wish it were a different color so that it wouldn’t clash with my shoes, but alas this meek and simple palette.

See how I heave and stroke it. How I caress this lump of my own masculinity. I do not dare reveal how in the dark of night I have often needed a tender loving hand, moistened by desire and prickled with lust to mount it and thrust it forth into the light.

Speak not of my charms, humility and desire to do what is right, but that of my sensitive pleasuring technique taught to me by the only mother I have ever known, my childhood nurse maid, Mercedes. That’s right, she was German and possessed such dignity and grace she could prick a balloon from 20 meters and you’d never see the dart.

Dear reader understand that I while I am bound by the vows I solemnly made to my wife, know that my heart is rent by my sensitivity to you and know that such rent would need to be paid two weeks in advance with the equivalent amount of six weeks as bond and references from your previous three landlords. Such is my sensitivity for you.

Therefore, know that while I walk and talk among you, I am not you and that is probably the most attractive thing about me overall.

© 2009 Pradesh Ramiah