Cheap Thrills, or Hamish, who came to a sticky end


I sing the young lad's apish essence,
The piquant joys of adolescence;
With lazy bones and potty mouth,
And brains inclined to travel South:
That fascination with one's bits
That stiffen at the thought of tits.

Young Hamish, aged about fifteen,
Invented a 'cheap thrill machine'.
He showed his chums, with great elation,
This novel aid to masturbation.
With straps around the waist and thighs,
It could adjust to any size.
Likewise the sleeve around the Hampton —
As soon as it was firmly clamped on,
Small servo motors did the work
To give a steady, rhythmic jerk,
Perfect for leaving both hands free
To deal with the pornography.

Poor Hamish could not wait, he found
For half-term hols to come around,
With both his 'rents at work all day
And older sister gone away.
Mere manual means of gratifying
Seemed tiring and unsatisfying,
Compared with the anticipation
Of onanistic automation.
All social life was now excluded,
He just sat all alone and brooded:
Sent half mad by all that waiting,
Distractedly anticipating.
Withdrawn, from craving this release, his
Schoolwork also went to pieces.
Books unread, essays unwritten:
His nails down to the wrists were bitten;
A shadow of the former lad,
By hoped-for pleasure, driven mad.


At last the fateful Monday came!
With thoughts of wealth, with thoughts of fame,
But mostly thoughts (let us be frank)
Of one much-dreamt-of special wank.
His Mum's car scarcely out the drive
The erstwhile zombie came alive:
Shot up the stairs at breakneck speed
So keen to do the dirty deed.
Safe in his room, the curtains drawn,
The tissues ready and the porn,
He then drew out his pride and joy,
His brand-new amatory toy.

The built-in batteries fully charged
His knob was likewise soon enlarged,
As he with trembling fingers tried
To get the straps all firmly tied.
When everything was tightly bound
He wrapped the business end around
His dick, so ready to receive
Its reinforced elastic sleeve,
Sensors in which at once detected
A filling lustfully erected,
At which it juddered into action
With stroking, shaking and contraction
Following in quick succession:
A mathematical progression
Devised for tossers' joy, to give 'em
An optimised sprung algo-rhythm.

But then the ride, for all of that,
Was over in ten seconds flat.
Like all the best-planned lays of mice
And men, though it was rather nice,
It failed to meet his expectation,
And left a sense of slight deflation —
Though just in spirit, not in cock,
Which stayed as solid as a rock.
No anguish, nor the loss of jism
Could mitigate his priapism:
Persistent pressure on the vein
Would not let blood flow out again,
And Hamish realised too late
His switch would not deactivate,
Nor had our budding little prof
Thought how he'd get the damn thing off
When pints of concupiscent sweat
Caused leather knots to shrink and set.
For, unlike him, his masterpiece
Did not come with a quick release.


Imagine now the poor boy's panic:
Sobbing, swearing, going manic,
Forced by turgidity's persistence
To seek emergency assistance.
He couldn't think just who to call
Nor what he'd say to them at all,
And so decided finally
To get himself to A and E.
His loosest joggers he pulled on,
And set off, crouching, for the town.
Not only looking rather silly,
The sleeve still wrapped around his willy,
But, with his pants in constant motion
Like waves upon a restless ocean,
He didn't dare to catch a bus
Or take main roads and risk a fuss.
So went down back streets, furtive, wary,
To reach the city's in-fir-mary

The folks who work in hospital,
Who'd often say they'd seen it all,
From Hoovers which their users fell on
To hard-to-extract watermelon,
And thus maintain the straightest faces
At all their patients' wee disgraces,
Could not hide their hilarity
At this peculiarity.
So all the staff and patients came
To laugh at our poor hero's shame.

They terminated the debacle:
They freed his tackle from his tackle;
They cut it off and let him go,
Red faced, and rather raw below.
No lasting damage suffered he,
Except his shattered dignity.


For days he winced a lot while walking:
No exercise and little talking;
To anyone who tried to question
He blamed a sprain or indigestion.
But all this just struck Mum and Dad
As normal for a teenage lad.
At least (naïvely) thought the youth,
His folks could not suspect the truth
Concerning his cheap thrill machine
On which he now felt far less keen.
As soon as poss he took a trip
To throw it in some distant skip.
And he just told his friends at school
(Much easier than 'rents to fool)
That the gizmo wouldn't start,
And, when he tried, it fell apart.

Now here's the moral of our tale
Of Hamish's erotic fail:–
Young men! When you're feeling randy,
By all means have the odd hand shandy.
It's harmless fun, it isn't bad;
You won't go blind, you won't go mad.
It's normal, we all understand,
To want to take yourself in hand.
But take care adding extra sauce
To spice up sexual outercourse,
'Cos things like drugs, asphyxiation,
Or mechanised manipulation
Can lead to death or mutilation,
And (which is worse) humiliation.

And listeners of any sex
Or age, please heed this final text:–
Beware the dangers to your health,
Of trying too hard to please yourself!

(May 2016 - with profuse apologies to Hilaire Belloc)