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The Vacuum Issue 6 spacer Issue 6
The Malone Ranger
Cock Doc Shock
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The thought of penile enhancement - "going large" in spide-speak - had never struck Clive, an ageing upwardly-mobile estate agent chum of mine, until one ecstasy-free Saturday night he happened to overhear girly gasps of astonishment emanating from flat-mate Clarissa's adjoining (en suite) boudoir. Under the influence of a monsoon of Breezers, flirty-something Clarissa, a former London-based media babe, had invited a certain tall dark and handsome stallion "back for a hack" at the BT9 gaff these young urban professionals shared in semi-platonic bliss somewhere on the sleazier side of leafy Malone. According to Clive, it wasn't the first time that an over-sauced Clarissa had clamped and impounded a 4-wheel driving rogue-ster of the type usually found libidinously parked on barstools in the more fashionable watering holes on the Lisburn Road - far beyond the Chelsea wine bars she once prowled for loose Mayfair studs.
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Over buttery croissants and buckets of Kenco coffee in their Dekko fitted kitchen the following Sunday morning, a gossipy Clarissa described to a weary Clive her surprise at how unusually well hung her slumber-party guest appeared after the first frolic. Between sips of tepid cappuccino, and trying to find news in the Sunday Life newspaper, Clive increasingly failed to feign disinterest as he heard how Clarissa discovered that the XL manhood of last night's stand was the outcome of "surgery de plastique" so to speak.
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Before Bigus Dickus had gallantly escaped Clarissa's clutches in a pre-dawn Valuecab, the forty-something homo machismo had conceitedly boasted that he had recently spent over £3000 - the winnings of a Scratchcard windfall he claimed - on advanced cosmetic improvements to his thrice-wedded wedding tackle.
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"So where the Dickens does one bag a King Kong dong? Some backstreet meat-shop off the Malone Road?" I asked Clive, after he related Clarissa's cutting tale over al fresco Pilsner at a riverside pub. Clive was mysteriously well informed... The sly old fox told me that no, his friendly neighbourhood private clinic did not offer upgrades to weapons of mass seduction. Besides, he'd first need a referral from a sympathetic GP to see a urologist, either NHS or private. A private evening consultation for anything related to his own mighty Wurlitzer would set him back about £100. Anyway an ologist would only tell him that his power tool was functioning admirably.
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But after another lager, Clive was bursting to come clean. He finally owned up that he'd recently availed himself of a free consultation with a 'cock doc' (as he put it) from some private establishment catering for the cosmetically challenged ladies and gentlemen of Norn Iron. "A clinique for the chic in the woods just outside the Holy city," he hinted.
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After a ponderous and gentle latex-gloved examination of his John Thomas and some inert discussion about his psycho-sexuality et cetera, the good doctor - or more accurately, a mister level vascular surgeon - offered to book him in for an "enhancement" (with or without "re-girthing") at a discreet facility near the fairest city of a neighbouring Eurozone. Included in the package, was a bollock-comfy limo-ride back to Greater Belfast, plus aftercare, that is, removal (probably in a darkened room) of post-op bandages and stitches to unleash his new monster upon the unsuspecting readers of Northern Woman. But after a whiskey-fuelled wrestle with his demons lasting into the wee small hours he lost his bottle and decided against the procedure. Besides, he had his heart set on a 2nd-hand BMW-made Mini.
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To be fair, the cock doc had stressed that he could not add real length to those 6 inches or so endowed to the average white man by his original maker. Rather, the surgeon could add perceived length, by severing the suspensory ligament, a muscle attaching the penis to the pubic bone, so allowing the shaft to hang somewhat lower than normal, and giving the appearance of a longer member. Crucially, the post-operative erect penis wouldn't stand head and shoulders any taller - no siree, not a millimeter.
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Clive went on to reveal how he'd nearly vomited over copies of the Ulster Tatler in the consultation room when he read in more grisly detail in the glossy brochure how he could acquire a thicker penis. "Basically, the cock doc beefs up the joint by carefully injecting body fat taken from the thigh or abdomen into the spongy 'inner tubing' of the penis. It's rather like larding a sausage roll by wrapping more fat around the pork filling," explained Clive. I almost gagged on a pretzel. But the truth was that this newfound flaccid chubbiness melted to nothing during a hard-on. Sagely, Clive elaborated that the erect size is more related to how much blood is retained in the spongy cellular "inner tubing" of the penis.
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"So I was not convinced it was for me," said Clive, as he toyed lovingly with the electronic key fob for his pre-owned Mini. And looking momentarily embarrassed he added, "And another thing. According to some buffer on the Internet, those dual cyclone vacuum cleaners can actually thin the beast with over indulgent suction". By now I'd had enough. I was feeling rather green about the gills, I was in a mild state of shock, and I was running late for a tantric sex workshop.
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