I watched as he brought his... you know, penis... closer to my vagina. And let me tell you, it was HUGE. His penis, that is. My vagina? Oh no, not huge. Tiny. Like, 'wow, that's small' tiny.
Anyway, back to the penis— it was slowly, dramatically, almost cinematically approaching my vagina, as if it were the star of some erotic action movie nobody asked for. Tension was building, and so was his penis-metaphorically and literally.
l asked, "Do you... maybe want to take your pants off?" He smiled. Nodded. Slowly unbuttoned them, and then let them drop to his ankles.
His New Balance sneakers remained firmly on, squeaking softly against the floor. His white socks? Pulled up mid-calf like he was about to mow the lawn.
There's just something so irresistibly hot about a man standing there with his pants pooled around his ankles, his erection pointing straight ahead, and his shirt bunched under his chin, as if it were a bib for this very moment.
And then...he waddled. Yes, waddled. Toward me. His sneakers squeaking like a chorus of sad rubber ducks, his eyes locked on mine with the intensity of a bird of prey that had just spotted a mouse. Why was he moving so slowly? Why did this feel like the climax of a nature documentary?
I couldn't help myself. "Get over here!" I whispered, my best Scorpion impression absolutely wasted in the moment. He didn't respond, just kept duck-walking closer, his erection leading the way like the prow of the Titanic, determined to crash into me (hopefully not to the same catastrophic end).
I knew this was it. My finishing move was imminent. "Pilot my cockpit and take me to orgasm airspace!" I thought, though thankfully I didn't say it out loud.
And as his scaly, hairy arms reached for me, I couldn't help but feel both aroused and slightly horrified.
Oh, did I mention my lover was the Mothman? Yeah, that Mothman. The one from the urban legends. The one people claim is some harbinger of doom, but to me? He was just Harold, a misunderstood cryptid with a fanny pack full of granola bars and a penis the size of a travel thermos.
As he waddled closer, sneakers squeaking on the IKEA floor, I couldn't help but admire his dedication. His wings fluttered slightly, sending a gentle breeze my way that smelled faintly of moss and regret. His glowing red eyes locked on mine with an intensity that said, "You're my whole world," but also, "I might abduct you after this."
He reached out with his scaly, clawed hands, the talons carefully trimmed (respectful king), and pulled me closer. "Are you ready?" he asked, his voice a strange mix of gravel and midnight radio DJ.
"Yah," I replied. Because what else do you say when your lover is a six-foot-tall cryptid with dad sneakers and a passion for slow-motion waddling?
And as he adjusted his fanny pack one last time, wings quivering with excitement, I knew this was going to be a night neither of us would forget-especially not the IKEA employees who were now watching from behind a KALLAX shelf. "Let's do this," I whispered. My tiny vagina braced itself. His enormous... presence... loomed closer. This was it!
His wings gave a little flutter, like an awkward moth trying to look cool at a porch light. "IKEA won't know what hit them," I thought, as he pulled me in, closer, his fanny pack squeaking slightly against my torso.
I could feel his erection-still leading the way, as if it were the captain of this absurd vessel -and I couldn't help but think, "This is it. This is what they warned me about in health class." His glowing red eyes softened, or maybe it was just the glare of the IKEA showroom lighting reflecting off his forehead. Either way, it was intimate.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, like someone trying to seduce you over the intercom at Home Depot. I felt my knees wobble-not from passion, but because he stepped on my foot with his squeaky New Balances.
"Ow." I said softly, trying to stay in the moment. He didn't notice, too busy adjusting his socks mid-calf with one hand while holding me with the other. Truly a multitasker.
As his claws trailed down my back, I thought of all the places we could've chosen for this encounter: a candlelit bedroom, a moonlit forest, literally anywhere else. But no. We were in IKEA, surrounded by budget-friendly flat-pack furniture and the faint smell of meatballs. It was, dare I say, magical.
"Are you ready for me?" he asked again, voice trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.
"Yah," I said, nodding enthusiastically. "But maybe...lose the sneakers?”
He laughed—a low, guttural sound that was both terrifying and oddly charming. "Never," he said, shifting his weight and causing his erection to bounce slightly like a prizefighter psyching out an opponent.
The room seemed to freeze. Not because it was romantic, but because Darla from IKEA had just walked around the corner holding a clipboard. "Oh my god," she muttered, before turning and walking away, muttering something about how it wasn't worth the minimum wage.
And yet, none of that mattered. Because there we were-me, the Mothman, and his enormous erection-ready to take this to the next level. His wings spread wide, and I braced myself for what was coming next.
His wings spread wide, sending a fake potted plant tumbling to the floor. It was chaotic, clumsy, and somehow still happening. My tiny vagina braced itself for impact, and I heard the faint rustle of his fanny pack as it slapped against his chest. Somewhere in the background, Darla sighed loudly into her walkie-talkie, "Yeah, we're definitely going to need security."
But none of that mattered. Not when the Mothman's enormous... presence... was upon me. He thrust forward, the motion both determined and awkward, like a dad learning TikTok dances for the first time.
And then, without warning, a sound burst out of me—a noise I had never made before and hope to never make again. "ARRGHGHGAAAA!" It was half-moan, half-dying walrus, and 100% embarrassing.
He paused for a moment, blinking his glowing red eyes. "Was that... good?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
I nodded furiously, too flustered to form words, and gestured for him to keep going. He took the cue, thrusting again, his sneakers squeaking like the saddest symphony ever played.
"AHHWARGHNNG!" I moaned again, louder this time, startling a child walking by with his parents. They froze, locking eyes with me through the IKEA shelving. The kid pointed and whispered, "Mommy, what's happening?" The mom grabbed his hand and said, "We don't look, sweetie. We just keep walking."
But the Mothman didn't care. He was in the zone, his wings flapping so hard they knocked over a stack of BILLY bookcases. His fanny pack bounced rhythmically, its contents clinking together like a budget percussion instrument.
"ARRHHGGGAAAAA!" I screamed again, this time for both passion and comedic effect. Somewhere in the distance, Darla facepalmed. "I need a raise,"she muttered, her walkie-talkie now dangling uselessly at her side.
And then, it happened. The climax. His glowing red eyes rolled back, and he let out a triumphant cry-"SKEEEEAAAAW!" —as his wings flapped with such force that a display of floor lamps toppled over.
We collapsed onto the carpeted floor of IKEA's as-is section, a tangle of wings, limbs, and a fanny pack that would forever hold my deepest shame.
"That was... something," he panted, his breath hot and mossy as he adjusted his socks mid-calf again.
"Yah," I said, staring up at the fluorescent lights and realizing I would never, ever be able to step foot in an IKEA again.
