The year is 2013. I have been rubbing for 5 minutes.

Sepe stares at me with dead eyes. He does not care if I succeed. The mountain does not love the climber.

My rubbing does nothing.

I consult Twitter for tips. Does anything actually come of this rubbing? Or is this a dead end? I see someone talking about medium strokes. Makes sense. Sepe is the Goldilock’s of handjobs, the Everycock on the street.

I keep rubbing.

Suddenly his dick engorges to the size of a big fish and slaps fatly against his belly. He looks down, simultaneously terrified and amazed. My disembodied hand hovers uncertainly.

Have I murdered Sepe? Is he going to cum out a muscular ghost version of himself that mournfully departs his body through his urethra?

I keep rubbing. This lumbering hand cursor is the only way I can express my concern, as clumsy an instrument as it is. I am the avatar of handjobs and I am here to jack this dick into oblivion, in the name of ethics in journalism. I’m tired of all those handjob simulator reviews where the reviewer clearly hasn’t played the game.

I hit another penile milestone and his vacant gaze instantly flips to cowlike joy. He turns his gaze to the right. He flexes his arm. He smiles. “I’m fuckin’ huge.”

I rub faster.

His entire body swells, a mere extension of his erectile tissue. He flies off the chair and onto the floor like an enormous muscle-baby. His cock thrashes periodically like a unit portrait animation of some rejected Zerg unit (“This isn’t warlike enough, plus it looks like a giant dick…”).

My fingers dig into the mouse, swinging the cursor back and forth as sweat pours down my eyes. Time is slowing down, each stroke lasting for eternities. Sound becomes distorted, the hum of my computer fan deepening to a subterranean roar–

[transmission terminates abruptly]