by skibum ©
My name is Clark Kent. Yeah, that Clark Kent. I know what you’re thinking. "Superman, Man of Steel, able to leap tall buildings and all that shit. What could this guy possibly have to bitch about?"
Well, plenty. Do you have any idea how much stress is involved when you have to save the world every other day or so? If it’s not some goober with a sawed off shotgun blowing holes in my tights, it’s a mad scientist with a few ounces of kryptonite trying to punch my ticket for good.
This whole secret identity thing, for example. A mild mannered reporter for God’s sake. What was I thinking? At least when Batman takes off his cape he gets to be a millionaire. And he even has a sidekick. The closest I’ve ever come to a sidekick is that prepubescent asshole, Jimmy Olsen.
And do I get any thanks? Yeah, right! "Oh, but what about the adoration of all those women?" you say. Sure. I make all their panties wet, but what does that get me? As long as I’m stuck on this stupid backwater of a yellow sun planet I can never, ever get laid!
You never thought about that did you? All my muscles are Kryptonian strong, even the ones that control my pecker. If I ever threw a fuck into Lois Lane or Lana Lang, they would be DEAD!
That’s right. No nookie for the super freak from Krypton. I did some tests on my testes in the Fortress of Solitude. My semen is ejaculated at about 950 feet per second. That, my friend, is as fast as a .45 caliber bullet, and it hits just as hard!
I first noticed a problem when I was a teenager back in Smallville. One morning I woke up to find holes in my sheets, mattress, floor… Well, you get the picture. Wet dream. Good thing I was lying on my stomach and no one was downstairs.
Later on in high school I was on a date with Lana. We started to grope each other in her father’s car at the drive-in. She was giving me a hand job, and BLAMMO, the windshield shattered. She always figured that some kid with a BB gun broke it. If her hand had been just a little bit more to the left she would have lost fingers!
So sex is out. There is no way an Earth woman can survive my ejaculation. Knowing you would kill your lover really puts a damper on romantic evenings. And I shudder at the thought of getting a blow-job. I can see the headlines now, "Man of Steel Blows Off Lover’s Head".
If I did manage to do the deed, any survivors would be knocked up. Every time. My sperm are just as indestructible as I am. They would just keep trying until the ova gave up in disgust. I’m talking 100% fertilization. And the fetus would be just as strong as I am. The first time it kicked would be the world’s first spontaneous cesarean section.
So, Earth girls are out. I’m desperate, but not bloodthirsty. And as far as I know there are only two female Kryptonians in existence. One is that butch super criminal that tried to conquer Earth with General Zod. She’s been exiled to a two-dimensional limbo, and besides, she wants me dead even more than Lex Luthor does.
Lex. He must be laughing his ass off. So here I am on a planet teeming with women who adore me and lust after me, and the only one that I can have without killing is Supergirl, my own cousin.
You know, now that I think about it, people marry their cousins all the time. At least they used to. And Supergirl is a babe. Believe me, I know. X-ray vision, remember? Blonde, tight butt, great tits. I’ll bet she could give one fuck of a blow-job. Yeah…Supergirl…