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I’m George R. R. Martin and I’ve Never Cum Before

The last sun beams of fall dance a somber waltz through the leaf-bare trees as I scribe this communiqué to you – my dear readers – with a heart as heavy as The Mountain Who Rides. For 68 moons I have grappled with a dark secret that, like the flames that reside in the gaping maw of Drogon, needs be expelled. As a steward of story, it is high time that mine own is now told, lest this shadow doubtless born from the Red Woman continue to torment me to my doom. The truth is thus: I’ve never cum before.

When I was but a young lord living in the lush meadows of New Jersey, my life was not met with the traditional joy of youth, but instead a cruel fate. I have sadly always felt a perpetual melancholy that,like a fine summer wine, began to mature. Not with flavor, but with pain. It was a malady that psychiatrists were unable to diagnose or treat in spite of their magic pills and leather couched conversations. Little did I or anyone else know this selfsame misery was a result of the fact that, biologically, I am incapable of ejaculating.

As I grew, so too did my secret agony. Then one day while in a wooded glen, I chanced upon a glossy copy of a magazine called JUGGS. As I turned the pages, my member throbbed thick and a Direwolf instinct in me immediately knew to quell the beast beneath my briefs. As I gripped my flesh dagger an electric euphoria told me I would find sweet release. But instead of cumming, I wept. For I knew what dreams may come, and it wasn’t – or ever would be – my own jizz.

This affliction has, like the Wall, been an impasse between my one true passion: writing. For nearly six years I have pledged to finish The Winds of Winter, the penultimate chapter from A Song Of Ice And Fire. Regrettably, the battle for orgasm,a war I have continuously lost, has taken a heavy toll. My soul’s light has darkened and my body has swollen due to a sizable cache of unspent cum that has filled my body and given me the bulbous form you see today. Honestly, at this point, I’d give both of my testicles to the Old Gods and the New for just one sweet, sweet creamy nut.

Related: Hey You, Crowd Killing. Get Your Dick Inside Me. Now.

To be clear: the rumors are true. I have not completed the most highly coveted book of the past millennia because I have never been able to bring my penis to completion. Producing trueborn children has always been out of reach, and now my most auspicious novel is too far delayed – all because my dick won’t expel some hot, sticky, white Wildfire.

I wish I had better news, I truly do. I so desperately want to finish, but am forever held back by my inability to milk my skin sword. But fear not, for the book will be done. But I cannot say when. What I will say, it this:

Winter is coming. But I definitely am not.

Buy a new Hard Times shirt and you’ll be sure to be cumming more than Good ‘Ol RR.

Article by Ben Hargrave