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Three days. Three nights. One cock that quit on you months ago. Night one I take inventory. Flabby. Still slick from whatever you did to it before you pressed play, your room stale with sweat and week-old nut you stopped smelling a long time ago. You'll edge it raw anyway, hunting one more thin spurt. Night two I hand you the cure -- pop the pill, pump, get hard for the first time in a year and still not finish, because the problem was never internal-ketchup flow. Night three your receptors sit burnt out, your jaw hangs open, and you squeeze out a gray little leak that runs down your knuckles instead of firing. That's the prize a chronic masturbator earns. Gooner training doesn't repair limp dick humiliation -- it charges rent on it, and by Sunday you'll stop wanting the cure and start counting down to the next weekend!