Customer: [drunkenly attempting to explain his sex life] “You know what? I’m a man in the streets, and a… uh… fuck me… in… the sheets.”
Well said, Wordsworth.
Meanwhile, across the store, I heard another customer say to his friends, “Well, let’s ask the cock ring expert,” which I assumed meant me. But no, he was referring to the straight girl who’d come in with them, and who was now holding court and issuing proclamations.
“These are not cock rings,” she announced, gesturing dismissively at a display of cock rings. “Real cock rings are made out of metal. C’mon, we’ll find them somewhere else.”
I wanted to point out that there was a veritable motherload of metal cock rings right behind her, but I also didn’t want her thinking I was trying to usurp her throne or anything. I mean, I already have a tiara, and the title “cock ring expert” really wouldn’t read well on a résumé.
So, y’know, she can keep it. Happy valid cock ring hunting, hon.
Marjorie's Forgeries 
If I had a dick, I would never use a metal cockring. I’d be far too afraid of it getting stuck. I’d prefer the rubber ones, because if necessary I could just cut it off with scissors. Of course, I’d probably be too afraid to put scissors near my junk, but the EMTs could do it, I’m sure.
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