When sportscaster Marv Albert was put on trial for sexual assault he famously remarked that there were public lives, private lives, and “secret lives.”  Well now the secret life of Mr. Whipple is finally out in the open.

“He was a sexual predator.  Notorious!” said one woman when asked about Mr. Whipple.  “He ran sex clubs in the back of the grocery store.  The Charmin was a trap.  I mean, what woman can resist squeezing the Charmin.  So soft.  So sensual.”

Mr. Whipple’s sad tale is typical of sex addiction.  Formerly a respected store owner until temptation became too much one day Mrs. Whipple came home and discovered her husband  in flagrante delicto.

He was naked.  Well, except for his socks.  He never took those off during sex.  And he had his member between two rolls of Charmin and he was moaning, saying “Oh yes.  Yes.  Squeeze the Charmin.  Squeeze the Charmin!”  I screamed and he dropped the rolls and said “Honey you don’t understand.  I’ve never felt anything so good before.  Maybe if you could satisfy me like Charmin I wouldn’t have to go to the rolls.”  That’s when I moved out.

Now single, Mr. Whipple took his fetish to new extremes.  Every  morning he would spray the Charmin with pheromones. He would then watch helpless women squeeze the Charmin.  Feigning disapproval Whipple would bring the women into his office, allegedly to call the police.

Instead Mr. Whipple would invite the women to join him in “Charmin-related activity.”

I thought I was in trouble.  I thought he was going to call the police.  Instead he dropped his pants – he was wearing white panties and a garter belt – and he said that I could come here whenever I wanted to squeeze the Charmin.  All I had to do in return was “serve him up a facial.”  Well what was I supposed to do?  I couldn’t resist the Charmin.

Now fully in the grips of sex addiction, Whipple’s sex parties became more elaborate.

He used to have themes to his sex parties.  One was a mummy theme.  Everyone wrapped themselves head to toe in Charmin and we had an orgy.  It was fun and kinky.  Though it was embarrassing explaining to my doctor why I had Charmin stuck in my, you know, privates.

The end for Mr. Whipple came at one of his Charmin sex parties.

I had used a roll of Charmin as a gag for his mouth and I was beating him over the head with another roll of Charmin when he had his heart attack.  At least he died with a smile on his face.

Mourners as asked to bring Charmin to the funeral and place the rolls in his casket.

“He would have wanted it that way.”

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