Ask any woman what she likes best about sex with a man, and odds are she won't mention the size of his load. We might care about his taste or consistency, but when it comes to amount, less is more. So why would anyone blow $59.95 for a bottle of Semenax, an herbal concoction that promises "bigger loads = bigger orgasms?"Only reason I can think of: you're writing a Semenax review for an online comedy site.
Always trust doctors who make claims like this.
Starting off our rigidly-controlled scientific experiment, my boyfriend begins taking Semenax several days before we have sex. The label says he'll see results in two or three days, but we want the mother of all loads, so we give it a solid week. I want to see Mount Vespoogeius.
Unfortunately, Subject C impregnated a goat.
I forbid him from masturbating during this time, because I want the most massive climax my money can buy. I have test tubes and beakers ready, not to mention a 16-ounce Pyrex measuring cup, just in case. My boyfriend protests and complains, arguing that he's never gone seven straight days, not since welcoming his first Vanilla Bean Frappucino back in the sixth grade.
Still, he sticks to the regimen, ingesting the recommended dosage of three Semenax pills a day. He becomes frustratingly, irritatingly horny. He begs me to let him have a few private moments in the bathroom. His balls get so blue that they resemble Smurfs. (Incidentally, I had Smurf Balls at a party once, and they were delicious.) The situation exacerbates when he has a prolonged sex dream about masturbation. In the dream, he's watching porn with his entire sixth grade class, but I'm there making sure none of their little palms wander into hairier terrain. 
Seven days and 21 pills later, it's time for our first Semenax sex. My lust-crazed boyfriend has scribbled an extra "E" on the label -- ready to lay down the mighty power of "The Semen-axe." We start having sex, and my boyfriend is smiling, happy to be back in vaginal heaven. When he's about to come, he pulls out to demonstrate his new, improved "superior shooting power." He holds up his shaft and it shoots up, making a nice rounded arch over my stomach and onto the bed: the fountains at the Bellagio. It's a leaper, a neat party trick, but not an Olympic record to call the girlfriends about. To my boyfriend's dismay, this means we have to do more testing.
I impose another strict masturbation ordinance on him. Desperate for this to be over, he doubles his daily dosage. Almost immediately, he starts to complain of headaches and liver damage. I insist he lower his intake, but he quadruples it instead. "This puppy's going to work!" he says. "I promise you that!"
We wait another three days before seeing if his volume is up by the promised 200%. My boyfriend and I go at it again. My stomach is his canvas and he is my Jackson Pollack, and when he's ready to aim and fire, I position myself on the bed. Like working a Remington 870, he cocks and unloads three, four, six, ten, fourteen, fifteen, eighteen, nineteen -- holy shit! -- twenty times before he's finally out of ammo. "This is my largest amount of pumps ever," he proudly proclaims, his smoking gun still leaking.
As I go to clean up, I pass the cat and can't help think about the hair gel scene in "There's Something about Mary." I approach the cat with goo-covered hands, but the cat senses something is up and runs away. That would have to count as animal cruelty in some states.
By now, my boyfriend really has to pee, but he's having major penis pains. He's just shot the biggest load of his life and that poor tiny hole wasn't prepared to take the whole thing. "Feels like something you catch at a Tijuana brothel," he whimpers over his hunk, a hunk of burning love. Although Semenax definitely worked, the pain, it seems, was not worth the party trick.
Fortunately, there was still one more experiment to go: that little blue pill that started it all.
