TONITOWN, Ark. – Much like the Fall Guy, I’m not the type to kiss and tell — but since we’re talking about meaningless anal sex and not love-inducing smooching here, I don’t see any harm in making an exception, just this once.

It’s time for me to confess: I have something in common with Danica Dillon and another as-yet-unnamed porn star. Like them, I recently had sex with reality TV star Doug Josher, or Johnny Dugan, or Didier Drogba, or whatever his name is.

I know this will come as a shock not just to fans of Mr. Josher’s show (Eighteen Isn’t Enough), but also to the staff of the Wyndham Riverfront in Little Rock, where the corn-fed father of several dozen and I convened for our little romantic rendeviews rondovooois renderedfoos encounters.

While the troubled reality star’s other lovers have described him as rough, abusive and mean, my experience with him was nothing of the sort. Far from pinning me down and violently hammering away at my anus without lubrication, Mr. Rundgren was as gentle as any lover I encountered during my six-year stint in the five-star romantic confines of lovely Pelican Bay.

Sure, it was a little weird for him to keep calling me “Jesus” after each deep, penetrating plunge of his fat little cock, but I figure everybody has their quirks, right? And yes, he did ask to pee on me while reading choice passages from the Book of Leviticus — but in context, the key word here is “ask,” not “pee.”

Many people have harsh words for Jerry, or Justin, or whatever, but I actually feel sorry for him — and not just because I probably gave him chlamydia. I feel sorry for him because he’s so clearly conflicted in his opinions, spiritual worldview and fashion choices.

Guys like Juwuan have it tough, because while they’ve been raised as devout Christians and are supposed to live for the Lord, there’s this little tingle in their testicles that just won’t leave them alone no matter how much or how hard they pray.

This little tingle pops up at the worst times for men like Jason — for example, when women who aren’t their wives walk by wearing Daisy Dukes or men who aren’t their fathers walk by wearing assless leather chaps. The tingle has a way of speaking louder than the voices of Biblical prophets, louder even than Reverend Willie Wilson yelling about lesbians.

And so the tingle is deafening as it whispers things into poor Jäger’s ears. Things like “Aw hell, why not join Ashley Madison?” or “Go ahead, call the escort service” or “For God’s sake don’t mention the rent boy who nearly OD’d on meth in the back seat of your car when listing all the sins you now feel sorry about committing.”

On the one hand, this tingle is a bit of a bastard, because its advice is uniformly bad — at least from a public relations perspective. On the other hand, following the tingle’s advice always worked out pretty well for guys like Hunter S. Thompson, Charlie Sheen and Mark Foley, so it’s always tempting for men like Jasper to lend it their ear, too.

In my case, the tingle admittedly had some help, because I was actively encouraging Jalen to relax and loosen up a little. Honestly, all I meant was he should order a drink or two and maybe unfasten the top button his shirt, but I didn’t exactly object when he dropped his pants and asked if he could make a quick contribution to my collection plate, if you catch my drift.

On top of the porn performers and my own dalliances with him, an “anonymous source” (hint: a short, famous cult member who routinely takes on impossible missions) tells me Jaden has been seen holding hands and walking down the beach with the guy from The Interview — not the jovial fat guy with the curly red hair who can only play the one character, ever, in any movie he’s in, but the skinny, weird, more versatile one who hangs around in San Francisco sex dungeons and drives some cheap-ass Scion.

I don’t mean to add to Juan’s troubles with my loose lips (nor do I intend to sink any ships with them), because my real point here is people just need to relax and let celebrities live their lives rather than obsess over what appendages they stick in what holes on which people or which farm animals.

While I don’t want to make things worse for Judah than they already are, I also strongly believe in the public’s right to know, including the right to know where any given celebrity’s genitals have been and where those genitals are headed next. (If I were a betting man, in this case I’d put my money on Thailand.)

One last thing, though, just to make sure the Sharpies I’ve been sniffing all morning haven’t gone to my head: We are all talking about the same reality TV show guy here, right? Jonathon Antin?