“Asks” from my Tumblr followers
I can confirm that I’m 1/16th silly on my mother’s side. But I’m not really all that scary, at least not in the usual Horrible Man Who Wants To Abuse You kind of way.
Nah, my brand of scary is more like a spotlight, designed to shine into the ill-lit corners of your nasty little mind and make it easy to see all the disgusting things that inhabit them.
So I guess that means you’re the kind of girl who likes to flip the switch and watch the bugs scatter.
It’s your head; I just play with it.
Oh, hell yeah!
I mean, if she stays out past curfew, that bitch is totally off the team.
Well, you could try being a mature human being who keeps herself productive and positive through brief bouts of loneliness and frustration, utilizing her astonishing power of self-control and uncanny ability to think with something other than her cunt. But I’m guessing that telling you to be a grown-ass woman would be as pointless as asking Willem Dafoe to not look creepy; adulting just isn’t in your wheelhouse.
Going the other direction, there’s no real reason you can’t put on something slutty, liberally douse yourself in bourbon until every aspiring date-rapist in the county can smell you, and then spend your evening leaning unsteadily against the dumpster outside a dive bar. Your master couldn’t really complain much; if he’s gonna leave an idiot tramp alone to solve her own sexually inept problems, he’s gotta expect to come home to a new STD now and then.
But if you’re anything like most of my girls, in the end, you’re too lazy and unmotivated to bother. We both know you’ll just end up in bed by yourself, rubbing your clit to posts like this, knowing that you’re neither half the woman nor half the whore your should be. Brava!
Thank you! I try not to take it too personally when people hate the blog.
My followers know I’m but a humble street magician, using a little psychic misdirection to turn shame into orgasms. But to a random person wandering up to the show and giving it a cursory glance, it looks more like some crazed asshole, juggling chainsaws with an erection. They’re entitled to their instinctive burst of outrage at the sight.
(With that said, I would totally watch that show. From a safe distance.)
Oh, and go watch season 2 of Deadwood. Put it together with my recent medical history and you’ll know why I feel more like Al these days.
I don’t think of girls as fetishes; they’re more like familiars.
(That’s a witchcraft joke. Because I’m deep.)
Also, in order to qualify as “abusive”, one would theoretically need to actually, y’know… abuse something. Outside of the wanton, brutal things I do to the poor English language, I’m afraid I’m far too lazy and/or indifferent to run around hurting things that aren’t enthusiastically asking to be hurt.
Except spiders. Fuck those guys.
There I go, accidentally arousing a dude.
Now I feel dirty.
Yeah, but I never use it. I’m approximately 1/10th as clever in real-time.
[CONTENT ADVISORY: Don’t ask, just move along.]
In privately relating her deepest sexual desire, a woman recently apologized for boring me with something “too tame”, and I thought it would be nice to publicly (albeit anonymously) reassure her that I found it far from tame. Like so many before her, she underestimates my ability to appreciate the special little depravities of others.
The way I see it, I’m not sure there could be anything technically hotter than making a girl sit down and write a “thank you” card to her rapist, admitting that —while he wrecked her life and left her a cracked little shell in a moment of profoundly evil selfishness— the memory of his cock inside her is still what makes her cum the hardest. There are probably many things equally as hot, but surely not much that could truly surpass such an act.
There would just be something so hypnotically, beautifully horrific about watching her scratch the words on to the card stock in a halting, tear-sodden scrawl, sinking in the realization that she’s conveying her most damning secret to the man who forced it inside her in the first place. Giving him, in effect, a gift; something tangible that he can hold, a surface for his fingers to play upon, as they once played upon her. Introducing him at last to the truest, darkest offspring of their vile coupling, for him to nurture quietly in the shadows of his mind. Knowing in her heart and cunt that she’s sending her pain home to meet its Daddy.
And later, there would obviously be the intense satisfaction of pushing her up against the street-corner mailbox, my hand in her panties and teeth on her neck, as she slowly, torturously slid the envelope into the slot…
Seriously, girls: never forget that you’re all equally fucked-up in my eyes.
