I like cuddling after sex.
She thinks I’ve caged her in my embrace because I’m caught up in the afterglow of our deviant coupling, but really, I’m just keeping her from going to the bathroom to pee.
One of the secrets of life is knowing that no matter how hard she cums, nothing will make a girl spend her week thinking about you more consistently than introducing her to Mr. Bladder Infection.
I love that porn is now half-sex, half-freakshow. A woman’s dignity has never once given me an erection.
Don’t give me that look. You know what you did.
It’s been correctly observed that I lean heavily on cheap slurs like “cunt”, “whore”, and “slut” in my writing, and I’ll grant you, I’m probably a touch lazy about it on occasion. But in my defense, please bear in mind that I’m trying to manipulate otherwise-reasonable women into masturbating to perverted prose poetry; I need all the help I can get.
So yeah, “cunt” is a rather primitive cudgel, but I find that waving it around a bit helps keep their attention while I quietly cut them with their favorite knives.
I’m still here. Stay tuned.
She no longer needs her words; everything she has to say can be best expressed through her eloquent trembling.
My sweet little nothing, the girl whose truest poetry can only be written in the jagged meter of a thrill down the spine.
When I spot random dudes rewriting my captions, working with a weird dilligence to rephrase each sentence into something technically different but essentially the same, I feel as if I’m being forced to give a quasi-literate douche-nozzle a piggy-back ride into some poor girl’s pants.
Men know things. For example, if you piss hard enough on a piece of shit, eventually it will break.
Just don’t forget to flush when you’re finished.
Life issues have reared their heads, so I may be even slower to respond than usual for a few days.
