This is another post about this person.
Misti. Well fuck off, I liked her. She’s a sweetheart. The date was surprisingly chaste, maddeningly chaste. But then, what did you expect. She had been scared of you. You don’t have to fuck everybody that instant. You can wait a couple days. It was… fucking sweet. It was sweet. It was fucking romantic, for Christ’s fucking sake. Long walks on the god damn motherfucking beach. She revealed after the fact that she’d been wearing a wig. How would I have known. She wears the same wig in all of her porns. She had fifteen of those same fucking wigs laying around. They ought to name the long straight burgundy colored wig with no bangs after her. To me, that is just what she looks like. What the fuck is under there. Maybe spiders.
Anyway, she was fucking fun and I want to see her again. but– here is the saddest fact in the world. I could say she’s a a murderous Nazi cunt who kills kids, and I might get the second date. But it is instant pussy death to type “she was fucking fun and I want to see her again;” somehow, stating interest dries up the vag faster than sawdust spread on a third grader’s puke. But– fuck off. You were fun as fuck and I want to see you again. Eat a dick.
I’m still astounded that The Only Girl I Wanted to Message Me Back, messaged me back. Or not quite; she actually created a new, separate profile, probably not remembering that I’d messaged her, and messaged me. I have now typed the word “message” so many times that it’s weird and impossible not to laugh at. Like looking at your own nut sac on acid. Message.
I wanted to go out with her. Obviously. Maybe to fuck, but who cares about fucking anymore. More because she is a Mormon girl from fucking Kentucky who came out to LA and did all kinds of crazy porn, bondage stuff, fucked some of the biggest black cocks on the planet, parlayed that into a career as a “hot gamer girl” or whateverthefuck, and did it all under her real fucking name. Although to be fair, what are you gonna do when your parents gave you “Misti,” the porniest name imaginable. If your name is “Cock McSteele,” what are you gonna do, be a senator? For her to do something else would be like Lawyer Malloy; imagine his parents’ disappointment. But yeah, she did porn, got out of it, but still matter-of-factly owns it when asked. That’s balls. She is charismatic in her videos. Her blogs are interesting. I wanted to be in a room with her. Also, I had seen her skewered by Sean Michaels’ massive ship’s mast of a penis balls deep at every conceivable angle for 39 minutes, and even thinking of her naked still gives me an instant weapons-grade hard on. I have beat off to remembering her porns.
But I had to tell her about the post I wrote about her, because, you know, what if it goes well. I’m gonna be sitting there just thinking about that shit. Oh yeah, I wrote 1200 words about jerking it to your Blacks on Blondes scene and I called you “chubby” repeatedly. I also said I messaged you because I expected near-instant filthy rawdog gutter sex. In fact, I was obsessed with the idea of going out with you in the worst way imaginable. People like me are basically the reason you might regret everything you’ve ever done. Anyway, want to come back to my apartment and see my cat?
I showed it to her. She didn’t flip out but she was scared to go out with me. Because it turns out her old profile just led to tons of guys pretending they did not know about her porn and then springing their encyclopedic knowledge of it on her over a Coors Light and seeing it as a pass for easy pussy and becoming menacing stalker/ rapists and etc. She’s scared. She wanted to do a lot of texting and facebook chatting and shit leading up to meeting, which I never do. Girls are just looking for an excuse to blow you off. One microsecond of you being off your game. Like a wise man once said, it’s a DUI checkpoint where you can only fuck up. But, this person has legit reasons for being sketched out, obviously, so fine. And I’m glad I did it. She was fucking fun to chat with. I also sent a text to a housewife in Maine who had a number one digit different than hers:
She wanted to determine that I wasn’t only after sex. Which struck me as quaint. She is a former porn star and professional cosplayer and I am an alcoholic sex addict who writes about rawdogging strangers off OKCupid constantly. Look, if I showed up and you were like: the next 45 minutes of your life are now a pornographic movie, I would not have objected, but I could just shoot the shit with you, too.
She’s so sketched out that I suggest a day date. I’ve never been on a day date in my entire fucking life, but I wanted this with her. The beach, never mind that it’ll probably smell like jellyfish carcasses and rotten kelp. Never mind that it’ll be full of thousands of onlookers, loud flashy distractions from the Delicious Tacos show where I talk and talk and talk and then you fuck me. Nice public place full of sunlight, good clean conversation with no cuss words. Gosh, the seagulls sure are beautiful. Shucks. Maybe we end up like Ward and June Cleaver, me the alcoholic sex addict and this cosplaying porn star; move to the burbs somewhere and change our names, sleep on separate beds after a stern but compassionate chiding of The Beav since he lied to his little league coach. Then Eddie Haskel comes in; he takes mouth, I take ass. Also in this version he is black.
We went to the beach. The seagulls were beautiful. Then later we got drunk and went back to her house where her cat finally gave me the crotch mauling I’d so craved. That was the only action, but that’s cool. It was nice to have some boundaries, frankly. The rest of you girls are blowing it by giving up the pussy too fast. That’s what I learned. I was able to hold back from being physically pushy. And it was tough to do that, because she has big tits.
But I liked her. I liked her. And at least I get to jack off more. Excelsior.