I want someone to reenact Frazetta paintings with, basically. I in my burnished brass codpiece, chiseled deltoids rippling as I swing a double-bladed fire axe at a demon spider with sixteen cat eyes. You, astride the rampant beast in chains, nude but for a tattered bikini and a seal fur cloak that conveniently blows aside from your breasts and crotch in hot winds stirred by a distant alien volcano. Your buttocks could be credibly described as “meaty orbs.” My eyes speak of hellfire and lust as I land the killing blow. The unholy death shriek of the beast echos against the jagged black crags in the middle distance. Three moons look on. With another heave of the blade I split your chains. You are free, but your heart is my slave. I look around, furtively. I need a rag to clean off the stinging spider ichor. There is nothing. We are wearing virtually no fabric. I shrug, and we bone anyway.
How about it.
image stolen from 6thgradeliteraturevocabulary2011.wikispaces.com
Now I need pussy again. Even though it hasn’t been long. Barely even fucked the last girl; she got scared and asked me to stop. I reminded her of some past trauma. But it went in. It counts. What was that, six weeks. Already I’m ugly in the mirror. Two weeks off from the gym and my body is pasty and fat. Objectively there’s maybe a three per cent difference. If I’d just torn off a new piece of young ass I’d look within striking distance of Ryan Reynolds, soft bathroom light be damned. Six weeks.
I’m acutely aware of my lack of money, my lack of job prospects, the filth in my house. Cat hair, grease and spiderwebs everywhere. Boxes of old bills and DMV letters I don’t need but can’t be assed to sort through. Fish tank with long tufts of kelly green algae blowing in the filter current. Edges of the cat’s litter box spattered with shit. Taint smelling underwear hanging off furniture like Tibetan prayer flags. When you stop getting laid this shit starts to matter. Not that I’m going to do anything about it. Continue reading
Since it seems you’ve banged a ridiculous amount of women from OKC, would it be possible for you to drop a datasheet/guide on OKC from opener-bang?
Or at least, yoda, just help this young man along, mentor him and pass on your legacy? HAHA
because I get many profiles views, replies, and numbers but I have a hard time turning that into dates. I know all the basic logistical shit and I’m not new to game. can you show me a screencap/transcript of how you play things?
I typically have decent openers, but the replies from women are so banal or the profiles are bare and generic, I have very little to work with. How do go from opener>chatting>IRL meeting. I’m getting phone numbers but having difficulty with getting meet ups.
You’re probably sick of jackasses like me asking you things like this so I understand. >_>
Don’t listen to me. I know nothing. I’ve blown more easy ass than I’ve gotten. What I do get doesn’t make me happy. My OKCupid tricks will not help anybody. The short version is: be me. Then go on a date and behave like me. I am over six feet tall, white*, and not ugly. I am a hilarious genius. Fuck off if you don’t think so. The way to get pussy on OKCupid is to be a tall, not ugly, hilarious genius.
Then again I’m broke as shit and a filthy alcoholic pervert. I make this known. Reading my profile, you can almost smell my broken, hissing toilet. See the house centipede as long as a dollar bill gnawing a fresh log of tuna fish shit in my cat’s litter box. You read my profile and you know that there’s a half empty flour sack sitting torn open in the back of my cupboard, swarming with weevils. I come out and say it: I want to have filthy unprotected gutter sex on our first date and then never speak again. I still get laid. The women are often wonderful. So maybe there’s something to it. Continue reading
Back on OKCupid for a minute. The women have gotten worse. They’re not less attractive physically. But the banality of their profiles has, impossibly, increased. Used to be 90% of women were the “live learn laugh love” people. Now it’s 99% . The if you want to know more about me just ask. The I love my dog, I love my job, I love my family and friends. Everything in my life is perfect I just need the right man to share it with. The anything by Haruki Murakami and David Sedaris women. Radiohead. All music except country. Or all music except rap and country. The PLEASE READ MY PROFILE BEFORE MESSAGING ME I AM NOT INTERESTED IN CASUAL SEX cast into the deaf wind like a prayer to a dead god.
The meaningless Meyers-Briggs letter jumbles. Science’s version of Cosmo’s Are You Good Girl Sexy or Bad Girl Sexy test. I have a kid, I love my kid, you have to understand that my kid comes first. Never I have a kid and I put him in one of those bigass industrial tupperware bins with a bunch of plants when I fuck guys off the internet. I’m hoping it will create a biodome. Continue reading
Six foot fucking four, a surfer, law degree, sometime male model. He has been in the army. They sent him to Iraq, Congo, what he cheekily calls “DMZ” with no further clarification. Every chick in the world then googled DMZ. His profile is perfect. Arrogant as shit but backing it up. Funny. No angst, no real self deprecation. Why would there be. There is nothing wrong with him.
Lives on the coast. Founded and sold a software company in his 20′s. Now he makes his money as a lawyer when he is not surfing with various dolphins and whales. He takes great pains to talk about the whales. But it’s tongue in cheek enough that it doesn’t come across as bragging. He is the sort of person who surfs with dolphins but knows that the sort of person who talks about surfing with dolphins comes off as a fucking dork. He manages to work it in perfectly. I would tell you the exact language, and you’d agree with me. But I don’t want you to google him. Continue reading
image stolen from womenchaseyou.com
Work. Get a job. Get a job so you can get money so you can fuck. Lift weights so you look good enough to fuck. Learn shit, have funny and interesting things to talk about, so you can fuck. Go out so you can fuck, stay in online so you can fuck. Get good sources for drugs, stock your house with alcohol, learn how to cook so your second date can be at your house. Go to parties and spend money and talk to people and who gives a a shit what any of them say unless they’re girls you can fuck, guys who might know girls you can fuck. This is a disease of our libertine society, we are told. Used to be you’d get married young and your first time would be on your wedding night. You’d be monogamous for life. Bullshit. No one ever did that. The men were always fucking something. Hookers, donkeys, little boys.
I’m gonna hang my nuts in a car door and slam it shut. There will be pain, but it will be brief. It can’t hurt as much as a lifetime’s worth of all the stupid shit I do for pussy. The drinking, the drugs, the time spent away from what might be constructive labors. All that shit but especially just being a machine walking around with the aim to hurt human beings. I don’t end up with one night stand type women. No strings attached sex in which both parties are up front feels sick to me. I need to pretend, and maybe even believe, that we’re gonna speak again. That maybe she’s my future wife, or at least we’ll be friends. And then I need to fuck her and never speak again. I’ll get a couple rounds of texts saying “hey what’s up.” They like me, these girls. I’m not that good looking and I can’t fuck for shit. But I have personality. Continue reading
I’ve covered this before, but in case you need further discouragement.
A girl was eating my ass. It was my first time. I had merely asked her to tickle my back but she misinterpreted this as wanting my ass eaten and being too shy to ask.
It wasn’t quite arousing, but it was really just… sweet, gentle, and intimate. More about her long hair tickling my ass cheeks than the actual, you know, the tongue going in my asshole. She had eaten a mint or chewed strong gum beforehand. I felt minty afterwards.
I couldn’t help thinking about my shit that morning. My second shit, which had spinach leaves in it. I kept thinking: don’t let her go so deep that she eats my shit spinach. Then thinking about spinach made me think about Popeye and I had to keep trying not to laugh thinking about Popeye shooting a thin stream of fire from his pipe to open a can of spinach, and then pounding the contents, and his biceps expanding and appearing to contain an old-timey factory with dancing smokestacks that produced tanks which then shot Bluto in the face. I kept thinking what if she ate a piece of my ass spinach and turned into Popeye.
image stolen from davidwygant.com
This chick, this OKCupid chick, this smarmy feminist comedian chick, is she going to confirm our non-alcoholic day date and why do I give fuck except I’m curious. Why is it always like this. Days before the date I’m secretly hoping they’ll flake, secretly thinking I’ll just go out to some swimming pool and take my shirt off and get younger, better looking pussy. And then once I send a text to confirm I’m biting my nails thinking omigod she’ll never actually go out with me she’s way too cool for me she hangs out with a bunch of professional comedians and famous people and needs a guy with a job the same or better as hers omigod I’ll die alone; the cat will eat my tender eyeballs first. Continue reading