Out at the duck pond. Watching girls walk by. Many pretty young women with big breasts. Slutty teenage Mexican skater broads, like Hernandez brothers cartoons. Nice hot day; they strip down.
Girl kneeling in the grass, her ass sticking out. Tight olive drab shorts. A robust ass for an Asian woman. She looks like Gertrude. Maybe it’s her. She has a Skrillex haircut now, huh. I want to eat her out. Work my tongue all over her nice sweaty snatch. Now she’s leaving. She can detect my thoughts. 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
What killed me was the way she walked. She would pick up her feet like a cat in a litter box not wanting to step in its piss. Like a fawn trotting. It made her ass shake in that sheer little Wilma Flintstone dress and she knew it. She was “bubbly.” Friendly. She dropped a piece of ice and the host said it’s great to watch you bend over and she giggled like it was 1962 and no one ever got sued. She laughed in a way that let you pretend. You know she’s fucking some yoga instructor or some Russian guy for money but you can’t remember these things like you can’t remember the alphabet backwards when a cop’s shining a klieg light in your eyes. Continue reading