She makes me cum too fast. I can’t be completely honest about her because she reads this, but this is one thing she already knows. Fucking on that couch; it’s hot, my balls keep slipping under her ass on the sweaty leather and getting squashed but it’s pleasurable. Her ass is just wringing out my distended sac, and it makes me pop off in two seconds every time. I want to say: let me take a moment to reel in my dirigible sized nutbag so your sweaty ass doesn’t keep rubbing it in the leather; this is what’s making me prematurely ejaculate, but– how do you ever say that sentence. I can barely even type it.
But also because she is twenty two years old and small and not on birth control. Just the smell of the back of her neck. Just the smell of her. Laying around my hot apartment for two days without showering. My bed is awash with her twenty two year old ovulating cuntmusk. I wish it had been fifty days and we lived in god damn Nigeria. In some malarial swamp where she would sweat more. I wish she would eat Indian food and go jog up a mountain in the one hundred and eight degree heat and then wrap herself in layers and layers of every piece of clothing I own under a heat lamp. Twenty two. There is no faking it. This is the thing that billions of dollars and millions of man hours of science are trying to recapture; white bunnies getting their eyelids ripped off in stacks and stacks of wire cages and sprayed with chemicals; people getting their faces slashed up and pulled back like Ed Gein, soaps and lotions and perfumes and hours of grueling tendon wrenching excercise. All to approximate this: the version that God made. Continue reading
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