This One's Called "Lick My Love Pump"
Okay. So...this whole composing-on-the-spot thing kinda jams me up. It's like "Hey, can you freestyle an op-ed article for me?" That's sort of like walking up to Mozart and saying "Ready? Symphony. Go!" Perhaps that comparison is a bit of a stretch, but these things take time. Careful consideration is required to properly convey equal parts style and content. Right now you, the reader, is likely getting neither. The articulated equivalent of me spraying ropey jets off jism onto the keyboard.
How about a story? Gather round kiddies. Grab your carpet squares and graham crackers and let me lull you gently into naptime. At which point I--as the teacher--will produce a bottle of whiskey from my coat and try to drink away the fact that I am essentially a kindergarten teacher when it comes to normal human interactions. Asleep yet? Here it goes.
The MySpace phenomenon is rather peculiar. It seems to be predicated upon a whole slew of vaguely hip urbanites lying to themselves about the fact that they are essentially online dating. Or simply cruising for viable orgasm receptacles (this phrase is gender neutral ladies, I've seen your pictures). Take, for instance, a recent anecdote recounted to me by a fellow-traveler who will remain nameless. On Christmas, no less, that holiest of holy days, which is apparently under fire from every corner of our vile, secular decrepitude. Just ask Bill O'Reilly, that's where I get the real news. Anyway, said dude was supposed to meet me for a holiday drink when he called to say "Man, I'm just gonna stay in and chill tonight." Well, that's odd, I thought. After all, motherfucker doesn't have to work tommorrow. Well, whatever, the booze is still wet regardless of his presence. So the evening procedes predictably, complete with excessive consumption, vehicular vomiting, and a local police force none the wiser. Around two the following afternoon I get a phone call. "Man, shit,...last night...." Anticipation sets the heart aflutter and two distinct narrative possibilities are proffered from the outset. One, said dude is calling from jail/ditch or punched heads with a similarly blinkered bastard. Two, he is calling to bask in the afterglow of some random sexual conquest by painfully reconstructing every squelching gyration of his evening. In this case, it was the latter. "...so I go over to this chicks house...nah, just some girl who gave me her number on Myspace...huh? I've had an account for about a week or so...but, she calls me and says I should come over and watch a movie and I'm thinking yeah right it's Friday night there's no way she just wants to watch a movie...so I'm like what time should I come over and she's like I'll call you when my mom leaves...right? I was like what the fuck too...so she calls me back and I go over to her parents house in Tosa around ten and it's just ON...we're making out like two minutes into the previews and she's working the cock...what? oh, she said she was nineteen on her MySpace account but...whatever, we're all dry-humping on her parents living room floor and I'm thinking damn my dick is startin to hurt so I roll over and she's on top of me just pounding her tailbone into my balls...yeah, she's runnin like a car on bad gas...so I'm like this is bullshit and start tryin to get her to go down on me cuz she's obviously not gonna let me stick and to tell ya the truth I just wanna go to sleep...well, she's not havin it...I mean I was almost on the verge of giving her a little push in that direction but...well, whaddya think I did? I got up and said I gotta go and she started freaking out like were in a relationship just because I fingerbanged her within twenty minutes of meeting her...it's like, damn, did you forget your meds today or somethin?"
My sentiments exactly.
Strengf.
DNA