Cumming in a girl I’ve met only hours before is the greatest joy in all of Earth’s wonders. Not knowing her name, obviously, amplifies this pleasure further. This shouldn’t be a surprise of course – we were designed this way. Evolution cleverly invented the pussy to ensure the procreation of our species and, in so doing, bound mankind to a single minded existence. Why shouldn’t we relish the moments before climax, the moments when we’ve fulfilled our prime directive, completed our world, and briefly become masters of our domain. Face down, ass up, my thighs slapping forcefully against her bottom in an accelerating rhythm.  There is NO sweeter music. It’s akin to the comforting bass a baby hears from his mother’s beating heart as he grows patently in her womb.

The siege lasted for several hours; you bought shots, tolerated her annoying laugh, and convinced her it’s best if she “comes in to have some water before she drives home”.  Now her walls have crumbled, her gates are open, her defenses are destroyed – its time to pillage and plunder. We’re men… hunters… and our life has but 1 purpose, 1 reason for existence: spread our seed. The victory is vastly superior when it’s strictly physical (it loses the raw animalistic worth when carefully forged emotional bonds enter the picture). True primal beauty is only possible through a 1 night stand with a nameless bitch; it’s the closest we can come to the ignorant elegance of our devolved cousins.

Cumming in a condom guarantees to be a superfluous orgasm; it’s hallow, impersonal, and an insult to our gender. Only through the appropriate release of raw semen can we honestly consider the experience a success. It’s the difference between a spotty recording and live music – you don’t feel it in your soul. When I cum in a girl raw I feel it course powerful from the ends of my hair to the edge of toes, my lips quiver uncontrollably, my lower back seizes, and I release the heaviest of breaths as my insides spill out. The French had it right with ‘le petit mort’. Pulling out is preferable to protection… but the momentary return to reality required as a reminder to exit is sufficient to dampen the experience. Besides, I feel guilty not depositing my children to their appropriate destination.

The feeling God gave us is a gift to be cherished, but why must it be so brief? As I filled her with cum I forgot I was a man, forgot all my pain, and focused exclusively on the feeling. The universe is vast, black, and empty. Man is so insignificant, weak, and fragile compared with it all, hiding ignorantly on our poisoned planet. Any day I could be killed, run over, or horribly disfigured in a fire; any hour a family member could be in torturous pain; any second a cancerous tumor could spread malevolently to one of my vital organs. We count on the rhythmic electric signals of our brain to keep our heart beating, the man made brakes to decelerate our machines, the thinning atmosphere to protect us from the sun’s deadly rays, and the laws of gravity to keep our planet smoothly spinning. We have such a faith in the reliability of these things… but at all times in the back of our mind the scared animal cowers pitifully at the shear uncertainty of existence. Deep down inside, when I cum, I’m no longer afraid.  I forget my weakness. I’m absorbed in the magic of life during those precious moments when my body is pressed against hers, our breaths are labored, and my emotions explode inside her. Perhaps this is nature’s ultimate gift: an influx of hope and fulfillment as we release our loads. At the peak of climax I’m in a euphoric state of contentment.  I know that despite our species weakness, I’m doing my part to help ensure our survival.

 

Crayoning feels like the raw dog equivalent of drawing; it’s gooey, messy, sticky, and sooo natural…