Madam Nothing, we’re ex-lover landlubbers trapped ashore.  Please, follow me down one of the many mountainous roads in this man’s mind…

Driving my BMW M coupe through the embassy embedded streets of Northwest Washington DC doesn’t dampen my desire to crawl along a destitute country road of Caroll County in a Chevrolet Chevette.  Existing as life’s paramount doesn’t preclude me from appreciating the novelty of our world’s garbage.  So it is with material objects, so it is with women.  In the beginning, my dear, I was drawn to you like Sinbad was drawn to the sea.  A new night, a new challenge, a new adventure!  I understand how Brad Pitt could fuck an ugly K-mart employee behind Angelina’s back; I understand why Hugh Grant paid for prostitutes when his accent could have effortlessly wooed most hoes for free; “Newness” is a vagina’s most appealing attribute (unfortunately, it’s also impossibly fickle).

“Your neighbor’s wife looks prettier than your own”

I didn’t properly comprehend this proverb until Cornelius Turbo recently sent me a link to “The Best of Girls Gone Wild”.  I watched in wonder.  I had fucked hotter women than this, smarter women than this, even wilder women than this… why was I adolescently aroused by their actions?  What was the root for my unnatural urge to ravage these Girls Gone Wild?  I called Cornelius and he explained my impassioned state relatively easily: my throbbing loins had little to do with the look, manner, or sins of these “Girls”; they were simply women I’d never fucked, women with “newness”.  You, Madam Nothing, are not a Chevrolet Chevette but, in all fairness, you are also not a BMW.  Plainly put: there was nothing wrong with your physical presence before my penis came inside you.

However, once I was no longer blinded by novelty, I confirmed a frightening suspicion: you lack replay value.  Tetris was about the number of lines or, for the douches, the number of points – it’s riveting to repeatedly compete against one’s self to Russian folk music.  Street Fighter was about mastering the special moves, learning the character’s stories, and seeing the various endings – plus beating the shit out of Chung Li with a variety of ill-mannered men.  You share nothing in common with these classics.  You are an old plastic Nintendo cartridge that I would beat once and give to a friend because, even though the graphics weren’t bad, the plot was predictable and the bosses were easy.

You also bled your biography of any further entertainment value through deplorable story telling skills and a tendency to quickly reveal the juicy details. For self-respect’s sake keep some sacred secrets you silly slut!  What’s worth my marvel in the remains of this relationship?  Yes, if I dig deeply then I’ll probably uncover unsolved mysterious, but I refuse to seek out a reason to find you compelling.  The onus of interest belongs to you; I shouldn’t have to search for your story’s paragraphs that end in contemplative ellipses…

The University of Maryland signed a new Football head coach in 2001, Ralph Friedgen.  “The Fridge” led us to an ACC championship that year with an innovative offense and the clutch kicker Nick Novak.  Unfortunately, The Fridge has been unable to consistently adapt since Novak graduated and since defensive coaches around the country adjusted to his tactics.  You, Madam Nothing, rival Fatboy Fridge in rigidness and are therefore incapable of learning to repeatedly move my balls down field.  Your pussy didn’t quite match Novak’s leg strength and you didn’t demonstrate any potential talent worth recruiting.  On the bright side, I suppose your oral offense down the middle kept me unbalanced for a few pleasant plays.

It wasn’t an accident that I opted to discuss your question using automobile, video game, and football analogies.  My advice: expertly familiarize yourself in this manner of diversion.  You are a transparent woman destined and designed for a hollow, two-dimensional, common man.  The two of you will enjoy the new car smell together while driving to Fed Ex Field after a long Bud soaked morning of Nintendo Wii with boring married friends.  Don’t worry… he’ll care for you; he won’t have a choice with the life he’s chosen.  He’ll share his beer, his Sony TV remote, and his PS3 controller.  Your suppers will consist of charming conversations regarding trivialities at the office, sales at the grocery store, and long weekends with the extended family.  If there were more in you, if there were more to us, if there was more under the covers (and I’ve already looked), then you’d have enacted a strategy to regain my attention.  Instead you asked “What could I have done differently?” and you seemed such a feeble child, and you stunned me with such ignorance, and you had me ponder the situation, and you had me take blackberry notes while I thought, and you had me write a thousand words, and you had…

… wait one fucking minute.
Holy shit.
You deceptive whore!

Have I been tricked?  Were you that perceptive of my torturous analytical tendencies?  Have you fed my extreme arrogance to cause an intellectually intimate moment and as a result this spludge covered page?  Did you throw the ball knowing I’d get called for pass interference?  Was that night just this game’s beginning levels?  Did I test drive that engine with the rev limiter enabled?  I must have waxed on and on, and you must have seen through my veil of bullshit; I love to bathe myself in pretentious self-fulfilling nonsense and you used it to your advantage – perhaps you possess a manipulative astuteness that I didn’t initially perceive.  No matter, whether ’twas your facility or not, Madam Potentially Something… hoist the sails!  Let’s embark yet again on my quest inside you; pressed alone thigh-to-thigh a wet journey for two!

Sinbad’s groundbreaking voyages always ended well, why should it be any different for Angelo De La Vega?

Shaharyar was fooled by Clever Crayola Scheherazade…

Why do women say they won’t, when they will? Why do women say they don’t, when they do? So many games, lies, and manipulations; how can anyone possibly find their way around this unnecessary maze?  Perhaps one boy can assist in unraveling the true mystery of female flirtation… he’s an old friend… he always has a unique perspective… he’s in love with a stubborn rose… he recently tamed a clever fox… he is The Little Prince.

** I hated this the first time I posted it.  I returned to it recently, spruced up the meter, and made the pages more presentable.  It’s basically the same story with the same childish pictures, I just improved it here and there.  Click the first thumbnail to begin…

• Girl: “I can’t go to lunch, I’ve got a gyno appointment.”
• Gideon: “I may not be a gyno… but I’ll take a look.”

He was forward, I was floored, and she was frowns.  His comedic seed was planted, then watered by my sarcasm, and finally raked with her displeasure.   Five minutes of unfiltered fun and a tasty fruit did grow:

“I may not be a gyno, but…”

• … I’m certainly a guy-Ho
• … I’m better, I’m a guy-Yes
• … I still want to take a stab at it with my tool
• … I’ll ram it like a rhino
• … I studied lots and lots of cunt in college
• … I have had my hands on some herpes
• … that doesn’t mean I haven’t devoted my entire life to pussy
• … I can hit your ovaries with sperm from three counties away
• … I’ve been to the dentist dozens of times and I can borrow my dad’s power drill!
• … I’ve watched over 1000 hours of vagina on the internet
• … how hard can it be?  Just prop da legs up, pry da pussy wide with a vice, stick-in a variety of objects, then have her turn da head and cough
• … we’ll handle your itch with rubbing alcohol, five safety pins, and some sand paper
• … only because they tried to say I raped somebody or some shit
• … dey know, dey know, dey know

Etc, etc, etc; on and on and on we went.  Later that evening Gideon gave her a second opinion while I busily read Naruto at home.  Sometime during chapter 459, I began to realize how little Chakra I’ve invested into understanding the physiology of female genitalia.  Sure, I could wiki my way to a cunt PHD – but it’s like I always say:

If vagina isn’t filled with my penis, it should be filled with mystery! 
Cause half the fun of having hoes
 is sticking dick in holes unknown; 
It’d slice the slit’s prestige in half
 to study clits in school with math!
 I hate her denying my love of warm womb
with its questions that smell of perfume in full bloom… 
Isn’t half the real reason we pray to a God
because He doth control in strange nature what’s odd?

That doesn’t forbid me, however, from describing what I see and taking an educated guess, or two, about that lil’ son-of-abitch’s inner workings…            

Aesthetically, I suppose vagina is similar to a mouth in that it has lips and slickly salivates when it’s hungry; then again, it could just as easily be a fragrant vertical roast beef sandwich filled with the freshest, bloodiest, cut.  It forms in an infinite variety of internal and external shapes, sizes, tints, and textures; lubrication in all manner of smell, slipperiness, and volume; and temperatures ranging from frigid to feverish.  Personally, I prefer enormous labia because I’m preposterously fond of pigging out on pussy lips.  In fact, on the slopes, I’ve unsuccessfully searched far and wide for a female capable of camel toeing a pair of snowboarding pants.  I’ve recently been curious about whether one can easily acquire a freshly severed camel foot in Egypt – you know, for the practice.  I hope not; I’d spend all my money on dromedary appendages and be broker than Christopher Reeve’s neck.

Once a month the entire female reproductive system swells with agitation and anger before hulk style smashing all sheets, panties, and relationships it runs across.  I’ve reveled in messy menstruation, especially when taking the tarnished tampon out pre-coitus and then finding it on the floor the next morning.  I once left a bloody super saturated super-plus out for a week just to see what would happen… it grew eerily similar to a rotting banana peel as the days passed.  I’d love to have a hoe whose cycle synchronized with the Moon phase; I’d basically be banging a were-gina! That would be the illist, most fresh to death, sicker than swine flu girlfriend.

I’m often aghast at how expeditiously pussy transmutes into a totalitarian bitch; for example, the inexplicable Yeast infection.  Yeast has something to do with bread and the female womb is essentially a baby oven, so perhaps a Yeast Infection is nothing more than souring baby ingredients?  Then there’s the perplexing Toxic Shock Syndrome.  What’s so “shocking”?  You left a cotton ball and a string in your cunt, what did you expect to eventually happen?  Were you hoping to mummify your ovaries?  If you decided to eat the contents of a bathroom drawer, would your subsequent poisoning be a shock?  These absent-minded women are more obtuse than a boomerang, thus I propose we change the name of “Toxic Shock Syndrome” to “Down-there Syndrome”.  Retards.

I’ve never met a clitoris I didn’t want to kiss, which isn’t surprising considering it’s the only consistently affable part of a woman.  A joyous, jolly, clit loves to love life, loves to be loved, and loves love.   It’s very similar to a Tolkien hobbit: at first shy and comfily hidden in its hillside hole, covered in its Elvish cloak; but easily piqued into merriment at the prospect of multiple meals.  I absolutely adore those sneaky little hobbitsies!!

The G spot’s treachery, however, knows no bound.  I have no idea whether it murdered its entire family (spots A through F), although I suspect nothing but guilt could drive one to such an obscure location.  Poor, poor, women… what sort of evolutionary fuck up would hang female orgasmic gold up high, on a wall, in a cave?  It reminds me of those electronic devices with tiny indented reboot buttons that require a pen or pin tip for access to protect them from accidental being pressed.  Why would God hide the G spot if it were integral to a woman’s procreation pleasure?  Something, besides the pussy, smells fishy here.  I’m staying away from repeatedly G spot rebooting women until science verifies that it doesn’t damage their Hoe drives.

How do women wizz?  Rest assured, I’ve swam for hours in the depths failing to find the hole.  I may need to out-right camp out in the bowels of an outhouse with goggles and a spot light to figure out this pee plight.

The hymen?  I know it uselessly breaks on first use, “Hi-men, bye men”. 

The vulva?  Perhaps vulva is the Latin for valve, therefore it’s the vaginal juice regulator integral for proper perineum and pussy plumbing.  Vulva also sounds like a pasta shape for Velveeta – Velveeta Vulvae or, simply, Vulveetae.  This makes sense since, like ever other pussy part, it eventually ends up covered in a white creamy sauce. 

The Uterus?  I know it’s primary function, and I once read that women come with over 100000 eggs.  This is very spider sounding and, coincidentally, I’ve found many a vagina in possession of a dreadfully poisonous bite.  I’ve also chanced across more than a few with cobweb connected labia – each time it was grosser than the domestic product.

The cervix?  Sounds important.  Cervix, cervix… cerveza?  During sex it must get hammered. Cervix, cervix… linux?  Perhaps a fork specifically coded for smooth cunt operation.  Cervix, cervix… Cervantes?  Don Quixote?  His quest, his madness, and his worlds – is the cervix a warning?  Don Quixote’s devotion to chivalry…

… my devotion to philandering.

I’m not an expert, let alone a gynecologist, however I’m completely satisfied with my pagan perception of pussy: it’s magic.  To touch it, smell it, taste it, or feel it wrapped around my cock: magic.  To think upon it, write about it, discuss it, and love it: magic.  It’s a black box that requires one ingredient to create life; you put some goo in and out pops a human being: magic.  What are men compared with such power?  We’re nothing more than hammers; women possess the remaining necessary tools and materials to build the entire house.  Gender roles in creation scale to any sized system: men are nothing more than icy comets; women are the beautiful planets creating, nurturing, and evolving life.  Humanity owes everything to the cunt’s infinite mysticism and its incompressible connection with Mother Nature.  Pussy is the only deity I’ll ever need to center myself and justify my existence – I shall live from it, for it, and by it as I always have.  Is it wrong, with my religion, with my beliefs, with my allegiance, to worship as many Vaginas as possible in the raw dog manner I see fit?  Right now, I feel more pious than a perfect circle.

The great Vagineye!

Honey let’s depart with haste
To your apartment for a taste,

Worry not about this crowd -
Prude, inane, naively proud -

Jealous hearts too lame to know
About what’s shared when we bestow

Understanding, trust, and truth…
Your kiss reveals the goal of youth.

Life can end in one short blink,
Tonight enjoy it to the brink,

Together naked in your warm bed,
Leave solitude for persons dead.

Let’s begin with one light kiss,
Your flushed cheek exists for this,

But, of course, we can’t stop here,
Five wet kisses on your ear,

Then the collar bone and neck,
Dozens of places to check and peck!

Heavens!  I forgot those lips,
So smooth and soft between those hips,

Hundreds for the spots unsung,
To think I’ve yet to use my tongue!

By dawn our tired kisses will measure
Thousands of millions of moments of pleasure,

Then flocks of birds will start to sing
Gorgeous songs about this fling.

They’ll perhaps attempt to count
the number of kisses we did amount;

A perfect night one can’t deprave,
With all those kisses we gave and gave…

She was a relatively small lesion, when compared with the legends of others, but it was not as much her size and shape as her placement and timing.  And she was so blue, so sad – so in need of one happy breath to change her color.  She had the tiniest, deadliest, plague and I tried to help.  She can’t fault me for that.  I gave and I gave until I nearly died searching for her contentment.  Even the illusion of relationship tranquility would have sufficed in placating our one shockingly non-salacious necessity.  Instead her persistent pullulating pressure led to my nightmares, night sweats, late nights, and nefarious nightly nastiness.   I jumped at each and every opportunity to correct, what I perceived to be, the caustic cancer we shared.  Trust me, I seized the day.  I seized many, many nights as well.

Our problems were rooted too deeply for superficial strategies. I only became aware of said problem’s sadistic side effects in recent months, but certain life long symptoms should have clued me into the inevitability of the relationship’s combustion.  Her spooky specter must have always shadowed me, guiding my thoughts… sigh, the seeds of our climax were sown so long ago.  My mind’s puzzling tilt is a perfect example.  Grade school through University, I never seemed to approach projects, problems, or pleasantries like my peers.  In some cases my methods weren’t just different, my answers, even, were drastically contrary to everyone else’s interpretation of the constitution of a solution.  She and I obviously grew together, merged around one another; two adjacent pieces of an organic jigsaw puzzle.  Her manner didn’t just mold my own, it justified and rationalized my existence.  She was the perfect vulnerability, detrimental yet indispensable, divinely devastating – to me, to many I’ve known, and in beauty.  She made me, I made her, and we destroyed each other; now here I am today, not better, not worse, just less.

I didn’t want to excise her with a gruesome surgery.  Who would it make me?  What would it change?  I, like any man, feared the dark void of her absence and the horrifying hollow in my head.  All these years she’d kept me away from reality TV, from an obsession with ‘societal status’, and from whatever entrenched urge drives people towards permanent companionship.  She kept me a stranger in the modern western world and kept my opinion of its entertainment as little more than equivalently modern mundaneness.   Thank you sweetie…

But I literally hadn’t known deep sleep since last summer.  I had practically become asexual and I hadn’t leaked an ounce of creativity in months.  She was eating me from the inside out, rotting all our wonderful work, and growing too fast for me to compensate appropriately.  I was finally crossing the threshold from quirky human to desolate zombie – no longer capable of even privately expressing my individuality or reveling in its weirdness.  I was forced, for the both of us, to finally annihilate her.  I had her decapitated and drained.  Ripped apart and exposed.  I tossed her aside and, as I feared, she took a piece of the best of me with her.  She’s half of what she became with me, and neither of us will ever be the same.

Now, with my perceptions altered, with my head shaved, with my body wrecked, I should probably honor the karmic lesson of our tragedy:  Fuck over, and fuck, enough women and they’ll eventually rip out part of your brain.  Instead, however, I’m going to honor a lesson she taught me before the scales tipped: Only a putrid pussy would allow retribution to sway his actions…  like I’d ever, even in my current crippled condition, let fate have an influence on MY decision-making!  I’d rather have an adventurous, uninhibited, unbridled year of Angelo De La Vega than a lifetime of a boring, frugal, conforming “man” who simply survives while envying the excitement of others.  He floats through his twenties on his back with a life vest and sun screen – I’m deep sea diving, naked, with the bloody head of the dog he walks twice a day tied around my neck, and a reef full of hungry sharks snapping at my toes.  I’d rather have someone kick my balls than join his kickball league… asshole.  I’d fantasize fucking a felled French fetus before fucking with Fantasy Football; he spends his time memorizing the stats of amazingly athletic men and worshipping their amazing gifts when he could have finally untied the knot in his dick and put it to amazing use.

I can’t pinpoint exactly what she dragged out of my consciousness, I can’t figure out exactly what’s changed, but I’ll die before I let that shit slow me down. Some minor and major mannerisms may have mutated, however our mission and its meaning remain exactly the same:  What is a man but the sum of his stories?  My compass may generally lean off the moral bearing, although it’s almost always, ultimately, to the benefit of those involved…  their moment of significance, of danger, of chaos.  They obtain a memory powerful enough to produce a smile many years from now while they rock back and forth in their chair at a nursing home; a memory worth keeping; a memory appropriate for the invaluable space of the mind; an uncharacteristic burst of adrenaline in their life of monotonous linearity.

Don’t worry my love – I won’t stop what you started.  I promise.  Perhaps this isn’t even the conclusion of our tale, perhaps one day you’ll return to finish the job, perhaps you’re still the end of my story.  Bring it Bitch.

A cold wretched undead, I drank women that bled,
and I’d feast on their hearts and their flesh.
No soul of my own, it had drowned in the moans,
of the hoes that I’d bite and I’d thresh.
Many victims enjoyed the hot pain I deployed
when my fangs drained their necks and transfixed’em.
Then came that dark day that I snuggled away
with Holly Elizabeth Hixom.

She appeared at a time, I’m unhappy to rhyme,
when my sight and my senses were slim.
I awoke by her side with my memories fried
and her body was tied in my limbs.
Oh, what was displayed or conveyed or betrayed
by this ghoul with her guile and wiles?
For she took the rare air from my lungs with a stare
and the strength from my knees with her smiles.
The coven believes I’m deceived and naive,
but their blood can’t compare so I’ve nixed’em.
No woman’s blue veins quite contain the same pain
as Holly Elizabeth Hixom’s.

My minutes and hours are Holly devoured
by the lust that’s now menacing me;
In my coffin of chrome, when I’m still, when I roam,
always longing to be with just she.
If Holly demands, it’s my humble command,
no steep deed is denied for her joy.
And if Holly tells me, I should let her be free,
I’ll obey like a tame timid boy.
Other drinks can’t replace the pure grace of her face
when my teeth tear her thighs and inflict’em.
And by day when I sleep my gray dreams are so deep
of Holly Elizabeth Hixom.

How unlucky that she has revealed mortal Lee,
the foul human she loved before me,
because recently Lee has been trying to free
little Holly and flee with my glee.
My Sweet and her charms in his living warm arms
is a difficult outcome to bear.
Should I fly towards the Sun since their Love is a one
meant for two without room to be shared?
My thoughts all lament an eternity spent
with emotions this vexed what can fix’em?
Perhaps I was the prey who was slain that first day
by Holly Elizabeth Hixom.

Crayon he-she vampire attack:

It’s hard to write when the sun is shining.  It’s hard to write when you can throw on paper denims and a t-shirt, stumble down 14^th street, and rub yourself all over underage women.  There was a girl born in October 1989.  There was a penthouse in Chinatown.  An apartment roof deck in Adam’s Morgan.  A shittier roof deck on U Street.  A fat one and her best friend from a New Jersey “Jewish camp”.  A pair of English broads that were slightly too big for their britches.  Frequent tables and the caliber of hoes that frequent them.

That was my summer… dozens of disgustingly drunk debaucheries. 

I’m not proud of it, not this time, not like this.  Every escapade ended in a shamble of shallow sensations, every hole of every hoe felt more hallow than the last.  I’m not troubled by guilt or a biting conscience; It’s the absence of any emotion at all that worries me.  Where is the exhilarating rush of victory?  Where is the sly smile on my face the following day at work?  Why do I no longer feel entertained by the female fragrance on my fingers? Until recently, the warmth of a melting woman seemed to temporarily simmer my boiling discontentment.  I suppose there comes a time when even labias lose their luster.

All I really ever wanted was excitement.  The modern male American lifestyle is a very unnatural condition.  We no longer engage in a thrilling scrap for survival and dominance; “hunting women” is the only remaining fundamental struggle.  So, I hunted to satiate my adrenaline addiction.  Have I now overdosed on vaginal vitamins as a mental therapy?  Or perhaps this just isn’t the life I envisioned and at some past juncture I made a critical miscalculation.  I’ve never had to work for anything in life; school, money, and women all presented little more than frivolous challenges.  But, I’ve also never possessed the bravery to abandon the well-lit path laid before me.  Is that my tragic flaw?  The inability to leave behind what’s easy and step headlong into the abyss?

After the torrent of tits this summer, I’m finally sufficiently settled to start writing.  Last weekend, after reading “Annabel Lee” 30 times, I whipped up the cautionary tale below.  I haven’t named it yet and this might not be its final incantation. I actually concentrated on meter for once and I found the experience highly enjoyable.  I’m currently illustrating this demented story with equally demented pictures and I’ll post the completed project sometime soon:

The bachelor king in his elegant clothes,
Playing eloquent games with his roster of hoes

May sound like a dream to dull men that don’t know
The dark twisted tall tale that I’ve set out to show…

Despite lacking the tools to make sluts sloppy wet,
In my youth tame existence was nothing to fret.

‘twas corolla, no card, personality lame,
Instead of fast car and fat visa and game.

In those days I would struggle to conjure some laughs,
Though I was quite adept at gargantuan gaffes.

I longed for a lass that was longing for me,
Someone locked up and closed needing me as her key.

A partner to cuddle and snuggle away,
Skipping school for the beach when we wanted to play.

I’d squeeze a small pillow to sleep through the night,
And pretend she enjoyed when my arms held her tight.

Other men, other men, and the girls they would pull…
Their techniques, what were they?  I would grasp them in full!

So I watched and I learned till I figured it out,
My own art of seduction then started to sprout:

Dancing, tequila, hypnotic delight,
Mixed together just right for her thong to ignite!

As my tactics improved and my confidence grew,
Many women I banged wished for more than a screw.

These hoes held high hopes for my hours and days,
But I wouldn’t yet yield this new power and praise.

They gazed upon me in submission so pure,
Unprepared for the pain I’d insist they endure.

I’d break hearts to appease newfound vanity’s greed,
Thus began my decent to humanity’s weeds.

I fell in love; Not just once, not just twice,
But I quelled my emotions to stay cold as ice.

With every tear and with every groan,
My poor heart further mutated into a stone.

I still hear their soft whispers, sad voices of dread,
And my dreams are all haunted with words left unsaid.

These memories menace me, stealing my breath,
In drab shadows they lurk while they eat me toward death.

This curse can’t be slowed once already begun,
In the chase of a myth my whole world came undone.

Any week, any night, any time I so please,
I can fill my bed’s sheets with a frightening ease.

But I can’t fill the gap where my soul used to sit -
Not with friends, or success, none of it seems to fit.

I’ve lost all that mattered for meaningless goals,
I’m the ultimate man and a hideous troll.

Pay attention young sir to the words on this page…
I’m a bachelor king not too far from your age.

                So she had a face that would launch a thousand ships – in the opposite direction.  So her teeth weren’t very white and her body wasn’t very tight and her weight wasn’t very light.  Master Ovid said it best, “At night there is no such thing as an ugly woman!”  Perception is a flaky friend who seems exceptionally vulnerable to six ounces of alcohol; moles morph into beauty marks, a few extra chins turn into a lil’ extra skin, hairy arms become hardly hairy, faces lacking symmetry are suddenly perfectly asymmetric.  When I want my dick wet the beer goggles bend light and warp space turning Picassos into Rembrandts.  Mushiness aside, in the drunken dark, they all look and feel the same.  Sometimes vagina is vagina and friction is friction; I could be fucking a cunt, a canteen, or a cash register and I wouldn’t know the difference.
                Of course, in the morning a gripping uneasiness accompanies the first glimpse of a defective bedmate.  If you attempt day light sex then you’ll quickly discover that the primary difference between hot and not is the refractory period.  Unlike their ugly counterparts, plump bitches make exceptional hungover bedmates because they are swollen with endearing qualities.  A friendly flabby female is the closest real life entity to the jovial Santa Clause image of our youth, why won’t more wide women dress the part around Christmas?  Overweight ovaries require minimal effort to enter (aside from a late night snack) and their saggy bodies humorously jiggle when pounded from behind… is there anything more charming?
                I’m not advocating obesity; I believe most women would benefit from a biyearly bout with bulimia or perhaps a semiannual attack of anorexia.  During my tenure at Maryland I even developed an exercise regimen for undergraduate sluts that hadn’t already adopted the cocaine and cigarettes “model” diet.  I called it “Walk of shame for weight loss”, and I showed the immense metabolic benefit of repeated late night strolls from the bars to my apartment followed by vigorous morning treks back to their dorms.  A persistent and dedicated individual could feasibly fight the freshman fifteen down to the freshman five.  I really saved a lot of women that semester.
                My nonchalant cunt choices have certainly chafed my wingmen through the years.  “Tonight, we are going to use BETTER JUDGEMENT!” they tried to tell me.  Better judgment?  Right.  I make two kinds of decisions: horrible, or really horrible… so even my better judgment ends up being bad judgment. Besides, fucking flawed females is like a morally uplifting righteous donation.  When will the toothless twat ever kiss such a handsome face?  When will the cross eyed cunt ever be smothered by such a hot body?  When will the pimply pussy ever taste such delicious dick?  My sexual performance could be abysmal, my morning mannerisms could be awful, my promises could be embarrassingly hollow… it won’t make any difference.  These women will never forget nor regret my magnanimous nature.  It’s a shame I can’t write-off the gallons of cum I’ve dumped into this charity.
                A corpulent woman is generally jolly, but she is quite capable of unsightly conduct that rivals her unsightly features.  For instance, why do portly pedants periodically complain about me cumming inside?  Carrying an infant of my genetic pedigree is indubitably the greatest treasure life could bestow on such disfigured creatures and, if anything, I’d expect gratitude for my generous gifts.  I’m particularly aggressive in pushing Plan B down the throats of these fatty ingrates and I hope their distended bowls suffer through days of uncomfortable nausea.  Impregnating an imperfect female is a terrifying notion, but, given my unscrupulous nature, I can’t fathom a more fitting and bloodcurdling curse.  A gross and distorted child… like I could ever love such a thing.  In that situation, is it really wrong to pray for a miscarriage?

I love Picasso’s “Nude woman with necklace“, so I decided to draw ”Sloppy slut with santa hat” below:
If the image does not display, you can view it here at flickr.

• In my bedroom… 
• Fat foolish female: “Do you have a condom?
• Angelo De La Vega: “No.”
• Fat foolish female: “I have one… let me get my purse.”
• Angelo De La Vega: <Grunt>
• We still have our shirts on, but lack any clothing below the waist.  She hands me a condom.  I tear open the shiny wrapper and remove  the gooey latex.  I look at it, I look at her, I look back at it, and I look back at her.  At this point, while maintaining eye contact, I drop the wrapper on the floor and slowly lay the condom on the window sill above my bed.  She watches me ignominiously .  I proceed to bang her raw.
• Morning arrives.
• Fat foolish female: “You don’t have any diseases, do you?” 
• Angelo De La Vega: <Sigh>

            If this jiggly jumbo slice whore really cared, why wouldn’t she halt all sexual activity after my egregious display of irresponsibility?                                
            Statistically, it’s almost an impossibility for me NOT to have HPV… but it’s like I always say, “If you don’t have HPV, then you aren’t having enough sex.”  But it causes cancer!!  Bullshit, everything causes cancer.  Diet coke?  Cancer.  Tuna fish?  Cancer.  Cell phones?  Brain Cancer.  I’m convinced that I’ve managed to avoid more precarious STDs over the last 12 years through a slightly masochistic ritual I started in high school: The Listerine Deluge.                        
           My mother was an avid proponent of Listerine throughout my childhood; “It kills millions of germs on contact!” she used to read from the bottle.  Don’t worry mama, I learned that lesson well!  I keep a 1.5L arctic mint bottle in my apartment for scandalous females, and give my member a thorough dousing immediately after sex.  Men, in more ways than one, possess the more extraverted genitalia of the genders; women couldn’t possibly attempt the Listerine Deluge without a funnel and a high pain tolerance.                              
           Amazingly, they won’t teach this tried and true trick during elementary sex education.   I’ve written a nursery rhyme below to help keep kids safe.  Like all nursery rhymes, it’s meant to be read out loud – in this case, with a cadence very similar to hickory dickory dock. 

If you have trouble viewing the image below, see it here on flickr.
 

If you have trouble viewing the image below, see it here at flickr.

                Of course, I wasn’t always enlightened.  Once upon a drunken time, in a friend’s basement far far away, I experimented with The Shocker.  She was naked, soaking wet, and ready for the bang.  We were laying side-by-side and my right hand was busily pleasing her through expert clitoral stimulation… it was Shocker time!  The first problem, I quickly realized, is that The Shocker’s angle of attack is completely unsuitable from the typical fingering position (spread eagle with her back on the bed, you’re on your side, and your heads are sharing a pillow).  Without possessing a 6 foot arm with a triple jointed wrist, one can’t possibly execute the technique without repositioning.  So I repositioned.   Now I was kneeling to the right of her legs, facing her, and attempting to align a right handed shocker.  Failure again; I just couldn’t easily get to the asshole with my pinky since it’s the most flaccid of all the fingers.  Now I was frustrated and consequently more aggressive, so I used my left hand to raise her legs to the “knees on shoulders” position.  I could see the vagina, I could see the asshole, I had my fingers properly situated, I went for it, I was giving her the Shocker… but she wasn’t shocked.  This is when I discovered the fundamental flaw of this technique: there is nothing shocking about half a pinky.  The bent ring finger impedance prevented full depth penetration and the vaginal stimulation emphasized vertical as opposed to horizontal expansion.  I understood at that moment, with my very sad pinky in her very sad butthole, that The Shocker is total bullshit.
                Thus, out of the ashes of defeat was born a new beast… my own creation… the ultimate violation… The Inverted Shadow Puppet.

if you have trouble viewing the image below, see it here at flickr. 
 

                The Inverted Shadow Puppet utilizes the ring and middle fingers in the stink, the thumb in the pink, and the pinky and index fingers for stabilization/leverage.  It is anatomically correct and can be performed from a variety of angles – none of which require exceptionally long extremities or freakish wrist/elbow flexibility.  I usually begin with standard middle and ring finger blasting of the vagina, wait until the juices have dripped south to sufficiently lubricate the asshole, and then transition to The Puppet.  My Shadow Puppet’s personality is feral and bloodthirsty; once I’ve achieved full rectal/vaginal infiltration, I release him on the unsuspecting female by pinching, pulling, and “chewing” her insides.  If done correctly, one should eventually feel the comforting warmth of feces on their fingertips.
                The Inverted Shadow Puppet is a shitty gift – your woman will not enjoy it.  In fact, a successful rectum ravaging requires her reluctance since its very purpose revolves around your cathartic power – not her pleasure.  If you aim to delight her, then remain boorishly behind in her vagina.  But if you aim to test her obedience, if you aim to push the boundaries of your control, then look beyond the vagina and into the stormy abyss of her anus.  When I hear her piglet squeals and then softly stroke my slimy Shadow Puppet across her sweaty cheek, I know unequivocally that the indoctrination is complete… I have her right where I want her.

if you have a trouble viewing the image below, see it here at flickr.