Excerpts From my Wandering Mind: Anti-Romanticism

Greetings, dragons! I’ve been abroad for over a week now, so I am very sorry for the lack of content. Anyhoo, enjoy this brainfluff to keep you vaguely entertained until something at least coherent bobs along.

I am spread out on the bed. My inner goddess is throbbing harshly. There he is, sliding across the bathroom doorway, his dad bod glistening in the lamplight. I spin around on the bed. I want to tease him… he slides himself over to me, in a sexy little tango. He pushes his lip against my ear and, slyly, skilfully, sends a tantalising belch down my ear canal. My inner goddess is writhing in pleasure. He dribbles a bit. He turns to the other ear: “I have eaten nothing but Marmite and Monster Munch for several weeks”. I can’t take much more, my moment of pleasure is imminent. Somehow my ears can detect his sexy man stench. He starts to strip off his robe, gracefully, like the dance of a cobra. His head gets caught in the sleeve hole. It takes him several minutes to readjust. Once topless, he assumes a very intense sexual stance, like a panther ready to pounce. I now understand what the Buddhists call nirvana. He reaches into his SpongeBob SqaurePants boxers and… scratches himself, before lifting his fingers up to his hooked nose, sniffing like a fleshy Dyson. “It smells like pickled eggs and nightmares” he says. His beautiful manhood now stands bare before me, ready, raging, wart-ridden. It takes him 3 seconds to finish. My inner goddess is in flames, in lustful agony. He farts and knocks a lamp over as he leaves my apartment. I can now comprehend the true meaning of pleasure.

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