I am kind of worried that I am addicted to porn but don’t know what else to do. Girls don’t like guys who smell like shit. I cannot get the smell off me from the farm.
Shit and milk go hand and hand, and, sometimes, the suction cups come off the cows’ teats and sucks up the urine and liquid shit on the floor. I am just covered in shit by the end of the day. I always thought the “Got Milk?” statement should read, “Got Shit? But I guess people don’t like the truth much.
This is my theory as to why I don’t get girls besides being in a town of five thousand where everybody is past fifty and the cute girls go away to college. Those left over are too little to think about or too … well, I hate to say it, common even for us very commoners. I don’t want a lady who looks too much like me, or I’d feel that I am fucking myself. And I’ve been fucking myself for ages, as you will see.
If I had to describe myself, I’d say I am a cross between George Clooney and Pee-wee Herman.
As creepy as that is, I think the Pee-wee in me marinates with the Clooney. While I don’t look hot and have flawed teeth, I am not much of a pervert either. In all, I’d say I look decent except I have to wear shit-stained clothes. So this leads me to my whole mother and five sister’s incident. The incident would come to change my life.
Now, you got to understand men and pornography to get why we look at the shit we do. My plan at eight o’clock that night was to get a coffee to wash down the beer and then sit and look for some girls online.
I’ve never been into the webcam girl kind of thing, but that night I stumbled on a website called Live Gasm. The girls looked great, and every little icon, if you scrolled over it, would show you the girl live. These girls were in lingerie, usually on beds. They were dancing.
I clicked on one chick that looked half Asian and half white. She was really hot. Then she wiggled her tongue, and I almost shit my pants. Let’s say that she could KO Gene Simmons with that thing.
Now, I don’t know exactly why I got turned on by her tongue. Giraffes have long tongues, and I am not into them, but I did and I found my hands, much like my penis, having minds of their own. Soon I was registered. My penis and my eyes watched my hands in anticipation as I put my credit card in the Live Gasm system.
Now, I never had a two-way with a cam girl before, but she charged three dollars a minute. That seemed fine with my hands and my penis, but my head was in a fog. They clicked on “live performance;” I heard a jingle, and the hot lady appeared.
“Hi honey, what’s your name? Where are you from?” Said the tongue girl in pigtails and white stockings.
I was so overcome that I think I wrote, “Hi, nice rear” and before I knew it, she dropped her drawers, got on all fours, rear facing camera and made some strange shoulder movement. I watched in stunned anticipation as she inserted her hand and then her whole arm up her bum.
I never lost an erection so fast in my life. I’ve got to admit that it takes talent to give one’s self a colonoscopy, but I was so scared that her hand would eventually come out of her mouth and that I would never get aroused again.
I clicked out of that shithole. Saying “nice ass” does not mean that I want my head in your ass. I was thinking more of caressing a butt cheek, gently biting it, as a horse does its young, or slapping it, not the horse but your ass if you have a nice one and are a girl.
I’d be a doctor if I wanted to stick things up your ass. It’s a biological thing though to admire asses.
Whenever I see something shocking online, I try to feel better by looking at naked girls to man up.
Somehow, in my daze and conflict with my hands and penis, I must of clicked on something in my favorites, and I went from a hot girl doing something disgusting, to a cookie-loving puppet making orgasmic sounds as he took in a massive cookie, “Oh, yes, oh yes, yum, yum, YUM!”
This commotion must have stirred up my half-witted mother, and before I knew it, I heard my door pop open. Mom’s never knock, do they?
The top of my body just froze, but my legs tried to flee by swinging my office chair toward her. There I was naked with my “five sisters” barreling toward Mother!
“FRANK JULIUS YERNING!!! What in God’s name are you doing?!”
She, too, then turned and ran from the scene, and there I was trailing after her like a horny, incapacitated ninety-year old,
“But Mom, KNOCK Damn it!”
Now I have had embarrassing moments with Mother before, but her Janet Reno demeanor and appearance as well as her being Mother always took away any future desire to masturbate or even think of women, at least for a while.
But now I suffered my second humiliation in a few seconds, and I shut the door and stayed in there for what must have been an hour.
It turns out that I ended up paying the tonguing colonoscopy girl $180 because I never closed the session.
I guess being screwed has really lost any positive meaning for me, but I really did not want to face Mother. The whole incident brought up the time I flushed our goldfish down the toilet. Usually, they are dead, but this one was alive.
I guess I was inspired by a Nemo-like desire for the fish’s freedom, but here I am coming back around to shit again, but I guess I am better off than Sir Thomas Crapper.
I found out he did not invent the toilet but got credit for it. That is just making me confused, so I better stop.
Eventully I summed up the courage to move toward the door.
To be continued …
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