absence raises desire, and by this point my desire is a hissing spitting cobra-hooded wild pig the height of a skyscraper, the width of an air craft carrier, and possessing the desperate hunger of a constellation aware that its inching closer and closer to going supernova.
i don't fuck a lot, is what i'm getting at here.
i don't fuck at all.
not only that, but i'm getting the sense that no one is really fucking at all. too preoccupied with pedantic micro-managing of everyone else's thoughts and behaviors, with purloining and misappropriating each other's outrages, to concentrate on that one stress relieving flesh connector that binds us all... a solid pounding.
giver or receiver. man or woman. straight or gay. cis or trans.
why can't we all just fuck till we can't walk?
as i find my social inadequacies multiplying by the nanosecond, seemingly in correlation with exponentially vitriolic societal pressures, i find that my attractions and fetishes have also mutated further, broadened into an overreaching spectrum of spunktrum that colors every encounter on either side of the cathode horizon.
alright... this writing is starting to take the length of the new Bethlehem record, so let me get to the fuck-meat of this open-faced sex sandwich; the top 5 Shame Crushes of 2016.
these lovelys find their place on this list because of their atypical beauty, their intangible aura, their effortlessly hypnotic trance-waves that have ensnared my ID in their vertigo tilt-a-whirl fishnets, choked into coma-bliss delirium by its garter belt garrote.
here we gooooooo
getting the reliably jackable out of the way is this pornstar extraordinaire. Ms. Reid has the honor of possessing one of the most fascinating visages ever found in the medium, like if your perma-cute girlfriend received some kind of Twilight Zone esque punishment for making one too many Roger-Ebert's-Last-Days faces in a reflecting doorknob, but somehow the cosmically ironic comeuppance made her even more inappropriately adorable... like a living Trevor Brown drawing. plus those scenes w/ Dana Vespoli and Bonnie Rotten are literally Fucking Art.
the inadvertent femme fatale of the terminally embarrassing "GamerGate" movement, the droll dom of clinical depression. has that semi-sentient-wet-burlap vocal cadence that sucks me right down. i've been increasingly interested in how games are designed, and i can't think of somehow i'd rather have as my tutor.
yes... that's almost-irritating Kate McKinnon... but that whole package up; the cute kicks, the lacy dress, the short hair, the glasses.. really puts the "shame" in "shameshank". Existential one-liners about the spots on my dick, please.
intelligently eviscerating words and performances that turn much of the worn-out aesthetics of art damage and power electronics into something truly abrasive.
Kristen Stewart's secret rage unleashed in a feral whirling mass of sweat-shined battle vinyl and deadly fuck-you-without-end musculature. after the inevitable collision with NXT Women's Champ Asuka, my dick is gonna need grief counseling.
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Merry 2017, everyone.
get to fucking.
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