Cervical scrape


I’m really nervous.
My pockets are full of wet tissues and my heart is full of worms.
The only thing I can do with any success is to look gay. But will they even believe me?
I’ve spent my whole life trying to be beautiful and now I’m right back to zero and my pseudo masculinity craves an idiotic ugliness.
The ridiculous rhythmic push of my feminine hips as I try to be manly in this simulated air fuck.
Air guitar, it’s one in the same, a parody of an action.
‘I have to tell you that profile picture is so fucking horrible’ he said – there’s a thin line between desire and repulsion I utter. Besides my cock sock is bigger than yours.

I only feel masculine when I lie alone at night, with my cock, hard in my fist.  I only feel masculine when I am truly sexual. Master hunter, I always initiate the chase, until I am salivating for its sweet meat, and then I lie in wait. Why do I equate masculinity with sex? Why does there feel like such a need to prove myself? To conquer? I perform my masculinity in the way I carry the armature of my body, that supports my throbbing cock. I am aware that I have created a caricature of manhood, a ridiculous parody of something like gristle and burnt meat.

I am a 42 year old man. Dark hair, green-eyes, 5,7 tall, my body is lean. Bar-fight face, bloody nose, steel rimmed glasses that I’ve worn since I was 12. Broken down wife beater, hey – vest, I’ve never been married. Heh. My snake hips are small, so I wear braces to hold up my pants, somehow it adds to accentuate the bulge of my cock. I eat a lot of hot dog, so I always smell of sauce and meat. The meat seems to attract the ladies, like flies to shit. I can see their hungry gyrate from a mile away. You know I’ve always been too cool for school. I used to box, now I just fuck for sport. I still wear the belt everyday like a badge of masculinity.

Horn -dog. I’ve fucked way more women than my dad. I’ll fuck anything that moves. Women say I disgust them, but they still spread their pretty little legs. I give all women an equal respect, face down as I grunt in their ear. I love the way my hands look when I spread ass cheeks, spit and slide my finger into her rear. I may not remember every face, but I remember every contour of her insides as I glide. I grew up worshiping plastic ass, silicone pussy with a scent of peach. I was a late starter. There’s no room for teenage boys, in the skate park all vying for alpha, so I would take my hatred out on inflatable curves.

Buck, what the fuck? I try to emulate you, your vulgarity arouses me. I want your skinny sweaty body on top of me, as you commit to memory the pink frills of my wide open pussy. Simultaneously I am you, as you fuck me. I want to possess your throbbing cock, as it slides into me. What is it about your repulsiveness that I crave so much? I could dress up as any man, style choice, and clothes, and yet I pick out the grubbiest seeds of my perversion in order to become man. Like a cervical scrape, I collect the scum of my insides in order to scrutinise your form. In my masculine disguise, my soft cock out, my face looks like corned beef and milk, a sadistic junkie that is about to fuck me right up. He goes in for the kill. Is it all about obliteration?