Shitcakes and pantyhose

One might hope for some used condoms dripping somewhere in the equation, but that would be too much to handle.  For me anyways.  Its been too long without a woman.  A year and counting.  Unless grapefruit qualify as female.  Where exactly does citrus fall on the sex scale?  When its heated through, but not too hot to blister.  Well I can’t remember the last time someone else was in the room and I had an orgasm like those.  Maybe it has something to do with not being pressured to please the citrus.  Any chance of that goes out the window when I core it out to make the erection hole.  Now don’t go thinking that coring a grapefruit for masturbation is something you can just, pardon the expression, toss off.  No.  Cutting straight through at a diameter that was just right far more than shoving a knife in and twirling it in a circle.  But it was damn worth it.  Once I got over the New England Puritan Guilt of I’m fucking produce.  And fruit never goes on the rag.  When I cut the hole out.  I just had never realized that my dick was that big.  Not that big around.  After so many too many years of holding myself looking at myself.  One would think who better to know what’s up with the penis.  Turns out I had no sense of objectivity.  Only saw my dick in relation to me.  Small.  How could any woman enjoy that thing.  I guess that could be why they weren’t.  Enjoying it or even interested in it.  The erection compared to the grapefruit though.  A whole other story.  I could split a woman in two with that thing.  Jesus.  Where the hell did that come from?  And boy does a grapefruit fuck good.  Never says no either.  There will be no grapefruit tonight though.  Just me and my most precious bodily fluids.  Besides those that keep us alive rather than try to murder us a minute at a time.  What is the penis but some blindfolded kamikaze pilot and urine pump combination.  Bastard. Still my orgasm will be dripping down my chest onto the belly to pool up where the umbilical cord was my mother’s first attempt to kill me.  That’s a whole other story though.  By the way have I told you about my mother cheating on my father with her tennis instructor?  How passe?  How cliche?  How gross.  But then I think that my oedipal complex lasted about 15 minutes.  Until the next woman walked by and icky what the hell was I thinking?  But at least she could make up her mind.  Even if it was just an after school movie special decision.  The tennis instructor.  What the hell.  There seems to be a lot of that going around these days doesn’t there.

Cum dripping down my chest.  Catching on the few hairs they encounter on the way down.  It’s the best I could hope for.  Why.  Why should it be any other way?  It’s what I invited into the hall.  When I couldn’t decide fast enough. Or worse yet.  When the action portion of the brain never received the memo the other side had sent down.  Decision without action is fucking without balls.  You’re able to pat yourself on the back in celebration of your greatness.  But you can’t erase the lingering and the point is the bully that’s tapping you on the other shoulder.  Actually that’s how I became introduced to the idea of fucking fruit.  No one puts out like Mother Nature.  Always on duty.  Hustling anyone who will pay attention.  As well as most of those who don’t.  Fuck.

So.  What are you writing about?

What drives a man to fucking a grapefruit in the ass.


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