Jennifer complained today that I, David, fucked her very intensely, and that the power of the pressure on her clitoris therefore led to considerable cursing and protests. Basically, fucking is done by taking one’s huge cock and using it with tremendous force and expertise. Jennifer tells David that she appreciates the atavistic bellows and roars, just as he feels that this is the point of the exercise, to surrender focus on utility, the exchangeable unit of measurement, the unit of pleasure or whatever, and exist the intensity of which Lyotard writes in his “evil book”, the absolutely unique irreplaceable.
Part of the point of the stories earlier about the deplorably inadequate exes is to demonstrate that none of these had mastered the art of fucking, or of general humanity, but got by through exploiting mental illness. This is why they were never loved. For example, French Little Billy Blond, who assiduously reads these blogs, can go fuck himself, and sleep with dust and memories. Jennifer tells us that he uses a form of Fleshlight. But these are for lonely, pathetic, older men, so we naturally ask ourselves why does Mr. Blond have one? In fact she now tells me that he has more than one. He has three, one for each orifice that he recognizes
It should not be forgotten that, in nature, it is not necessarily an animal’s right to fuck. Jennifer says that Blond once abused a frail gay man and was bottled, he phoned the police: that’s just weak. Low quality males, or females, are often rejected, and this is no problem to the better animals, since, let’s face facts, what the fuck are the rejected specimens going to do about it? The best should fuck, the rest can fuck off and die. Dysgenic fertility is already a huge problem. Scumbags breed most readily.
I, Jennifer, mistook Principle #2 to mean that constant complaining during sex was not only good, but a turn on for David. I would say no, stop, you’re hurting me, when inside I was gushing with vaginal fluids. The more excited I got, the more biting the complaints became, such as saying, oh, you asshole. I came to learn over time that complaints were not necessary to keep this particular male member erect and that, indeed, almost the opposite was true. The more excitement I expressed, the more passion I felt, the more I continued to complain. One time David told me to shut up and slapped me across the face. That really excited me, so much so that I instantly stopped complaining. Indeed, he was harder than ever, a true lightning rod of unbridled pleasure.
Jennifer writes as though I don’t slap her around pretty much all the time, as one does, and as I just did a round dozen times while bruising myself around the os pubis, and producing a symphony of sluttishness from her frail form. She writes as though she would not be enormously pissed off if I refrained from so doing. Anyway, if men with small dicks breed, we will ultimately see an accursed race of humans who develop midget wangs. The clitoris will become insufferably arrogant, and Jennifer will be able to crush me (I, Jennifer, am related to the Incredible Hulk, which enables me to wind David quite severely when I lie flat on top of him); whereas now, with my use of the techniques of extreme sex, I am able to lift her by the goddamn snatch with one hand and hold her up in the air, which really does provoke cursing, even if my grip gets all slippery on account of the enhanced flow of secretions.
Again, with extreme sex, Jennifer is obsessed by showering before i eat her out, since the vagina is assumed to smell and taste funny, which it doesn’t. There is no particular pong attributable to the snatch. I attribute that particular piece of bullshit to religions, even influencing atheists such as Jennifer, since it influences the whole of society. The Christian pedo rapists, and other practitioners of retarded voodoo, disapprove of the snatch as being a residence of devils and general naughtiness. She also seriously believes that I give a shit if she happens to be bleeding like a stuck pig. As a vegan, I appreciate the nutritional supplement, and am not obliged to chew coal for iron.
Really, it is impossible to be more extreme than I have been. But I’ve never met a man who would eat me out and earn what used to be called their “red wings” by lesbians, the term having been used once by Hells Angels, though the latter are more advanced than the lesbian community. Maybe this is because I was a lesbian for a while, women shying away from blood like most straight men. However, it is common practice for lesbians to perform oral sex on each while one, or both, has a yeast infection. No, the cottage cheese discharge is no breakfast treat. Some lesbians even put their yeast discharge into glass vials and display them on the mantelpieces in their homes. The scent emanates from the vials like a sweet perfume in the nicer homes of such cities as San Francisco. I have turned my nose on the whole mess, and tell David he can lick me anytime. We were going to ask some lesbians in the grocery store, but David bottled out when they stared at his trousers, licking their lips and giggling inanely. The excitable one started running round in circles.
Extreme sex, it must be noted, does not require an extreme cock or extreme pussy, but we do not really know what women with gaping vaginas and men with small cocks do to get off in an extreme fashion. Quite frankly we don’t want to know. It’s like whether the crack babies are laughing or screaming; who cares?