BigJimsWornOutTires
Kraken
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The way women are asking for easy sex today ... reminded me why they're on dating apps. Secrets women dare not share with men. Especially, Incels — You!
Five years ago was like any other bachelor period. During 2018, I racked up over a hundred dip sessions, impregnated twenty, changed my phone number a dozen times, had five arrested for serial stalking, and discovered two were blood-related.
It was a Tuesday night as I pushed back into the cushion of my sofa, sipping a fireball whiskey. The floor snatched my attention and I saw my phone lit up with an incoming call next to a pair of thin green thongs. I see the name I assigned that phone number — Change Phone Number. Ah, yes, the one from last night — Miss Erica Wilkens. First thing in the morning, I was changing my number. I rallied myself. But those thongs baffled my autism.
I met her on Plenty of Fish. Or, as I call the dating app, Alcoholic Fucks. She invited me to her place on the first date. After she made us drinks and exhibited her talent with a hula-hoop, we had sex. She didn't mind her ass being the main attraction as she reversed cowgirl, slamming her vagina over my entire dick. Ugh. Even when she squirted, it didn't stop her powerful slaps, which splattered her feminine juices over my abs.
During the night, I eased her off my chest, which awoke her. I rather not see her in the morning. Awkward, you know? I had to get the fuck out of there. As I slid my legs off the bed, she wormed to me. She captured my leg as I stood, her butt crack exposed. Leaning into me, she seized the partially erected shaft and widened her mouth then engulfed its swollen mushroom. Ugh, her eyes were still closed. It appeared she was sleep-sucking. I tried to pry her off, but she was stuck like glue. The squelching of her sloppy suction mesmerized me for a moment. With my hands on my hips and chest out, I allowed her to feed on what semen my balls produced since the last emptying ... four hours prior, as I viewed her nightstand clock.
Moments like that assured me women are cum thirsty. They use dating apps for their nourishment. Like good restaurants, they won't eat that cheap shit at Mario's taco truck unless she's starving. They're picky about where they eat. But they will eat! If you think by avoiding her call, thus playing hard to get, will have her hunger for you more, think again, faggot. Sure, she might play you, pretend to be that girl, but trust me, she's gotta eat. And she will! You just won't know about it. Women have a code, "What he doesn't know is none of his fucking business."
Women hunger for cum 24 hours a day. Even during sleep, as Miss Wilkens proved. Like vampires lusting for blood, cumpires feed on men's ball sacks. All women love filling their stomachs with salty brewed semen. And if she ever tells you that's not true, she's a lying communist Jew supporter and belongs in Gaza.
With that valuable knowledge I've provided, please, don't abuse it. Never take advantage of a slut's hunger. That would be evil! Like dangling a hamburger over a Venezuelan, it's not right. And never tease her with dick pics. Do you have any idea what that does to a hungry belly? Like showing pictures of food to an anorexic. SMH. Respect the naturally less intelligent gender. If anything, offer yourself in a charitable fashion, like a free food pantry.
Suppose you're on that first date window shopping. Or whatever you creeps do on first dates. If she says, "Tell me more about yourself."
You say, "Talk is cheap. Let's get to business. I got cum, and obviously, you're hungry, thus this date. You can feed now, perhaps behind that nasty dumpster over there or back at the car."
At that point, she should've grabbed your wrist and dragged you to the dining area. If she doesn't, she's playing you. Dump her immediately because she's not worth the time and compassion.
Oh, and the mystery of those thongs was revealed shortly later.
After I emptied the contents of that miniature liquor bottle into my liver, I went to the bathroom to drain the monster. The door was cracked open with light-emitting. I never close that door, my OCD restricts left-on lights. I open it to a naked woman in my tub. "Good morning, Penis," she said while gliding a fluffy pink scrunchy over her juicy wet titties. I knew who she was — my neighbor. She visits every so often for booty calls.
I react, "Ugh, cool." I aimed the beast into the toilet bowl.
"I'm your huckleberry," she said while staring at my monster and moving the tip of her tongue over her top lip. I knew what that meant. She wanted to be the toilet. I obliged as any decent man would do in that situation.
After shaking off, Amy giggled like the weirdo she is, I was puzzled why she was there and inquired, "I'm puzzled why you are here."
"What do you remember?" she pulled the tub's stopper.
"I was pushing back into my sofa drinking a fireball when I noticed my phone lit up, but, this is mind-boggling insane, I don't remember how I got there."
"Do you remember last night?"
"Of course, I had a meet and greet date."
Amy stood up and asked, "How old do you think you are?" Elevated blonde brows matched her drenched pubic hair. Her vivid blues in clarity demanded to be ignored. But the soap subs that slid down her lithe figure as she reached for the only towel that hung over the shower rod, tempted me to snatch the cloth and push her down.
However, I was suspicious of why she would ask such a stupid question, I entertained her, "I'm
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"No, Jim. You're
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What the fuck? I pondered a moment, watching a tiny speckle of fecal matter float in the bath water. "That's not possible," I assured her and scooted aside as she stepped out of the tub and walked to the sink.
"Yeah, it is, and it's your reality," Amy sighed. "You don't know, do you?"
"Know what?"
"Do you remember that movie, 50 First Dates?" She ran a brush through her wet blue hair.
"Yeah, about a retarded roastie who couldn't remember the guy she was fucking every day."
"Exactly. You have her disease," she placed the brush on the counter as I stared in confusion watching that speckle of fecal matter swirl above the drainage hole.
"I fucked Drew Barrymore, and she gave me an STD?"
She removed her towel and shrugged, "I don't know if you fucked her." She grouped her hair into a bundle and wrapped the surrounding towel, saying, "But no, not that kind of disease. A brain one."
"Like mental illness?"
She faced me as I gazed down at her puffy dark areolas. "Oh, yeah, you definitely have a mental illness but, no. Like a brain disorder."
"Like mental problems?"
"That's the same thing as mental illness, and yeah, you have mental problems, but this is different. You forget every time you go to sleep." She grabbed my penis.
"That sucks," I watched the speckle vanished into the abyss. "So Miss Wilkens happened three years ago?"
Amy pushed past me to the toilet and brought the lid down and sat while still gripping my penis, "Bingo!"
"Oh, wow. So, whose Change Phone Number is that?"
"I'm wondering myself. What am I to you?" she said while inspecting my penis.
"My neighbor who comes by for dick."
She shakes her head and plucks a pube off, "I used to be. Look around." She swept her free hand toward the counter. I see it cluttered with women's shit, suddenly, startled by a wet touch. I peer down and see her tongue sweeping along my shaft as Amy watches me.
She pursed her lips and then said, "We got married three years ago. Oddly, right when your memory-STD started." She stretched her mouth the widest she could, to engulf the head.
"Snapper crappers! So you're leasing this dick, is what you're saying?" She hummed, "Uh-huh," and nodded.
With her hands on my glutes, she pulled me in closer and withdrew her lips. Amy gently took my ball sack and brought it up. "Somewhat, but you're still a whore," she swept her tongue across them. "But when you bring them back, I get some of that too, cracka." She starts licking them.
Ugh, 2018. Shaking my head.
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