The Sound Of One Cock Flapping

Kenny came by yesterday, newly single and armed with a raging hard on. I miss those days. And as I sit here pounding away at the keyboard, I can only reminisce. My nicotine stained fingers vomiting forth as my brain reels from post-celebratory bruises given to me from a long night ransacking my favorite pub, and generally making a buffoon of myself, an odd yet familiar scent wafts through my senses. I am suddenly and utterly regressing back to a time when that scent of perfume was grinded into my face, along with the stench of her piss flaps and her vulva nectar. How could it be, that strange mix of lavender and honeysuckle, that NOW would be the time for phantom smells and remembrance of such an intense sexual being she was when we first fucked liked the last two AIDS victims on Earth? I know no such answers. But I do know one thing, though. Lonely, depressed, and completely stricken with a raging case of "I wanna fuck", I can't get the faces of the women I've banged like a hammer out of my mind. So with out further ado, these are some of the types of women I've stuck my purple headed warrior into...

The Drama Queen:
It takes me forever to get you into my bed, and when it is all said and done, and I stand over you as I wipe your cunny juice off my cock with your t-shirt, you still won't shut up. Months of planning, months of listening to your inane anecdotes about the fucked up happenings and people in your life, months of nodding my head in agreement to your false plights, months of hugs and sly kisses, months of spending my hard earned money in an effort to get you drunk enough to shut the fuck up for just three seconds. Three precious seconds is all I would need, long enough for me to realize that you just ain't worth it. But no. You keep running your mouth just hear yourself talk and all those months wasted on you amount to the only conclusion that could have possibly came from such wasted effort: You stink in bed, both literally and figuratively.

Thank God for premature ejaculation.

The Dead Fish aka The Corpse:
You have one thing going for you, honey: At least you aren't a drama queen. But feeling you out in bed is like making love to a corpse...but at least with a corpse there's no fear of commitment, just law enforcement. You're kind is alien to me. During the daylight hours, you're a fiery ball of energy, a delight to be with. Even when the sun sets and drinks are quaffed, you give off the illusion of quite possibly being a fantastic lay in bed. But alas, mine Venus DeNoGo, you make absolutely NO effort when it comes to carnal activities. Hell, you even offer me to sleep beside you in your bed, and when an offer like that is made to a man, our balls drop a little bit more and fill up in anticipation of what's to come. And after the small talk is over and the television is turned off, what comes next? You roll over and turn off the light, pushing my erection away with your snores.

It Came From The Planet Sexitron:
I don't where you came from, or what fiendish design you have planned for my cock and balls, but the second we locked eyes and you licked your lips like the Devil herself, there is no question or doubt about it. We are going to fuck. Long, hard, greasy, animalistic session of sex with no inhibition or moral dilemma. I'm going to penetrate every single orifice of yours with penis, fist, foot, and maybe even head, and you'll still demand more, more, MORE! You'll smell like lavender and honeysuckle, and giggle into my ear the second we meet, one hand on my shoulder, the other snuggling my crotch like a dog's nose. You will drain me of every single drop of sweat, blood, and cum and when I wake up in the morning, you'll have done something even more fantastic for me: You'll be gone to whatever planet you came from. The only problem? I'll never see you again.

The Underage Drunken Innocent:
I...uh...never mind.

The list could go on and on, people, but the Vicodin is kicking in and my headache is slowly drifting away towards nap time for Johnny. But as I sit here, now staring at Asian fisting teens in latex bondage gear pissing on each other, and await the release of la petite mort, her smell wafts away from me and turns back into the familiar stench of a Lucky Strike and my own body odor. The point is, I've loved and lost and regained and lost it all again.

If only Kenny would have stayed home, I wouldn't have been thinking about this...

Damn you Kenny, damn you to hell.