It's so much easier to write about the female form than the male. I've "blogged" (stupid word) about the last four or five (or six?) females I've been in cahoots with, but none of the males. Why? I don't know. Something about publishing poetry or reflections on sex with a guy always comes off a little crass. I mean, describing a girl's thighs as having "buttery sophistication" that "glimmer, glisten, and spread" as I "tremble with hunger" sounds completely different than something like, "Bouncing on his Herculean dick, oh yes, don't cum inside me, please. Let me swallow your sweet fruition."
Um no. It doesn't quite have the same seductive ring to it. It reads like the inner monologue of a cheap, pseudo-intellectual harlot. Or maybe I just suck at writing heterosexual smut. Probably.
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This had a point, but I deleted it.
Left-side of my brain always over-compensating for the right. I hate analyzing every thing I do.
(Oh, you sick, calculating black widow. You don't know what I'd give to bury my face in you and let your dripping pheromones overtake me again.)
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Um. Gross. Leaving it. Whatever. I've been click-clacking away at seemingly fiction piece of shit nonfiction for hours now. Nothing really to show for it. Enough soaking in introversion. It's 11am. Time to immerse myself in the real world. Thanks basement and shit wine, you've been great tonight. But enough.
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