I know that what Dad(dy) did to me was wrong but was it really wrong for me to like it? It has taken me so long to be honest with my own s***** needs. Is it really just a coincidence that I followed in his repressed footsteps? While I genuinely loved and cared for all the women I had s** with, I always woke in the night and found myself wishing that the body beside had a d*** and it didn’t even matter whether I had one or not.
I’ve wasted so much of lots of peoples’ time, it might well be argued well–except for that of the mothers of my sons. Both of those big souls were looking to be born–I’m sure of that–and I’m certain that neither of their mothers regret the wonderfully ongoing and evergiving event of their existence.
What’s rocking me to the core of my own existence is a concentration of experience where mortality and s******** are whirling around each other, each uttering demands that have stopped being garbled, as before and up to now, in the urgency of their need of my attention. The obvious one just goes on, fortunately, with that meaty version of tick-tock that always seems in reverse for the first few seconds, but the actual really big event is that I admitted to my just recently ex-girlfriend that, yes, i swear to the spirit of myself, I am a dirty filthy nasty homo f***** b**** who would love to lick her next fucker’s come right out of her c***, while she calls me every dirty name in every language that she knows, as said fucker’s k**** f***-any-hole friend shoves his hot meaty f***-pole up my oh-so-delightedly-eager sissy-b**** c*** while both of the only real men in the room discuss, between manly grunts of pleasure, the nature of the necessary punishment that I deserve for the crime of rejecting my masculine obligatory destiny, and c****** in the greatest surge of s***** pleasure that I have ever felt as they agree, conclusively, that the only fair and appropriate sentence is that I should be taken to a public place, where my testicles will be severed from my body, as the whole male community engages in whirling dervish dances, while the women tend, out of ritual duty, to the newly empty space that still seems so painfully huge and my nurses whisper soothingl that i should be grateful that I have been rescued from the morbid burden of trying to be a man.