Subtitle: Or All Men Are Rapists And If So… Sorry About That.
Disclaimer: this post is NSFW; it contains material of a sexual nature; some of it is also what I like to call pseudo-fiction. (Good luck with that.)
As much as I try, I can’t put myself in a mindset that can understand what women go through when it comes to sexual abuse. Seriously. I’ve tried. During one Halloween I dressed up like a sorority girl and I was sexual assaulted by numerous men. There was also the time I had my hair permed—when I still had hair—which was probably the most feminine thing I’ve ever done—and the guy that did it offered to blow me at least three times while I waited for the chemicals to set in; to this day I regret not letting him do it. During yet another period of experimentation I jerked off three dicks that stuck out of gloryholes—and not one of the recipients said thank you.
But all belittlement aside.
The thing I learned during my growing up days was that women, mostly because of men, have to have a different point-of-view when it comes to all-things sex. The simple-minded male oriented explanation for it is simple: it is just sex. For women…? Oh boy. Is it because there’s an added biological component that it’s different for women? You know, that whole procreation thing and the fact that women can be men but men can’t be mothers? Or is there something else?
What I could never really grasp is what exactly goes through a woman’s mind when she faces the abuse? I mean, it’s been going on for so long is there a physiological, biological, chemical, ecological evolutionary change? Which brings me to this worst-question: was it ever really necessary that Daddy give his daughter away?
Again. All belittlement aside.
Sex is everything. Just look at how the world works. Money has failed us. Religion has failed us. What’s left? You’re either getting fucked or you’re doing the fucking. This differentiation, by-the-buy, is waaaaaaay beyond the birds and bees, don’t you know. Hence, what’s the point of sexuality or things like gender differentiation if everything is always just about getting your rocks off? And. Does political correctness actually mean what we think it means or is it ultimately just a call back to the days when sex wasn’t everything?
I suppose there was a time when minds weren’t spinning so much (about sex) but those are long gone. And I don’t think they’re ever coming back—even though so many in my beloved #americant hope they do. Those were the days when it wasn’t ONLY winner take all—and there was one fucker and one fuckee. But then again, do we really wish for the return of those days?
There might be one good thing about sex being everything these days. And here it is as only worst-writer can write it: The days of the three little king-queens are gone. That is, money, sex and religion once ruled the world. (Not necessarily in that order.) Now only one of the three rule the world.
Still with me, dear worst-reader?
All of this talk of sex abuse has gotten to me, dear worst-reader. It reminds me of those days when I once contemplated: am I a rapist?
I’ve had my way with a few women, don’t you know. And not just women. I’ve had my way with a few actresses. (But don’t call me Harvey Weinstein, baby!) Indeed.
I was once a itty-bitty play producer. And get this. I utilised my itty-bitty play producer casting couch whenever the opportunity arose. In fact, after my first play production, the opportunity–of my casting couch–arose more than I deserved. But let’s focus on the first casting couch experience, shall we?
She was a lovely young actress. She had beautiful skin, long wavy hair, thighs typically early twenties thick. While she read the lines of my play I couldn’t stop my mind from drifting to you know what. I looked at her neck and her lips and her elbows. Yes, dear worst-reader, I am a stickler for joints—my favourite being ankles but they are at times the most difficult to see. Needless to say, within minutes of starting to read the script I had a raging erection. What does one do with a raging erection when the cause of it is breathing next to you?
Due to the discomfort, I stood up in front the actress while she was reading her lines. I thought I was gonna get a cup of tea. But, while my cock was trying to poke out of my relative loose fitting chino-pants, she stopped me. Before I could apologise and make some excuse, the actress said something like “oh my” and “my goodness”. She was staring at the bulge. She then put down the script and told me that I couldn’t cum inside her and she didn’t like the taste of cum. I then quickly placed a huge kiss on her face and at the same time undid my pants.
Within seconds her pants were off and I was caressing her ankles with my ears. I then went down on her and kissed and licked her till she came. Dripping from so much activity down there, I heeded her request not to cum inside her—assuming she was referring to procreative, vaginal activity—and entered her anally. She let out another “oh my” and “my goodness”. Her discomfort aroused me even more. To this day I can still hear her mumbling and gasping and slurping.
And, by-the-buy, she was an awful actress. Her voice had no cadence. She kept screwing up the timing of the dialogue. When I asked her to say some lines without looking at the page, she couldn’t. In fact, she was completely incapable of memorising anything. But before I get too far off subject…
It took a few minutes but the she eventually relaxed. I don’t think she enjoyed anything that afternoon except me servicing her and the shower I gave her after I dumped my goo in her ass. After a few dates she told me that she had found someone else and, she added, that she considered our first encounter to have been rape because of the way I helped myself to her ass. Then she also added that she has a new job and couldn’t continue with my play. I asked her for one last sympathy fuck and when she said no, I thanked her, said goodbye and told her that I had found another actress anyway.
(For those interested, as far as the play is concerned, I eventually put the female role of my play, using casting couch actress #2, into a TV screen. This helped the productions in many ways. First, we were no longer dependent on an actress remembering her lines, i.e. we could just feed her cue cards. Second, of the three other actresses that were on my casting couch for that play, none of them mentioned rape even though we never once talked about all the fucking we did. And I had them many varying ways, too.)
The Other Girl
I met this girl in college. We went on a few dates, the movies, the usual. I could get to every base with this chick except home base. That is, she wouldn’t fuck me but she would suck on my dick if I promised not to ejaculate. (Who raises these chicks, by the way!) Then I met her best friend who said that she would fuck me. But I couldn’t/wouldn’t go there; I didn’t go there. I simply didn’t think it the right thing to do—you know: date one chick who wouldn’t and then fuck her best friend who would.
About a year later, long after the chick who wouldn’t fuck me (but would suck me) was out of the picture, I met up with her friend again. She mentioned how we were both caught up in a world of bad timing. Now she was seeing a guy and because she was fucking him she wouldn’t fuck me. She only fucked one guy at a time, she said. But she also said, “how bout the next best thing?” One evening after giving her a ride home she invited me in to her apartment. I was indeed curious… about the next best thing.
Within minutes my cock was at the back of her throat. After about ten minutes of her proving why it’s called a blowJOB, she told me it was ok if I cum. I told her I wanted to fuck and then would gladly finish in her mouth. She told me once again about the other guy that she was hoping to have a relationship with and also added: “he’ll know if you fuck me, so let’s just do this… the next best thing.” I guess she was referring to the mess a man can leave behind. And I thought of two things: first, who doesn’t like sloppy seconds and second, girls don’t leave a mess behind?
Another ten minutes went by. She was getting tired and resorting to the use of her hands. “Please, come all over me,” she said. “Let me fuck you and then I promise to come on your face,” I said. But she was incorrigible. She took a deep breath and tried to break the back of the bear that would be her last ditch effort to get me to ejaculate. I could tell her knees were aching, her arms were getting sore, her nose was slapping the tight skin of my lower abdomen, her tongue was losing its ability to jostle my sack. She eventually fell on her back and my cock was above her, raging hard and blue. “Ok. You win. I give up,” she said. “Are you ok,” she asked.
I packed my blue junk as best I could back into my pants and kissed her on the forehead as I left. “Let me know when things don’t work out with your boyfriend,” I said. I drove home and it took me two days and countless jerk-off sessions to relieve myself of blue-balls.
A few weeks later we were in the same situation. I had driven her home and she mentioned how much she wanted me to cum in her throat. I smirked and admitted that maybe I would give in this time. But I also asked her if she would at least let me play around a bit. “Ok,” she said. “But you still can’t fuck me.” When we got into her apartment she immediately removed all her clothes and I proceeded to fuck her mouth every which way. She laid on her back on the coffee table with her head hanging backwards over the edge. She made me get on all fours on her dinner table and she attacked my junk from behind. She blew me while she peed. She even tried to jerk me off while talking on the phone to her mother. Of course, eventually, we reached that special moment. “Ok, come now,” she demanded. “I’m not ready yet,” I responded. She then gathered her guns, prepped her jaw and continued the good fight.
That’s when something hit me. Fuck this! I don’t have to take this krapp. And so. While doing one of her change-ups, relieving her jaw, my dick and balls getting bluer and bluer, I grabbed both her arms from behind, holding them together at the elbows. She squirmed but didn’t really try to get out of my hold. Slowly, already lubed-up from so much contact with her throat, I slipped my raging cock into her ass. Her squirms turned to a slight jolt but I pulled her arms back towards my chest. I leaned in with my hips and before kissing her neck I said: “is this what you wanted all the time?”
After I finally released, I sat on the couch and said something about needing more of the same in a few minutes. You know, that old saying: “Hold a sec, baby. I’m not done yet.” Then she turned to me and said something about rules and how I just broke them. I smirked. “You’re not serious,” I said. “You can do what you have to do tonight–I’ll grant you that. But this is it. I’m the one that sets the rules. You broke them.”
My jaw was hanging even though my dick was still raging. Then she mentioned that she had done anal a few times before but it wasn’t really her thing. She added that she would definitely not suck on my cock anymore even if I washed it with turpentine. Then I asked her if she was crazy. She repeated: “I’m not crazy. I set the rules.”
Since I was a good listener back then, I got up off the couch, grabbed her by the arms again and turned her around. I bent her over the dinner table and fucked her in the ass till I came two more times. It was glorious.
And so. I’ve had my way with a few women here and there. As far as I can recall there have been a total of two No’s and numerous encounters where the issue was never discussed but I still had my sexual fun. Through out all my years I’ve often asked: Have I always thought enough about her while I’m doing her? Is her orgasm as important as my release? Does any of this make me a rapist?
While growing up in my beloved and missed #americant, while entering the world of sex and relations and fun, of the women/girls I was with, the majority of them complained about being abused at one point in their lives. That thought has never left me. So let me try to say it again, put it another way. By the time I was 25—and I started having sex when I was 17—the majority of girls I had sex with complained about sexual abuse–and not by me but by someone in their family, their stepfathers, church, athletics, etc.
Whaaaaaaaaa the fuck is going on?
And so. I have never cat-called a woman. I have never asked any of my girlfriends or wives or fuck-buddies to either make me a sandwich or iron my shirt. I’ve never entered a woman once without at least taking her out to dinner or to a movie … afterwards—where I then tried to fuck her again and most of the time succeeded. I’ve also never had a one-night stand because to me, no matter how bad the first time was or what my (relationship) intentions were, I always believed you had to do it with the same woman at least three times to even begin to get it right. With that in mind, there were still two women in my life that said “no” and I fucked them anyway because 1) they wouldn’t/didn’t leave (when they had the opportunity to do so) and 2) they didn’t stop what we both started.
Now. Am I a…
Which brings me to #Trump, Harvey Weinstein and being raised in sexually repressed #americant.
The worst part of living in these nightmare times of a president #Trump is that he’s not just a sexually repressed man but he’s also an atypical greed-monger–and he is one among the many. So in a way, I guess, it’s no wonder women are going nuts. Especially those raised by very confused mothers. And so. Where has feminism got them? Did they end up not being like their mother(s) or did they just become the same (as their mothers) albeit wearing more fashionable fancy coats and shoes?
The other thing is, I feel like the thing that #Trump really is, is that he’s something that is everywhere and he is, unfortunately, that which raised me. And no matter what I do the thought of being an abuser because I had my way with a few ladies will never leave me–as I’ve worst-written about here today. Indeed. I have to live with that. On the other hand…
While I was out there trying to find love the Harvey Weinsteins, the Bill Clintons, the Bill Cosbys, the Woody Allens, etc., etc., have been ruining good fucks since day one. And for that I am very sorry. I really am.