My pathetic life

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My pathetic lifeI look out the window at the dark grey sky passing by, clouds overlapping the tips of evergreens fading into dusk. I am wrapped by white walls and digital dreams, the tv, the plush couch in which I eternally lie, masturbating furiously in the spit of noon washing against the windows. Mom comes home. I pretend to play video games while searching for bizaar pornographic content on the incalculable internet, that stream of consciousness permeating the folds of the cerebral destiny, flick-flashing images of white women engorged with donkey dicks and black shafts, oozing out sweet race-baiting cum into the mouths of delicatessen French women, those beautiful marbles of solid lust, flashing their bosoms in grotesque manners via the “twerk”, turning my dick into mush everytime while I, emblazoned by some white boy fantasy, mush my tiny 31/2 inch dick in the folds of precious memory foam, physiological tremors shuddering my mouth open, occasionally catching my gorgeous black and blonde hairline, reminiscent of sawmill days, showing off in the noonday sun, proud sweat of the white savage muttering between desperation and vanity. She came to me in a dream. She poured bodrum escort out her sweet tan angel hands to me, waving, her sexy faint European smile glittering under the hot sun. I go home and fantasize about her, my first ejaculation yet to come… I bathe in the cool waters under the bride, letting sweet nothing angels whisper in my head, guilt for the small fat black haired woman I feared to date in shameful self-image. Each day, I would stare on and on, into the heavens, waiting for that angel to come down. I aggressively, then tenderly, called for her love. Her sweet angel tan body, luscious and curved like a motherly swan rescuing me from my low self-esteem. I, in strange, theatrical madness cursed her for her lack of love profession, for loving my face, my hair, my strong, powerful body, but not that crude disgusting thing lurking in my pants. That silent, grotesque lump of God-given clay yet to be molded, for all hope, to die in the dust with the humming of the cortex, those strange fibers of consciousness wrestling angsty teenage love, my sweet Kimberly… she’d dated someone I’d thought my friend. Society’s law kept me from killing him. I would wake bodrum escort bayan up in the night and punch the floor in anguish, homoerotic fear and shame… I killed him a thousand times over in my mind…. His form extinguished by the hood of my car raging into him outside of his jock club, the mma fighting club where I’d first gotten homoerotic thoughts about him. I held it back and back and back… until one day, I thrust my index finger into my rectum and imagined myself dominated by all those who had flaunted their large male members. Even then, though, my killing thoughts lingered. I swore when I went off to college I would come back and kill him in the evening hours, my trusty green car battering the life out of him as I spun my tires away back to Maryland, awaiting a call that my friend had been killed, by a stranger no less. But I didn’t. I stayed my killing hand. I turned my thoughts to homosexual images of buff, bulging men muscles, glittering in tan, surreal Apollo rooms, while I shut myself in my college dormroom. That night, that first night, I let it all loose. I tendered my small member to the image of a Blonde god, a 14 pack man in a gym, escort bodrum the first release of heroin-like ecstasy in the wee hours of the night, looking strangely at my crotch, observing glistening streams of semen falling in rivulets down my leg. Many girls had flirted with me, putting me in angst with whispers about big dicks, and the handsome blonde boy who lived down the hall, sun-weathered, and gorgeous, admittedly… Here I am, some 3 years later, surrounding myself with pornography, that sweet release to quell my anger, I fade into obscurity staring at white walls, alternating between images of virtual lands and same old, yet oh-so-tantalizing fantasies about white women and their sick imaginative ways of getting rid of their husbands, for the black cock. I look down at my belly, bulging over where once strong pectoral muscles held back lumber-made abdominals, my sweet Adonis figure, a mess of flab and acceptance. I once had a girl. Or should I say… she once had me… Sometimes in mid-morning after a quick release of built-up semen I catch a strange looking man in the mirror, his tufts of dirty blond hair and not too fattened cheeks reminding me of who I once was… I still think sometimes about transmorphism, turning back into that young lad, so proud, yet so, so insecure, and I think to myself…. maybe he’s still there. These digital dreams of mine, that plague my mind. Are they real? Or are they fantasy?

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