Also never imagining that vaginal gravitational pull running a strap-on.
Ę̵̚x̸͎̾i̴͚̽s̵̻͐t̷͐ͅe̷̯͠n̴̤̚t̵̻̅i̵͉̿a̴̮͊l̵͍̂ ̴̹̕D̵̤̀e̸͓͂t̵̢͂e̴͕̓c̸̗̄t̴̗̿ï̶̪v̷̲̍é̵͔
I thought you claimed in another thread you were turning over a new leaf as a “nice” guy. So much for that.
Uh, unrelated?
deleted
Uhhh, racist?
Ę̵̚x̸͎̾i̴͚̽s̵̻͐t̷͐ͅe̷̯͠n̴̤̚t̵̻̅i̵͉̿a̴̮͊l̵͍̂ ̴̹̕D̵̤̀e̸͓͂t̵̢͂e̴͕̓c̸̗̄t̴̗̿ï̶̪v̷̲̍é̵͔
Hmmm....I remember your name and that's about it.
It's hard to respond to someone you don't really remember.... So I will respond based off of my first impression of you.
You're simple minded like Spatial, but in a bad way.... You enjoy being an attention whore (online and offline) You do whatever it takes in-order for you to gain the Attention you desire !
I think the size of your penis in this context is irrelevant and frankly uncalled for, but if I were to once again make an assumption.... I would say your girth is > your length.
Now....Lets address the "elephant in the room" .... Your desire to be Anally wrecked by a Nigger bitch !
You do understand that Niggers are inferior sub-humans, right ?...... To be anally wrecked by a Nigger is the equivalent to being anally wrecked by a random wild animal.... You do see this don't you ?
The only way I can mentally make sense of this, is if you yourself were a filthy Nigger and you just enjoy being wrecked by other filthy Niggers !
I look forward to getting to know you better in the future !.... Who knows maybe we could be friends someday ?
seriously I cant think of anything I would revere more than being thoroughly demolished by black woman(s) with strapon
im not fat but i'd starve myself for a month to get this doom
My ex-wife was a black woman. It’s like that joke “instructions unclear, my dick got caught in the ceiling fan” except I dove headfirst into sorcery as a rootless occultist which allowed a Chinese ghost city to be constructed in the suburbs of my prefrontal cortex. I avoided going there out of fear of becoming spiritually aligned with a salary-man who develops spyware for refrigerators, but one day I ventured that way to cut off one of the suicide nets to hang in my bedroom as a tapestry. I realized after removing it that there’s now a direct gravitational path between the top of the skyscraper & the concrete, so I go up to smoke a contemplative cig but when I get up there I felt I wasn’t alone.
The body language of the clouds seem to be trying to tell me something urgent but fearful of anyone overhearing, soon they dissipated into an abstract cumulonimbus thing I wasn’t in the mood to interpret, probably just some post-modernist jab at neoliberalism which may or may not be satirizing itself. Then I sensed a shift in the atmosphere, and it sounded like someone either in heels or with cloven feet was walking up a physics-defying staircase like that MC Escher painting. I stared at the ground below to reorient myself when I felt my eyes lock on a faint glimmer which seemed to be the source of the approaching sound, and soon a cool breeze pressed against my chest & I heard my name whispered from somewhere inside my head. Then it wafted back over the edge, promising to tell me a secret if I came closer, reminiscent of how a gypsy cokewhore once soothingly assured me the spider web between her thighs was just loose remnants of tampon threads that she arranged with impeccable symmetry as a feminine party trick, like how girls will tie a knot with a cherry stem in their mouth to signal their ability to twist a micropenis into a balloon animal. Not falling for that again...
Okay, hot take:
How are black women hotter than black men?
Once I hooked up with several black men after my ex-wife was emotionally cheating on me watching re-runs of Twilight Zone that I know she watched with her ex which devastated me. But fucking black men is like I lean into the throttle, the tractor’s exhaust spitting black soot as he maneuvers behind, the prize-winning 410 heifer who stands like a mountain of Grade-A muscle. He’s working the earth from the rear in a relentless, x-rated field crop extravaganza, driving the steel deep into the muck with a rhythmic, mechanical violence. The mud flies like a swamp-water explosion, coating the machinery in a thick, glistening layer of filth as I tear through the landscape, turning the peaceful pasture into a scene of pure, unadulterated agricultural carnage.
But nothing can compare to fucking my ex-wife because between the roar of the engine and the wet slap of the soil, the air is thick with the scent of diesel and raw earth, a chaotic symphony of a man and his machine pushing the limits of the body. It’s a messy, high-speed plowing session that leaves the field devastated and her standing firm amidst the wreckage of a morning well-spent.