The patented love cure fails for the first time ever as she looks back with dead eyes, as I forge ahead.
Dead eyes that match my own. Passionless. I continue my argument hoping for an overwhelming physical over-ride, a dramatic bedroom moment, another Perry Mason-esque recanting of the cunt. An override of the weird vibes which which caused us to spend 23 naked minutes discussing recipes and deodorant. She is on a time table. Her munchkin must be picked up. and all she has is two hours so the time pressure also adds to the fun. I get off to change the radio station. Kids corner has just come on, it comes on every weeknight on the public radio station. Meaning it's seven and the squeaky kid's voices dominate the radio and more importantly there's only 30 minutes left. Digital stimulation becomes the new game, but it is half-hearted. The seconds tick away.
We end the pretense when she decides she would rather pee than sit on my face. Silence. I blurt out how "that's weird, the Patented Love Cure has never failed before." Explain the rationale behind it. The science of angry fucking as a cure all. Making sure to emphasize the all cap nature of the title and that the patent is pending, number 567696969.
The brusque and sudden penetration is followed by a maddeningly slow tempo with constant eye contact which is meant to re-establish the reason we spend time together. As our bodies start to respond the eyes which have 70 percent of the neurons attached should follow suit. It's gosh darned science for crissake. Your body was into it but the mind was lagging, So I got off. You were merely a passenger on the wild penis ride. I'm sorry if the insertion was unromantic, I was just trying to help, love is my business and business used to be good.
She is insulted for some reason and goes off on some diatribe about not just being "any old girlfriend" who I am fucking. So it is meaningful sex we are supposed to be having. Every time a passion play, a performance. Fucking is a distant memory. We have upgraded.
I explain to her the denoument' of the patented love cure. The sweaty, frenzied loud and athletic coupling. How, if she was "just and old girlfriend" I would have gotten off; pulling out and spackling her titties, belly and possibly face with proof of my manliness. Redefining our relationship and her role in it. A sticky girl, a goo girl, a sperm receptacle. We hug and kiss and shes getting hot and this time and the it's time to go.
Dead eyes that match my own. Passionless. I continue my argument hoping for an overwhelming physical over-ride, a dramatic bedroom moment, another Perry Mason-esque recanting of the cunt. An override of the weird vibes which which caused us to spend 23 naked minutes discussing recipes and deodorant. She is on a time table. Her munchkin must be picked up. and all she has is two hours so the time pressure also adds to the fun. I get off to change the radio station. Kids corner has just come on, it comes on every weeknight on the public radio station. Meaning it's seven and the squeaky kid's voices dominate the radio and more importantly there's only 30 minutes left. Digital stimulation becomes the new game, but it is half-hearted. The seconds tick away.
We end the pretense when she decides she would rather pee than sit on my face. Silence. I blurt out how "that's weird, the Patented Love Cure has never failed before." Explain the rationale behind it. The science of angry fucking as a cure all. Making sure to emphasize the all cap nature of the title and that the patent is pending, number 567696969.
The brusque and sudden penetration is followed by a maddeningly slow tempo with constant eye contact which is meant to re-establish the reason we spend time together. As our bodies start to respond the eyes which have 70 percent of the neurons attached should follow suit. It's gosh darned science for crissake. Your body was into it but the mind was lagging, So I got off. You were merely a passenger on the wild penis ride. I'm sorry if the insertion was unromantic, I was just trying to help, love is my business and business used to be good.
She is insulted for some reason and goes off on some diatribe about not just being "any old girlfriend" who I am fucking. So it is meaningful sex we are supposed to be having. Every time a passion play, a performance. Fucking is a distant memory. We have upgraded.
I explain to her the denoument' of the patented love cure. The sweaty, frenzied loud and athletic coupling. How, if she was "just and old girlfriend" I would have gotten off; pulling out and spackling her titties, belly and possibly face with proof of my manliness. Redefining our relationship and her role in it. A sticky girl, a goo girl, a sperm receptacle. We hug and kiss and shes getting hot and this time and the it's time to go.
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