Thursday, February 22, 2007

Oh, the demise of 30GBs of pleasure ...

My boyfriend caught me trolling for porn last night.

"Good ... female ... porn," he read on my search history. Click, click, click.

I rolled over in my bed, mortified. This was not part of the fantasy.

The thing is, I simply find it unreasonable to have to rely on his stash. It's not fair having to always ask him to bring something up off his hard drive only to have my request be rejected on the grounds that I get, drum roll, too distracted. It wasn't always an issue. MArt used to try to get me off on his little collection as my head dipped over the mattress, watching upending action in reverse. That is, until he deleted every single video from his computer and only downloaded more on a need-to-plead basis ... from me. The explanation he gave for initiating the Great Purge had something to do with being satisfied with me, not needing it anymore, low on memory space or whatever. But that's not a reason to make me suffer!



MArt had called me earlier.

"What's up, baby?"

"Oh, nothing," I sighed. "Watching Japanese origami sculptures on iFilm, reading this microeconomic report, searching for porn."

The problem, I realized, is that I haven't developed a formal system. I believe all men have a system for discovering useable smut and I'm just a lowly beginner with pitiful experience points. However, that doesn't stop MArt from refraining to divulge his Internet-prowling secrets.

"What secrets?" Liar!

But I have learned a few things on my quest for for the obscene: Made-to-order plastic women are really boring to watch. The primping, posturing, and pouting really grates on me because it delays the action. Seriously, stop pinching your melon balls and start pounding that pussy. I'm not taking advantage of the "free tour" for nothing.

It's not like I'm asking for much - I'd just appreciate it if they did their job.

... not that I'd pay for them to keep it.

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