Horny, Lonely

How Many Times Can I Say Penis

Two things that have happened to me: An old crush told me that they would send me copies of the pages of their diary that pertain to me during the time period where my crush was most evident, and most of the sketches I’ve written recently have had to do with my penis.

It is well documented that I love myself hardcore. If I could make love to my personality instead of simply enjoying my company while I stroke my penis, I would fuck my sense of humor so hard that my laugh would include a cough up of cum. Do I expect anyone else to love me? Absolutely not. That doesn’t mean I don’t try. I like a challenge.

I think when I go on dry spells… let me clarify. My life is a dry spell, but when those dry spells include a lot of masturbation fodder (aka living in New York City and taking public transportation), I start thinking a lot about my penis and how sad it is to have to deal with my hand for enjoyment. My hands are nice, they are soft, they understand my penis’ needs, but my hands are attached to my body. For happiness I need another body to attach itself to the hands that stroke my penis.

In these uber dry spells I start thinking about the beginning of this chain of things that I need. Sure, I could start with the female I need to attach itself to a hand that needs to attach itself to my penis. (For some reason, my ultimate goal in this blog entry is a hand job – I guess I’ve been masturbating too much) Instead I choose to assume that they problem is my penis that can’t get attached to a hand that is attached to a woman. I don’t like blaming others. It’s easier to blame myself because I know I love myself enough to forgive myself. I also assume that no one loves me enough to forgive me in the same way.

When I was a freshman I was desperately into this girl because she had good math skills, a love of Woody Allen, and a decent appreciation of my self-deprecation. At the time, that’s all it took. She, on the other hand, needed someone who wasn’t going to demand that she rank things in her spare time, subject her to diatribes of self obsession in the form of comedic analysis, and didn’t have my penis. The last reason was the reason I blamed her explanation of how she wasn’t ready or didn’t want this right now or whatever on. This wasn’t the first and far from the last time I blamed my rejection on the inadequacy of my penis.

I’m excited to get the pages of her diary that detail her specific hatred of my penis. I probably won’t do anything to change because of it. Masturbation is pretty fulfilling.

I can’t wait until my parents read this.

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