/lit/ - Literature

>>20809187
After a few hours of sending the minimum required emails I was starting to get a little hungry. Big Bill’s is right down the road. I think i’ve got enough time to snag a burger. Goddamn I wish I could trust one of these sorry fuckers enough to just clock in for me while i’m there. Worthless. There’s angela again and her tits, up down up down up down. God fucking damnit all to hell. God I want to fuck the shit out of you right here. I want to throw you down on the printer and pull your pants down. Rub your panties until you start moistening and spilling and shaking and god I just want to fuck the shit out of you. I bet I’d look like a goddamn animal every nerve showing. Right in front of everybody. I need to calm down, I’m getting worked up. People probably think that's weird. My sleeve is rolled up a little and I am staring at my hairy arms.

It is untrue that men only think about sex, as the old adage suggests, but men rather think about it quite intensely. Leading those who encounter them to believe this lie, only because they don't see what else a man encounters and then must think about. But when men start to think about sex it can turn into almost a piece of art. Pure self expression through carnal lust. Men want to recreate scenes of utmost shame and depravity with the beautiful cinematography of the mind. All so they can be the only one in the theater. And it bothers them not at all. For true if any other man was to try and enter that theater. The director turned audience member would look for the closest object to bludgeon the intruder with.