/lit/ - Literature

>>20038401
I saw a girl on the streetcar with the most perfect bum. It was "phat" (as those melanin-rich folk like to say) and I had the pleasure of watching it jiggle as she waited for the door to open. Black were the colour of her skin tight yoga pants. Such a thin piece of fabric between me and the naked perfection that laid underneath was, in honest fact, arousing. I felt as Dante did when he first laid eyes on his Beatrice. But instead of a meta-physical digression on beauty and God; I only felt pain and suffering. That I could not squeeze, grab, sniff, lick, and insert my very average phallic instrument into so delightful a specimen of the female figure was, in my mind, a psychological hammer to the head. Let it be known, however: the only thing stopping me from acting out on animal impulses was the social milieux and censure that has undoubtedly shaped my rather pathetic and lowly male personality.