where the women back then as fickle, as they are now,
that by going to a ******* i can't tell them apart?
seems so, i must be a lonely sailor, or a man of minor
military rank, to behave as i do.
these women are nothing compared
to prostitutes, at least immune
to the disease of the Freudian madonna-***** complex,
that comes with the current
socio-provocative instances of
a journalistic: aha-uhum-yes and nod,
forget the: i don't quiet follow...
at least with prostitutes my genitals
are working fine and proper,
i don't know why i would ever entertain
that complex in the first place,
or that it should belong in the masculine
frame of mind, and not with a woman,
as that's the area where it resides,
and is intended to reside.
it's pretty fun to watch women these days,
i mean, all the best compliments
come from Bulgarian prostitutes
who say they're Romanian and then
say word through the doors like: harasho...
who would have thought the Bulgars would
speak cyrillic, eh?
     single 9 years and counting...
any regrets?
   yeah, ritual vanking -
can't help it, libido, stress, libido stress,
at least no agency will gladly take to
posting pictures of me ******* with a blank,
literally, a blank expression,
or how i ate the ******.
      and it moved into the genital territory
and i feel nothing but tickle, frost and goosebumbs
all the way from my ******* to my ****...
must be the hernia factor...
  ever had a hernia as a child?
wonder!
          so jesus, circa 0 a.d., had twelve disciples
and a ******* for company:
i guess the gentile women were as fickle as they
are now... esp. after having read this article
about a girl in her early twenties from
the London shrub-urb of SW...
                   Kew gardens mafia...
the typical posh tots...
                        oh, did i get my stereotypes wrong?
they're there for a reason,
and you hear the most gratifying words
from prositutes:
this ukranian one said i was a good man,
when we stopped ******* and lay there
in a naked embrace and i was left with
nothing else better to do than kiss her...
  and when the conquest happens
and you wriggle into that faux pas prostitutes
have of not on the lips... magic!
i just swallowed a hundred ***** in one go...
    but the way they get all girly and giggly
and remember when they weren't in
the profession...
but still even greater,
      when she ******* and says:
that's only the second time it happened to me...
   that's when **** gets all freaky...
   looking at my hardware... well i probably
couldn't **** an elephant with that...
   but you know: like climbing Nelson's column
in Trafalgar square -
and when saying that's only the second time
she orgasmed in her profession with
the nearly muted ow to express a pain
after a pleasure given, can only give you
a think about fascism...
       i can't believe anything to be more thrilling
than a walk into a brothel,
i **** myself when going into one once,
  had to go home because **** in my underwear
wasn't going to get anyone randy, including
myself...
        it's just so pristine, so clear,
another time i was picked up by this girl at a bus-stop
and we started chatting,
    i already knew where i was going,
she asked where, i lied, and said i was going to
smoke some marijuana with a friend, she asked
if she could come along, i said sure, come along...
on the bus journey i told her in hushes tones
where i was going, by that time she already
invented a boyfriend who played the saxophone...
   a woman, in the dead of night, alone,
no boyfriend...
          then all the puppy-eyed ******* when
we walked past the brothel and i walked her to the end
of the street, and i, without any imagination said:
yeah, and my girlfriend is in there.
             they lament with a man and a harem,
how Solomon disintegrated the kingdom of Judea...
they offend Muhammad who has living descendents
living with us in your current times...
    then they lament: too much choice!
we're opulent in our choices!
   freak accident happens, a man decides...
**** it... if i'm not getting any to reach emptying
my libido and having a boring conversation
with you, aged 50, on a sunday morning with a newspaper:
i'll buy it!
               why not bypass the finicky women
and go for the source of your libido crying?
          i never managed to understand all
the ******* in-between...
                 it's not like these women are selling
me something akin to a scarf...
   9 years on: cats are still better company;
yes, don't worry, i'm planning to sing at my own funeral.
  but when you read such articles,
what's a man to do, either go to a brothel
    or joing the Islamic brotherhood in Syria;
and yes, when i finally become a senile old ***
i'll reflect on, how, this one time,
   i didn't use my hand and was allowed a warm
genital cushion, because i thought that
the dating culture in western society started
becoming too-one-sided, and more or less a freak show.