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His dick was hard. He was stroking his hard dick. His dick was lit by the dim light of his monitor, which caged the image of a seventeen-year-old girl with a 20 inch black dildo in her pussy. She wasn’t tight. She was loose. She’d been sticking various objects into her twat for seven years. He didn’t care. He didn’t know this. If he knew this he still wouldn’t care. His dick was hard. His mind was empty. He wanted to stroke off. He was stroking off. He didn’t want to think. He wasn’t thinking… Twenty-four. 8,760 nights had slipped past him. Some of those nights he’d spent fucking girls. Fucking for real. Not this fake internet shit. His dick would get hard and some drunken hole would tell him to slide into her wet pussy and all that shit you want and read about in smut magazines. Only the hole never got off. He knew this even without it telling him. But they’d seem to come back anyway so it didn’t really matter if it came or not. He came. He’d shoot his jam all up inside some pussy canal just before passing out. “Just get the pussy drunk enough,” he thought. “Drunk enough so it wouldn’t be thinking.” … Disassociated. Twenty-four years old. A man. An american man. Born white, brought up safe from crack and hookers and guns and most any bizarre form of tyranny and/or unmediated existence characteristic to the heathen ghettos and slums of the hidden american third world. Poverty? Brown people had poverty. Trashy people on tv from weird foreign lands more akin to mars than the ol’ red white and blue were starving and killing each other. Not here. Not in america. Not in “tv land” where reality is the dictate of a cycloptic corner appliance. Where perceptions of the real world are the filtered fiction censored and regurgitated through 500 regulated channels of sitcoms and talk shows and soaps and sports and rupert murdoch and blah blah blah. Where reality is so disassociated from its perceiver that it has become distasteful to distinguish between a pixilated fuck and the real thing, girl and all. Where sex is a simulated event no longer special or sacred. And not because sex doesn’t feel much better, but because we can hardly tell the difference anymore. Locked away inside of our minds and our imaginations and fantasies we can hardly distinguish between what’s real and what’s illusory. Between the simulation of life and our actual participation in it. … His dick was hard. The seventeen-year-old girl was loose. He didn’t care. He wanted to spray his cum all over her face and tits. And… Oh… He’d always have to wipe cum off of his monitor.
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