women: the hidden molesters
While I've never made the faintest amorous advance toward anyone who hasn't given me a BIG FUCKING GREEN LIGHT with both body language and verbal suggestions, I have, sadly, been subjected to unwanted sexual assaults by at least three women.
These tragic attacks all happened within the space of a month in the Spring of last year, at a time when I must have been leaking Goadomones from every pore like a salty sexual nectar with just a hint of honeysuckle.
Two of them happened one the same night while I loitered at a downtown Portland bar. One insanely soused overweight cowbeast shimmied up to me and jammed her unwanted tongue down my throat and made all sorts of lewd comments that made me feel like a cheap piece of street trash. Barely an hour later, a woman who had bad teeth and enough body piercings to stock a fishing-tackle store did the same thing—crammed her filthy girltongue down my unwilling esophagus until I had to push her away.
The third time was with a big-boobied peroxide blonde who pounced upon me as we watched a film featuring a VERY dark-skinned actor named Wesley Snipes, undid my belt buckle as I protested, and began sucking my horrified wee-wee as I kept telling her to stop. I finally hoisted her hefty bulk from atop my shriveled body and walked home alone.
Three sexual assaults within the space of a month. OK, maybe one real sexual assault and two forcible French kisses.
And I've never pushed myself on anyone sexually. And yet I have the rep.
Cry with me, won't you?
