2) What gives? After we had sex, she turned into some sort of monster, flew off singing “Eat That Mule Shit,” and began murdering the neighbor's pets!I don't think this needs much of an explanation. This is not a positive response. Finding out that the “woman” you just shared bodily fluids with is really a “creature that wouldn't look out of place guarding the gates of Hell” tends to be a turnoff. I know what you Number 2's are saying. “How do you check for that shit, huh? I don't want to call the Ghostbusters in every time I want to get all intimate-nasty with some slut. I shouldn't be held accountable for this freak occurrence.” I guess it's a shame that you are indeed held accountable for things that are completely your own fault. If you were any good in bed, she never would have gone all Horror-Story-Goosebumps on your ass in the first place. Instead, she would have broken all ties with her powerful monster mash friends, living out her life in the weak body of a human, just to be your sex slave. Now, thanks to your inability to sexually please a partner, we have one more beast roaming around, filling its belly up with the cute and cuddly creatures of our world.
Hell hath no fury than a demon-bitch who didn't come.
Even if nothing gets you hotter than a demonic nightmare with breasts, Number 2 is still a bad place to be. Don't start thinking that you somehow got her so wet and worn out she couldn't maintain control over her human disguise, having to replenish her energy by gnawing on some adorable animals next door. In having sex with you, she was obviously deciding whether to give humans a chance as mates for her race of big-breasted warrior sex-demons. Too bad you were such a bore in the sack that she would rather be eating kittens than be forced to sit through another round of you fumbling around her privates, trying to figure out “what goes where” and “oh my god, so that's what it looks like.” By now, every demonic dreamboat who thought she'd give man a chance has heard of how awful you were, and have instead decided to join their male brethren in raping young schoolgirls. Good job, friend. Way to go and let the entire human race down! Have fun in Hell.
3) She contentedly cuddles up in your arms. You can bet she'll be back for more of your 16-bit, mosaic dick.Not bad. Not bad at all. This is the common player category. If we were all baseball cards, you would be among the several thousand other no-name, average players. When kids open their pack of cards, you aren't eliciting greedy hard-ons, but you aren't exactly making them cry. You've managed to hit mediocrity as a 15-cent cardboard rectangle that will be sold in bulk over Ebay. Your H-game lady isn't throwing you away, but you're nowhere close to being slipped in a hard, plastic, protective case. She's trying to tell you that you're a “ho-hum” lover, good enough to get her off, but not so great that she loves being killed. The only reason you continue to make lovey-dovey is because she's waiting for it to get better. She's holding onto your rookie card in the hopes that you'll have a great season next year with lots of homeruns and bunts or other baseball stuff.
(THIS JUST IN! Someone has been kind enough to point out that, apparently, baseball cards are no longer a popular or financially gratifying hobby. They also told me that baseball is a dying sport and that I deserve herpes for being unfunny. Seeing as baseball cards and their players (not to mention my herpetic genitals) are now burning, useless piles of shit, I should try a different angle.)
Okay, second try. If we all got together for a good old fashioned circle jerk at my house (the white one with a two-stall garage on the corner of Perkins and Dunn. This Wednesday, 7 o'clock sharp! Bring refreshments, a towel, veiny dicks, and your Happy Face!), categories one and two would be the poor saps that showed up lacking crotch fodder. They are forced to stroke off to everyone else's slick, shiny members or somehow turn the History test, hanging on the refrigerator, into some deliciously sexy fist-aid. You, on the other hand, being in category three, show up with the Sears catalog. It's your average fare, but it gets the job done. There are some fantastic images in the undergarments section. And the young toddlers, running around in cute little outfits on pages 22-25, are so innocent and adorable, Mr. Pee-pee can't help but swell in excitement as you mentally strip them of their childhood and sanity with your throbbing, hot, sadistic cock. The only problem with the Sears Catalog is all of the misleading text. Maybe you're stuck on one picture that just melts your balls and you wish there was more. Then you notice the text that corresponds with said photo. Expecting some measurements, favorite positions or a brief fanfic, you avert your gaze and start reading. Gasp! This isn't sexy! This is just some bland product information and ordering instructions. Your rhythm falters and you lose a fraction of rigidity. Go back two spaces. You need to catch up now, so you look back at that hot picture from earlier and everyone is hit by a gust of wind as you jump from third gear to fifth. You're looking good, but you can't stop thinking about what you just read and how easy ordering from Sears sounded. You find yourself gazing forlornly at the phone from where you sit, fist suspended in midstroke. Whoops! Phallus is failing, pick up the pace! This continues at great length until your warring emotions become a turn on (what the fuck?) and you finally erupt all over the villagers of Pompeii (or the guests in my living room). You reached the finish line, but your stick of love-butter is bruised and battle weary. A fair showing, but you're only getting invited over again because you show potential for improvement. That's the level you're at, dear friend. Now you can go buy that yellow sundress you've become so fond of.
