Don't offer me glamour. Don't gift me fake real. No cheerleaders or drug dealers, no crop tops and high heels, no beginner's guide to BDSM in a simple ABC. No sorority sluts and their slumber party sex, no handymen visits to frustrated housewives, no hotel bar hook ups, no stepbrothers or stepsisters, no teenage nubiles seeking well-aged cock. No aunties and adolescents, no Daddies, no Mommies, no strip poker nights with gang bangs aplenty. No parties at the beach that descend into orgy. No wallflowers promoted to promiscuous whores.
I want it ugly. I want it real. I want it all warts with hairs to revile. Flatulent fornicators fucking on flat pack furniture. Anal retentive administrators petty and malicious. Corpulent conventioneers all jowl cheeked and ham legged playing hide the sausage in seedy hotels. Drag me down alleys stepping through pools of piss, fill my nostrils with the stench of rotting garbage, push me into darkened doorways as you clumsily grope my sex.
I want skanks wiping their cum filled cunts with a playboy centrefold. I want unclean arses, balls that reek, cheesy smegma flecked cock heads. I want pubic hairs caught in the back of throats, gagging and spitting as thick acrid sperm slips distasteful down gullets. I want breasts that sag on downtrodden, disillusioned homemakers. I want stretch marks and cellulite, chicken wing arms, dowdy hair, eyelashes that refuse to flutter, too much make up badly applied.
I want disappointment. I want disillusion. I want the dispicable, the down trodden, the unloved. I want premature ejaculate, wet patches in beds, pigeon chested men without a six pack in sight. I want drunken liaisons instantly regretted. I want the humiliation of rejection to ridicule the possibility of hope. I want nervous virgins cackhanded, anal sex that hurts, pussies that don't always taste of ambrosia.
I want ritualised missionary sex, same time, same day of the month so I can mark it in my planner. I want to lay on my back and stare at the ceiling tracing cracks as he grunts himself to solitary pleasure. I want sweat that stinks salty on my tongue, dirt beneath nails, zippers that won't come undone. I want shift dresses that hide a million sins, matronly women with double chins. I want the hirsute. I want the hairy. I want bow legged gaits and lazy eyes staring off to one side.
Gift me erotica, don't give me porn. No threadbare clichés sauntering through reruns of stories we've all heard before. Let me sink my teeth into character, allow me to gorge myself on their individuality, wallow in their imperfections, slurp greedily on their motivations. I want it hand crafted, artisan, unique. No cut and paste. No machine production. No off the peg. I want couture.
Oh my aren't I a demanding cow?
