confessings

when i was in my thirties i came with such vigour my seed shot so high and long it leapt over my head and splattered the wall behind me   i kept hoping it would make a hole but it didnt which made me feel impotent   not sexually  its always easy to cum   but spiritually   that deeper incapacitation  and because i always fall short of the standards in dreams  the only true measure  i cant help but interpret my life as a failure  a reality ive come to accept as joy

i love confessing   i dont believe in sin or guilt or even confessing really   but not believing is a great impetus   if whonyms spent way more time not believing and confessing the world might be tolerable      as it is they devote most of their useless lives to believing in society though if anything doesnt exist its society which makes whonyms not only misguided but completely pointless   if you dont understand this just wait  it gets a lot worse

its always surprised me that my seed velocity seems so virile as i come from a tribe of overwhelming insipidity   theres nothing anywhere that suggests anything but mediocrity drivel sterility jejuneness   sure what might have been a distant relative appeared recently on the wikipedia death list but big shit  some scholar specializing in the sex life of the ichneumon fly  its not that im talking about   im talking about cosmic spiritual robustness   something cats innately have but whonyms can only grossly and palely simulate

i confess to liking being cheated on more than cheating   practically   theoretically i either prefer cheating or cant decide   but when it comes down to all the action and deception and relational chaos and just goddam busyness that cheating requires id far rather someone else do the work   that way i get more handcrafted gifts of melancholy and whats not to like about that   you think im being sarcastic  not at all  melancholy acedia loss failure   these are the great states of the soul from which all thats worthy to be borns born      that whonyms spend all their energies avoiding melancholys not only a tragedy  its an embarrassment

some decades ago when i was busy setting world records for long distance seedshot i dated for a few years another whonym whose breasts were like the hills of andettan  soft as stars and plush as soteriology   outshining the highest noons and foretelling calamities beyond the greatest astrologers   orbs that would put the most distinguished tumuli to shame   we made love like suave brontosauri on meadows of gluconasturtii      what do i know about death   i speak about it like a pompous charlatan   maybe  maybe  someone  the occasional whonym or more likely another kind of animal  knows something about it for an uncommunicable minute but what do we who speak about it know   we led entwined independent lives and shed visit friends in farflung cities for a few days now and then and id wank furiously to the infidelities i imagined her guiltlessly enjoying   im having far more fun than if i were cheating on her id think as my cum arced through the sky pirouetting like a principal of the bolshoi   and i may even be having more fun than her      i discovered years later she had an affair with at least one of my colleagues and there was growing evidence shed slept with our friends liugi and taavetti whenever she had the opportunity to drop the clothes without me   her weakness was weddings   all her friends and exlovers were getting married and i knew none of them and was never invited anyway   her journal was full of intimations of unzippings unbuttonings in cars hotels barns tents parks trains museums washrooms bars churches discountshoeoutlets garages basements stables treehouses zambonis conferencerooms elevators culdesacs zoos lighthouses abattoirs   she was discreet  nothing was referred to explicitly  but i read the real narrative in the euphemisms with an erection that would make zeus go dysmorphophobic