Readers, I have penned the below as an explanation that I can heretofore direct others towards should the need arise. Without further introduction, below is the reason why, if I fuck you, I am guaranteed going to lie to you.

The gorgeous gals who are goodly enough to get down with me always, always insist on starting out every pillow-talk session with the line, “What are you thinking about?” As every one of my fine readers well knows, every girl who has ever said this very much expects the answer to be something about her: how beautiful she is, how good she was, etc. And while she may indeed be good and beautiful, my mind always wanders when I fuck. It always has. Given my loathing of lying, I used to always be upfront about the curious thoughts that popped into my head post-coitus, but I am afraid I no longer can do so. Below, I recall a few instances that have led me to this point, and I hope, fine readers, that they will serve more as an explanation than an excuse for my current fibbing.

A long time ago, when I was still wearing condoms, me and a nice little blonde thing got riotously drunk and started fucking. Dutifully, I slipped on one of those condoms that you can get for free at Planned Parenthood, and much to my surprise, my dick turned yellow. You see, these condoms were all different kinds of goofy as fuck colors, causing my dick to look damn similar to an oversized highlighter in this particular instance. The blonde laughed at how absurd I looked, but quickly knocked it off once I put it in her. So we’re on her bed fucking and fucking and fucking and after a while for some dumb reason I get it in my head that I really want a blowjob. Without really asking her, I pull out and shove this big highlighter that’s all covered in pussy juice and lube right in her mouth. Lucky for me, she was sufficiently drunk that she actually just blew me for quite a while before realizing how disgusting the whole thing really was, and spitting my dick right out of her mouth. After cussing me out for a little bit, we went back at it, and not too much later, we came in tandem.

Sure enough, as we were lying there in a relative drunken bliss, she pops the question, “What are you thinking about?”

Honest as Christ himself, I told her about the curiously similar concept of a cognitive elite that exists in both Atlas Shrugged and The Turner Diaries. Despite the fact that Ayn Rand was a devout individualist and anti-racist while Dr. William Pierce was a die-hard racial collectivist, both held a very similar conviction that society really only goes on because of an incredibly small number of Übermenschen. In Ms. Rand’s novel, this elite gets completely fed up with a socialist world that no longer appreciates them, so they defect to a kind of ranch inhabited exclusively by the most brilliant people alive. Once enough of them are there, society outside collapses because it simply cannot go on without the couple dozen geniuses now living in “Galt’s Gulch.” Meanwhile, in The Turner Diaries, the existence of this elite is written about quite explicitly during one of the protagonist’s more philosophical diary entries. And I quote, “Without the presence of perhaps one or two percent of the most capable individuals—the most aggressive, intelligent, and hardworking of our fellow citizens—I am convinced that neither this civilization nor any civilization could long sustain itself.”

After finishing with this little pontification, the blonde grabbed one of my nipples and twisted it so hard that the scream I let out awoke the neighbors, who promptly knocked on the door. This girl was a very, very liberal college student and was disgusted to learn that my thoughts had been dedicated to radical right-wingers while we were “making love.” Although she eventually did calm down and continued to sleep with me, she never once sucked me off after that night, even sans condom.

A few years later, I was seeing a real whore of a brunette. We used to do the nastiest of nasty things: ass-to-mouth, bondage, threesomes, you name it. This one time, we got the idea of having a one-man bukkake. The idea was for me to blow a load right on her face and have her keep it there—no wiping or washing—while I worked up to blow a second load on her face. The plan was to just repeat this process all day until by the end, her face would look like it had been through a genuine bukkake. If this all sounds far-fetched to you, dear reader, I ask you to remember that this was many years ago, when I was much younger and more virile; and really, this girl was a whore of epic proportions.

Obviously, that first load was easy, and I had given her mere facials before anyway. Right after I finished dripping on the bridge of her nose, I decided the thing to do was to go down on her. After about twenty minutes of good pussy eating, I popped back up and blew my second wad all over her whore face. Then I started eating her asshole and fingering her and all that good stuff. Something like forty minutes passed and I was ready, so load numero tres splatters all over her left cheek.

That’s right about when the trouble started. The third load really “brought the face together,” if you will. She just looked so beautiful, kneeling there all covered in my cum. It was a really striking moment and I was completely taken by it. So of course, since I was just standing there staring, she asked me what I was thinking about. Luckily for me, I really was thinking, exactly then, about what a wonderful cum dumpster she had turned out to be: so I said as much. She smiled in her sexy way, but then asked, “Oh yeah? And what else?”

I told her that beautiful things always remind me of other beautiful things. In this case, her beauty had made me think of the beauty of Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, and in particular of chapter 114, “The Gilder.” As I like that chapter a great deal, I have passages of it memorized, and recited some to her. I believe it was the line, “There is no steady unretracing progress in this life; we do not advance through fixed gradations, and at the last one pause.” I found this whole scene quite romantic, and perhaps she did as well, but I went on to describe my quasi-theory regarding the specialization of beauty, which she did not care for. I told her how every kind of beauty is unique, and all but the truly blessed are only capable of producing beauty in one of its many forms. As an example, I noted that while Mr. Melville could certainly compose some masterful novels, no one would want to see him drenched in cum.

Well, she took it the wrong way, and asked if I thought she would never be able to write a beautiful novel, to which I responded with the open-ended question, “I wonder if Melville ever wished he could be a beautiful cum dumpster.” This, too, she took the wrong way. Then, somehow, the conversation degenerated into some feminist squabble: how it ended is just not worth getting into.

It seems only natural for the girl in the third and final story to be a redhead. Perhaps luckily, perhaps unluckily, I can abide. The ginger in question was a nice girl, really: the only trouble was that she liked me far too much. I really was just looking for a mistress to fuck on the side from my girlfriend at the time, but this redhead clearly liked me a great deal more than that. One fateful day, she was in my room being simultaneously choked and fingered by me when I asked her what she wanted me to do to her next. “Fuck me!” she squealed in an uncomfortably loving voice, so I did, with her red face beaming the whole damn time.

For any of you out there wondering, it is my firm belief that good etiquette makes clear that all mistresses should leave wherever they are shortly after getting stuffed. Naturally, this redhead did no such thing and instead laid down beside me, shot me a longing look, and asked, “What are you thinking about?”

So I told her about how I just do not understand how it is that Flannery O’Connor has no direct connection to paleoconservatism. The fatalistic tone of her writing bears striking resemblance to that of many writers in Chronicles, and the old joke about how Paul Gottfried has been asked “Do you give out suicide razors with your books?” could apply equally well to Ms. O’Connor. Maybe it would fit even better. Plus, her Catholicism, unapologetic writings on race, and her geographic ties to both the Old South and the Midwest. The paleos really like her too, particularly Chilton Williamson Jr., who is the most literary of all the paleos. And yes, she did die in 1964, but she still could have been noticed and rubbed elbows with plenty of the antecedents to the paleos, like the Southern Agrarians and Albert Jay Nock. Yet there seems to be no direct connection at all…

The redhead liked me well enough to at least try and roll with the punches, so she inquired, “Why were you even thinking about that?”

To which I responded simply, “I’ve always thought you were sort of like a character out of an O’Connor short story. You know, one of those pretty girls who is just sure to get screwed by life, like in Good Country People or something.”

The girl just broke down crying and wouldn’t even let touch her in my attempts to give comfort. We went to my little balcony to smoke a cigarette, and did so in complete silence, then she left and told everyone at school that I had behaved like a brute and broken her fragile little heart.

Remember, fine readers, these are only three examples of such instances. Were I so inclined, I could regale you with many more. But instead, I am going to go find some slut, fuck her, and lie to her.

***

For all installments from Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert, click here.

Previous installments:

  1. I Can’t Draw
  2. Avant-Garde
  3. First
  4. Stupid
  5. Faces
  6. Wasted
  7. Your Idea
  8. Two-Thirds
  9. Trick
  10. A Poem
  11. Blurred Reality and Legal
  12. An Exchange
  13. About July Fourth
  14. Matter
  15. Taste and Dream
  16. Where Have You Cum?
  17. While You Were Speaking

This article was originally published at MattForney.com on February 12, 2015.