Grateful Fucking Reader

As Groucho Marx so famously said about an organization that would have him as a member, I have for years felt the same way about members of the female persuasion. I couldn't be attracted to any member of the fair sex who would be content with me as a sex partner. As a confirmed ascetic, I would not be with any woman whose standards were so excruciatingly low that she'd be seen in public with the likes of me. I was a hopeless celibate until thirty-five, and I paid handsomely on that occasion to withdraw from that classification, so Peggy Lee's refrain echos my own 'Is that all there is?' To pay for sex and have it still be deficient is pathetic. I have paid for it and had the prostitute leave unfulfilled. A street Walker once paid me to leave.

When my first orgasm with a paid partner dribbled from my loins three weeks after my thirty-fifth birthday, I waited for the big event to reach memorable proportions. Nothing. This is certainly not the story of a gent bedding numerous maidens, leaving them breathless and weary. It is not the confession of an unfaithful husband whose numerous affairs left his wife in tears and tatters. It is not the tale of a man who seduces women on a train, streetcar, or during a quick cab ride. This missive is the Where's Waldo of sexual fiascos.

It is actually the tale of woe of a man who has left no one weak from a spectacular orgasm that sent her to nirvana. It is the narrative from a guy disappointed by his own sexual fantasies. A streetwalker once paid me to leave. I even got betrayed by my own dick, which refused to rise to the occasion after being coaxed by reams of porn and dozens of so-called erotic tales guaranteed to produce mind blowing orgasms.

The sexual bliss of numerous sex workers has been squandered by the amount of money I had to give each to pretend to be rocketed to the highest heights by my masculine prowess and undeniable charm. This is the chronicle of a man so inferior and with so little self-assurance that he wallows in the empty swamp of his own sexual inabilities.

On my first actual date with a person who wasn't just a masturbatory fantasy or a blowup doll, she actually left before the entree. I had wined her, and dined her, entertained her with my wit, and she excused herself with the improvised excuse of a sick mother with an evil banker demanding the mortgage payment. She left before I could even disappoint her, even before she could be left unsatisfied by a menial attempt at coitus. Not even enough time for coitus interruptus.

There was once a date that wasn't blind but turned out to be even more mundane than a trip to the laundromat. It was over before the cab arrived. People have been less bored at the car wash. But I have for decades studied the issue religiously and become an expert in sexual frustration: read every wife sharing tail (I mean tale), every group sex story I could get my hands on, every cuckold fairytale, every white-woman-fucking-black-dick yarns I could find, watched every bored-housewife-fucks-the-neighborhood-hunk video or porn website, and I am a total expert on where to find wild fuck films for free. But have they led to successful ejaculations with living human beings, triumphant mind numbing climaxes with ladies hypnotized by my charm? Not on your fucking life.

A human person cannot achieve less success in sexual matters than the writer of this treatise without being comatose. The objective of this diatribe is not, however, to elicit sympathy, it is to personally thank every Literotica writer who has given me the semblance of a sex life, for telling me about the woman who fucks her husband's friends for his pleasure and blows their minds with world-class blowjobs, drinking down their cum like succulent sauce; for letting me read about couples who fuck the other newlyweds they meet at a swingers' resort in the Caribbean and fuck all night without sleep or pause or worry of producing offspring. I am grateful for stories about the men who attract women in swarms to spread their legs in rhapsody and come with screams of pleasure throughout the night not needing to eat, sleep, or urinate.

I am filled with gratitude for the stories about men who offer their friends their wives' pussies to eat, fuck, admire, or penetrate with their fingers or large dildos. I love the tales of sexual abandon and appetites that cry for variety and quantity. I am forever grateful for personal accounts of seduction and pussies offered to strangers. I will not tire of reading about women who show off their naked genitals to surprised groups of onlookers and flash pairs of priests, nuns, or librarians on field trips. I read with sexual delight the stories about people who get off by wearing the other gender's attire and about folks who come multiple times in public places with people they only just met.

Thank you for entertaining me with stories that will keep me reading and coming through the night, that will bring a sudden rush and make me forget about my failures and shortcomings. I am grateful for you giving me hope, as feeble as it may be, that somewhere there is a woman who will fall down on her knees at my feet, unzipping my pants, fishing out my "huge" erection to swab with her tongue and bring me to a climax that will go down in antiquity as the most spectacular in the history of mankind. You don't know just how good it is to vicariously fuck every woman you read about who raises your sexual temperature to a level of heat that will melt gold. You have done this man's world a great favor, and I will be forever grateful. You give me hope there may be a woman out there who will not care about all my defects. You think?