SOMEONE MAY BE LOOKING FOR ME

I HAVE RECEIVED THIS EMAIL TODAY, AND SOMEONE IS LOOKING FOR ME!

Bob Muntz

(1) MESSAGE – SOMEONE MAY BE LOOKING FOR YOU

…

From:	MY LIFE <mylifegsrw@onlineclubsite.com> … Add to Contacts
To:	lists121652569@onlineclubsite.com

---

Click Here to see Who is Searching for You!

This is an advertisement. You are receiving this email because you opted-in
to receive 3rd party offers.

MyLife — Find everyone. All in one place.™
62 Million Members. Over 70 Million Active Searches.

To opt-out of receiving messages from MyLife.com,
please unsubscribe at this link.

Our Address: 2118 Wilshire Blvd., Box 1008, Santa Monica, CA 90403-5784

I WONDER WHO IT IS. I WILL WRITE THEM AND THEN THEY WILL TELL ME. I LOVE IT WHEN PEOPLE ARE LOOKING FOR ME.

Code Red

I stalked a gal for a few days until I saw her walk out of her house. It was dark. She wore a leather jacket down past her rear. I could see the outline. Not bad. Enough for fun. A friend had mentioned her as a possibility. I called her, and we met for lunch. I had a party to attend on Friday night. She came with me. A bunch of beers into the night. She grabbed my hand and asked me to leave. We drove to my house and poured one last cocktail and sat on the couch. Not sure if I even took a sip before I ripped her clothes off. No foreplay. She loves to talk in the middle. I love it. She wants it harder. It wasn’t working. I stalled for some time. Too drunk. Fell asleep. Out cold.

At about 3am something is wrong. Code Red stands above me. She’s whimpering. Feels rejected. Fully dressed. Even wearing her overcoat. I had barely been with her. Only a couple dates. She expects what? So I’m drunk. I fall asleep. We’re far from married. Isn’t she supposed to be trying to land me? Best foot forward? The pressure. The best in bed are those who allow. They ask you to stop and try later. Code Red expects volumes. Immediately. Too much pressure.

She says she’s going to walk home. Completely outrageous. At least four miles away, and it’s bitterly cold. I jump into a pair of jeans and fleece. I told her I’ll drive her. We get to my car, and she cries harder. She asks why I don’t care. This is our first date. Can you imagine being married to this. No wonder why she’s divorced. I said flatly that she gets to make a choice. Come back to bed, or go home. She comes back to bed. I deliver a courtesy. She cuddles next to me for the remainder of the darkness.

I called her six months later on a warm sunny evening. A few scotches in. She was engaged after having known a guy for three weeks.

The Squirter

Rest assured scotch is involved. But usually on my end. 2 am after the country club on a random Wednesday evening there may be a voice mail. I may turn the wheel. This gal drowns me. It’s more like having sex in a  swamp. Went to Evita in Boston, and she wanted to fuck prior to the show which meant I had to sleep in it. Sorry. The bed is so soaked I cannot sleep. Not in my house any longer. If you go down on her, a minimal requirement is a snorkel, dry suit and mask. My friend the sex Phd says I have a squirter. It’s at least 6 to 8 ounces of fluid. Makes me nauseous. The first time it happened I thought she pissed on me. She was on top and I had to close my eyes and not look at her any more. I was so disgusted I couldn’t finish. I was angry. The sex Phd made me sniff my mattress. He claims no smell of urine is indicator of squirtage. It didn’t last long.

A male antelope with all four hooves firmly planted, legs cocked. The final hope is a thrusting hard right turn. All the foward momentum must change direction in one quick motion with no loss of speed. Behind, a hungry lioness with fully extended claws and one paw up ready to swat once again at an already bloodied hind quarter. Life as a single male: An antelope, running for his life.

Damn did I take it on the chin tonight.

Degradation Zone: My Play

Scene 1:

Got home at 4:15 am. Brutal. Went back to the well. Drove to her house with a  hardon and robe. Told her I’m not coming over unless she’s on all fours in the kitchen with a vibrator shoved up her pussy. It’s outrageous that it takes this kind of degradation to get me wound up. It’s wrong. And I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. I’m pissed I was with this gal again. It’s no good. But hit the desperation button.

It’s amazing how many women hate me now. It’s a nightmare. And I don’t talk. I can’t figure out how they know.

 

Scene 2:

I think she’s a dental hygienist. The concern I have is that she has written about me walking past her while she’s naked. That rings of commitment. As though I should give her more. And more is not something of which I am capable. We did sleep together, so there is an implied contract. However, with her I can use the same line I use with the others. “You are too recently divorced to be allowed to date or even get serious. You must keep yourself safe and the smartest thing to do is just have fun and keep it light. It’s against the rules to fall in love until a minimum of a year post divorce.”  

I figure with this criteria I have a year. Then it’s legal for them to fall in love. I’m going to fuck her once more then roll to the next. I need to fill the pipeline though. I’ve been with the same gals now for awhile and I’m utterly bored. It’s also getting dicey. Thank God I didn’t go to Charlie Brown’s on Saturday. I was told the squirter was there and haven’t taken one of her calls in months. I can only imagine a drunk squirter interrogating me about why I am such a fucking asshole male chauvinist …

Bridget and the Condom

I have a small dog. Half Fiest and half Toy Poodle. Thin wiry hair. You can just about see her skin under her coat. A fag would adore her especially in her bright red collar and leash. She’s a little neurotic. Always in your face and barks non stop. If my kids didn’t love her, I’d kill her. Not one doubt. Her name is Bridget.

I received an email from a gal with whom I had not spoken in months. She was lonely. Wanted to know if I were hard. Nothing about my children, sports, or current events. Just am I hard. That’s always causes arousal. It’s a matter of what time. I wrote her back that anytime is good. I had no meetings. But didn’t want to take her out for dinner or lunch. We like secrecy. There are simply too many, and running into another could be disastrous. Plus, all my options remain open.

Lying on my couch, watching the Wolf Blitzer obsess over Dick Cheney, blasting the old man, I hear a car door slam. She jogs up to the front door. In the tail end of a disaster and would prefer to have no one know. She says it must be fast, as her kids think she’s making a quick trip to the store. No talk. Directly to my room. I rip her clothes off her. Her fake tits pop out one at a time. They feel strange. Maybe she had a “buy one get one free” deal. Unveils a landing strip. I have asked her to shave it clean. Bugs me.

I always struggle with kissing in these situations. That’s why hookers are better. They don’t want to kiss either. Just get paid and get out. She gives the worst blowjob I’ve ever had. Won’t let her do it. She gave me the fang last time. Better stick to the hole.

I get out of bed. Throw the used rubber into the corner of my room on the floor. Start to get dressed in a hurry. We don’t talk. She gets dressed. Runs to her car and drives off. No talk. Nothing to say. The emptiness of neon. Perfection.

I walk back to my room and hear a licking sound. Bridget has the condom.

Off to a funeral. My friend would have liked it best this way.

Cretinous Blog

this blog become most cretinous place for computer visit though all the women I know from ukrain now come here for greatest and small laugh. Lipvitch send me bill last week for unused session of counsel but forgot to fill line item for purpose. I pour beer on receipt wipe with ass then place back in postal carrier hands. he say letter smell like shit. I say to who it return to empror of shit. shit factory amerika become workerless proletariat cretinous place of untold lives of misery and shit idol worship. Every amerikan spend paycheck on Perkins chain restaurant to stuff face and hindquarter with shovel of steaming bags of fat. I see amerika. I see small children with enormous breasts stuffing brain and faces behind dead television eyes with the fruits of your decrepit plains. even pornstar for amerika can tell it’s all giant lie of soul. no one in ukrain ever cheat soul on pornography film. not ashamed of bodies or glorious brain. amerikans strain daily shit of planet for place on table to meet with gaping mouths and greediest fork and knife. no shit left for camel people in dirtiest desert wasteland beyond amerika.

circuit breaker blew on her pussy

Rode in a car for nearly six hours with a guy who hasn’t had sex with his wife in over four years. He also wasn’t having sex with anyone else. I’m assuming just himself. It seems a circuit breaker blew in her pussy while going through menopause. Now, I may have an outstanding excuse to slog through a few more years prior to lock down. Prudent to hit 65 or so to make absolutely certain the breaker isn’t blown.

I grew a little desperate last night and called the twenty year old. I’ve never had a woman say what she said to me. She yelled for at least ten minutes. Told me she hates me. I’m a pig. Asshole. I use women. I was mean to her. All women need to be told how bad I am. She’s talked to people about me — I took the phone from my ear and held it out to see if it was the correct number. Then after who knows how long, I finally asked if she knew who she were talking to? She said, “Dean fucking Vandelmar. The sociopath!” She ended by tying her panties into 30 or 40 knots, told me again how much she hates me and hung up. For good.

I only slept with her a few times. Gave her incredible orgasms. I thought we had a deal. She said flat out. “If you find a 25 year old guy for me, set me up, I’ll let you fuck me in the mean time.” But I never called her after the last time which was in the fall. I never found the “boyfriend” because it’s a waste of time and stupid. I feel sorry for her. I feel sorry for myself.

It’s amazing how many women hate me now. It’s a nightmare. I can’t figure out how they know. I’m pouring a litre of scotch as we speak.

Overcoat and other Wars with Women

My situation with sex is like taking a drunk, who’s been to rehab six times, to the bar and saying drinking would be really good for you. These women are everywhere. Married. Not married. I am a walking erect. I have no brain. They all want sex and not once or twice. It’s constant.  

This happens repeatedly. I am with one gal and my phone rings with another gal’s number popping up. We both look at it in silence. I refuse to answer it. They must know. And the worst part is I don’t care. It would simply eliminate another problem if she get’s angry and leaves. But that won’t happen either.  

Just Wednesday night. In the country club parking lot. Once again, minding my own business, I ran to the car to see who may have called. Overcoat is there. She reaches down the front of my pants and explains how badly she wants it. Instinctively I shove my hand down her pants to see if she has shaven since I last saw her. She’s been in the process of getting divorced since the day she was married. There are no pleasantries. For fun next time I’m going to ask, “How much does this cost?” Most women may slap you. Not Overcoat. It’ll send her into a frenzy. A couple years ago she walked in my house. Didn’t knock. Straight into my living room and dropped her overcoat to the floor. The only thing she wore was a narrow patch of finely manicured pubic hair. I rebuffed her as I don’t sleep with married women. This only made her more insane.

I often ponder my plight in life. I ask myself why these women don’t care about me. My sensitivities. They destroy my self confidence at their expense. The only love I feel is at the moment of ejaculation. Then emptiness. A neon vacancy sign flashes above my soul. I’m used, and Church beckons. A few days ago a gal tried in vain to rub one out of me. She failed to grasp the concept of lube. My abused and weakened friend resembled the skin of a dead alligator that has dried in the Florida sun for three weeks. It took a jar of vaseline to heal it.  

I lead a lonely life. I am far from rudderless. I am a missionary. I will always sacrifice myself physically for the betterment of any women provided she’s worth looking at. My mission excludes the overweight. Gun season just ended. Pray for me. I am incredibly resilient.

psychic earthworm

 

hit the scotch and watch this.

open clearest universal channels of communication
impending doom
likely I’ll have a roman life span
I’m a psychic earthworm
informed but submissive listeners
the more extreme you are the no bullshit straight up truth
I’m going for the gusto

this fucking go-getter has the message. 

 

war with women

just ran into a high school friend who is stuck in nostalgia. he always talks about sitting on the cottage deck drinking rum and cokes. he’s in purgatory. plain and simple. not married but living with the woman he knocked up in the process of exiting a relationship 10 years ago. then he knocked her up again. something about him not being allowed sex if he used protection. her thought was he must not want to be committed. she’s insane now. the “no marriage” pushed her over the edge. he’ll stop by my house from time to time and make three of the straightest jack daniels you’ll ever see. guzzle them and run out. terrified of her. she couldn’t get pregnant. and i won’t cum in your mouth.

i commented about how impossible marriage is. he sat in his car with the window rolled down. tried to spit out something about how all women are not bad and that some are good. i crushed him. the fact is it’s about control. and unless men roll over and never react to the whipping they take regularly, there’s constant war. either cold or hot. but it’s war. and men never win. not one i’ve met. and i watch. from afar. i see the guy sitting it out. some quietly paying their dues wishing for an exit but too afraid. the kids are the ransom. some have it slightly better but not much. certainly none have something i think is anything close to what i would want. too much time and distance is between the cell and freedom. no woman could deal with it now. it’s peaceful. sometimes a little out of control. sometimes the richter falls off the table. sometimes i just black out and hope I’m abducted by aliens. jesus, that would help.

he sat silently. no expression. no words. drove away.