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I’m not sure if I’m more concerned about the hygienic conditions of a house filled with naked, trailer-dwelling, low class individuals, or the fact there are actually American adults able to up and leave their careers (probably non-existent, in all fairness to them) for weeks at a time to swing their dicks and twats around on an island while trading more bodily fluids than a German EDM festival. This shit is fucking insane.
I hadn’t watched before, because, you know, I’m straight, but the slam essentially latched herself to my bed like a fucking parasite and my newfound maturity had me wincing my way through an endless night of inconvenience for her. At least I got a round two out of it. Anyway, she’s obsessing over the fact that it’s Thursday. Not because it’s one day from the weekend, like a normal human, but instead because Dating Naked has an all-new episode that’s “about to come on demand.” Fucking great.
But to my shock, it was somewhat enjoyable, though mostly because it’s a mind fuck that has the viewer wondering what could possibly have possessed these “contestants” to essentially throw away any hope of a successful life for a few minutes on a poorly-rated twisted Bachelor on a joke of a network.
But then, all of a sudden, disaster struck.
The woman next to me began convulsing in a manner my repeated dickings never incited. She’s moaning almost, gyrating about in my bed as we watch this ridiculous show and I’m wondering if she’s mid-stroke when she looks at me and says “I want you to jerk off.”
“What?” I’m perplexed.
“While we watch this fucking show.”
I now realize she’s flicking her clit like guitar strings, perfectly playing her own melody as the morons on television skinny dip with sharks and stingrays. Does she have an ocean fetish? I’m not sure, but I’m horribly uncomfortable, and after two rounds of plainly mediocre sex, my dick couldn’t be any less interested in the freak next to me. Plus, I’m kind of scared.
“Do it,” she says while revving up her self-play as I contemplate what in the fuck would happen if actual porn was on the television — better hide the produce drawer of my refrigerator just in case.
“Seriously,” she says in the sort of whining fake orgasm voice I’m accustomed to (never assume it’s real).
“I want you to come with me” she’s full on Parkinson’s-ing at this point as I’m sitting up staring at her as bewildered as someone in the front row at a lethal injection. I don’t want to look, I’m incredibly conflicted on how I feel, but I just can’t stop. She’s given up on me now, closes her eyes and lets out a series of moans the likes of which I’ve never heard — absolutely guaranteeing her lack of enjoyment in our sexual misadventures, though fortunately I couldn’t care less. She finishes, breathes heavily for a minute or so, still self-blinded, then, without a single word, turns over and goes to sleep.
Here I am wondering what the fuck has transpired. Does she get turned on by sting rays? Network exploitation of poor people? Blurred penises? Was I supposed to fuck her during that? And why was I supposed to jerk off?
She turns over and looks at me, as I think, mercifully, I’m about to get an explanation.
“Can you record the rest of this? I’m tired, I’ll finish it in the morning”
She turns back over. I finished the episode, my first and final, alone..
Image via YouTube