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MERITOCRACY

Meritocratic advancement conforms to expected rational evaluation; consequently consider: fucking a spiritual guy is an introduction to incontinence. His augured soulful convergences designed to enhance his capacity’s ordained emblazoned attempts faulted to assist her positioning to sanction mingling with a verging-on-average fucker. Yet, in a dispatched synchronicity, his soul, ingrained, realized to proclaim, a regrouped granting, fissioned for leeway to advance and fall, even retrieved via imprecations distended to be viewed as functionally astute when most self-condemnatory, leaves her to concede in a pseudo turnabout that possibly she can fuck this dangled soul pointer and then long for what is not there — even accumulate his spectatorial absorbent recapitulations and form them in a retributive direction called “talent,” but she cannot fuck away the dumbness preoccupied with the not there and his assumptions seated in such an implacable orchestration. However, there is a cleverness and heat in the perverse original alchemy of it: reduction in addition, progress in apology, applause in failure recognition — what kink she thought to watch this punctilious tedious fuck guy dismiss meritocratic logic’s foundational stance with reveries notched as advancements.

FOREGIVENESS

Whether asking for or giving forgiveness you enroll an exigency that is noncommunicable and consequently permits a transmissible acceptance of no time determinant. If you cum too quickly, as you do at times, your depilatory counter oriented pubic hair focus does serve even in this most stretched form to place removal from the bone to insulate my predictable inflectionless response. Forgiveness is an instruction that has no strategy; however, your analogy got me hot through the threefold contexts you present: (1) your sleeping cock; (2) your referenced depilatory cream, a remover as is “forgiveness,” framed by its denotative course; (3) your weird, yet evidenced plangent attempt to access a marginal correlative while it deliquesces as it is uttered — the absurdity, the ingrained precocity, its out of age acceptability, makes me forget, laugh, forgive.

Forgiveness rides delimited coordinates that functionally prevent an assembling. If I don’t care, I could forgive anything, but my memory remembers all rusting variants and weighs your charted verbal need. You take an assumed consensus bounded by ellipses, of course, as held by all “forgiveness consumers” that memory folds in the given “forgiveness offering,” the request’s “yes/no” options, a stylistic prolix of equanimity that proffers implications of the good and humane, but never can you see the play, my limited one.

EXPOSITION

Your sexual prowess is only of a mass market sort and, therefore, what is the predicate that explains my link to you? Your grammar, even when correct, is incorrect via a tediousness veiled by its own search. Your exposition to anything is a local deal seemingly never started, a cursory note to, at best, its billeted expectation. I don’t accept any formed line of ionization given forth or taken, edged with intent via you or me. We share an insolence geared to disregard development, but I see no partnered egalitarianism nevertheless, for you cannot twist any retort or declaration as I know I can. I can contradict myself and your syntax is consequently bewildered by its own “do it again my love.” My equivocations have at least two part structures while probationally encased and outlined. Not providing is an experimentation mode.

When we fuck I get so wet thinking of you as my restrictive appositive; my there and not there construct, apposition applied parenthetically, incorrectly, the inexpressible exposition. No vileness. My leveled severity has a frequented greed, remained and amused. Disencumbered without any assembled outstretched variant is an inscription whose prospect is undermined by an expositional aside.

MOTIVATION

Motivation is an introduction to nothing, but it is a fashionable incidental that disgusts me, dismisses you, you the expectant in step, more in a necessary argument to supersede “endeavor” in  the continuum of “trying,” but mister friend, “Fuck your want,” for remember spit refrains mumbled and  unnoticed, a roadside liquidity above saliva in the progression of/to “Oh no,” but still rustles a “not at dinner time” placard, while phlegm in its density runs a pace to the “do excuse yourself, and all are subject to colds and flu.” Notice how the phlegm disgust contingent can innocently counter itself with faked-out over-the-counter awareness-purchasing. Direction has nebulous detours that stumble to reconcile patterns that cough.

Yesterday to my rebukes you wanted your hardness to revamp a ravaged time to one of “ahhs” and interior delights, but consider the stretched flickers that looked for shape and form and recount the field before motivation wandered in and questioned how want can hold when so much played before the “try” factor.

I know my analogies are motivation’s discourse as in “fuck your metaphors in a dress-up unfeasible ploy,” a decantation that lexically has no support in your buckled fuck there – not there extension, a parapet that moves to further the clarity as in how your softness consigns to remain with a wink trundled in a metaphor mirage.

INTERPRET

Your interpretive prowess maintains an indelible intent that warrants the consequent presumption that your just completed endeavor made me cum and I feel slighted not by the dysfunctional junked up rapidity that does not even have time to emerge, but by your cognitive method that is so depressed as it rests never negotiating context.  You are my discreet interpreter to the persevering sameness and, therefore, “slighted” fits as it panels convention and uniformity. 

You read like you fuck and to interpret is your means and result. It is an occupational presence, a scrupulous accommodation to reconstruct an unacknowledged rehearsed avoidance. It is a secrecy titled as explorative and creative. My equanimity challenges itself and the imperturbable inertia forms as a discretion, which it is not. You interpret my premeditated extricated self as an altercation allayed by conclusions, accurate and dismissive, hurriedly sentenced as mere cognitive applicants and put to inadvertence, not far from your expressed readings, as we share these two charged variants, but I, as opposed to you, support a bewildering ephemeral interminable self-reproach that wants — so simple, only wants — a retrospective anything that can explicitly explain my somewhat jointed association to the crudity of your cognitive means.

UXORIOUS

You somehow solicit, or appear to do so, and mesh a pandering intent with an uxorious state of being, and even though they demonstrate an equally familiar resolve, while their renderings provide not so nuanced differences, they conjoin in a felicitous capacity to make any woman expect more. There is a complicity between you and you that is relentless, actually a regimen, this strained servitude, a reactionary determined mess that gets me hot, but only via a self-fondled adherence to wait for the reason of your genuflected handling of it all.

You are a lack of presence, but if you ditch it you are invisible. Consequently, you enact a custodial bludgeoning, or at least try to, conscious or not, in assuming that your offering goes well. This schematic self-pillorying is your opening line that lost its assumptive full stop. Your degree of ardency remains undetermined, for it is offered gratuitously with no supplied rational attempt to mitigate an affront or any conceivably blamable wandering. I cannot detect any break in tone or substance from this impersonal repetitive rigging geared to cover any covert anxiety. Most women would, I suppose, see it as an offering, a quiet didactic undifferentiated monosyllabic imaged continuum, an absurdity perpetuating an ingrained measured, yet timorous subsumption that has entailed an arbitrary susceptibility to engender a pressing, at least from me, “What the fuck is this?” You are loved not for your proclivity to succumb − which this hollowed shabbiness does not surprisingly reflect − but for the way you ride obsequiousness to a norm, a mask suspended in affection, or not.

CULTURE

Cultural affiliation as assumed sex hindrance has a degree of gentility. If the sex were much better, even a little more gratifying, the resulting cultural constraint accusation, inexorably ready to provide a transcutaneous reason for a stagnant mingling, would not be considered. There is an ephemeral individualized decorative delectation, an emboldened interminable daubing that holds blatancy as incomprehension. It is nontransferable, this form of democratic speculative indulgence that emblematically fuses unsayable lubricious conceits when nothing works.

If pillow talk says we fucked well, but it also acclaims your culture as an effacer of any transitional verbal accommodation, the discourse shows how you can be dumb, contradict, and cum in an imperious push.

Culture is a climate result that is novelistically registered and likened to when one partner thinks bad culture masticates potentially good sex. And, yet there is heat in differentiation and a consumed disregard for an inspired credited shared nearness.

When intimacy’s progression is thwarted, anything goes, and the immediacy of the misphrase can entangle “cultured” with “culture,” but most likely not “culture vulture,” but, of course, silliness is absent at pre-orgasmic peaks. However, upon being declared “cultured” and consequently ensnared by the so-called compliment, or if the recipient is clever and accordingly dismissive, but keeps the reaction quiet, a palpable intimacy is soon to be. “Cultured” inhabits a secular sensitivity that is misplaced even in its own alignment as a hectored culture offshoot. The wary, ill-positioned fucker scatters “my culture,” occasionally substituted by “my upbringing,” but such a termed reflectively expressed inwardness regarding an oral sex accentuated request, answered with a “my upbringing — no-way,” is rare. The culture usage is advantageous, a sustainable primacy licensing, a group adherence, canonized and institutionalized; an absolution policy, savagely missing, sexually inherited – that upbringing stuff.

ELUSIVE

Good touching many times is not independent from a former desiderated hold. Yet, it is of no matter, for even the listlessness of consequent rebuffed pretenses, occasionally framed as registered complaints, or grasps so attempted, move with an ingrained prescience to deflect the promised terms that can at best solely imply: be there steady as in a relative awareness; entwine in a modified action — its recourses when the disintegrated expectation incarnates the rigor with reprimand and collective lip embraces.

However, the abstraction deems itself necessary to affect a fashionable exigency to traverse the dismissed and the disdained when love and heat want full weight. I want the onslaught she thought, as did he: their corresponding espoused polemic contending inescapably within an Intimacy, blatantly hinged, thoughts more formally clasped, nothing given: not to be, to be, the errant substantive singularity, a kiss inducer: the indecency in a collective remorse, that fractured centrality, fostering that confirmation.

Love has its postured divide and, aware or not, if love fully is, it predicates an embraced finality, or as she said and he repeated: barrage me in your smeared delinquent whole, and keep a standpoint of disaffection, provide the room for the packed expansionist embrace, but keep it as talk, or as they further echoed: our conjoined anxiety heats a beckoned causticity, this helpless, pitched, maneuvered, necessary disbelief.

FOREPLAY

Foreplay is a term presented only after-play when play could have been better, much better. It is an abandonment, an immitigable dissent from what the other thought went well, empirically imported in a mode problematically adequate without details: mister, your perverted sequencing is a curiosity, an untimeliness that ignores integration, while providing dissolution to what did not start. I question the indicative stimulation, an argument that affirms ordinary disregard and I posit an assurance — do explain. To apprehend what is not, not why the not, is to transfer an indeterminacy to a bewilderment that holds naught. I back up the missing component with a truth held by my truth, an immanently intervening recourse inveighing against linked possibilities to dismiss my horny-hurt.

 “Get right to it” has its place as well, many happy times, and when foreplay so deposited — sediment thoughts — interstices between initial clear cut heat and the ludicrous need to arouse the already risen, the wanting: a contextual malfeasance, an insolence to reassure an outstretched ventured stylized implemented embellished immobility to know when.