Diary Of An Average Internet Meet-n-Fuck

Dear Diary,

I fucked another chick from the internet last night. She initiated contact and, as we know, when a female initiates contact via internet dating site, she guarantees effortless vaginal access. Plus, this one is from Plenty Of Fish, which is essentially Backpage minus the cash transaction, so, no brainer.

She live chatted me a couple days ago and after a short while of my typical douchebaggery, she invited me directly to her place. As I said, effortless vaginal access.

So last night I headed out to her Nowheresville town I’ve never heard of. I put her address in my GPS and the British lady asked me if I was fucking with her. The girl had forewarned me of her remoteness, and gave me a nearby on-the-grid address to hone in on, and promised there’d be cell reception so I could call when close to be guided in.

And call I did, after an hour plus of local back-roading through pitch blackness and pouring rain. It was during this call that she mentioned living with her mom. Now, this broad is 23 or 24 – pushing the upper limits of my acceptable bang policy – and while I still don’t care if she lives with her mom, I would have preferred her to drop that info up front rather than as I entered her unreasonably creepy Sleepy Hollow neighborhood all geared up to fuck, not make small talk with an internet whore’s boondock hillbilly mom. Such a maneuver is not a good sign, but it was too late and shitty out and I was too far from home and too committed to my testicles to abandon the mission.

I couldn’t help but think, though, as she guided me through turns down a series of dirt roads, that I might have driven on pavement for the last time. That she may not be the barely above average looking chick from POF, but the cover for some oversized genetic freak ax murdering cannibal fixin’ to have him six feet and two inches of internet skirt chaser for dinner. But I already had a quarter chub going, so I decided to head in guns blazing and, one goddamned way or another, discharge.

I finally got to her street, i.e. hazardous dirt path, where I was greeted by signage warning that it’s a private road, the inhabitants of which highly value its private nature. “Fuck it,” I thought, “It’s bang, kill, or be killed. Whatever happens down this road will never be known to the outside world.”

After carefully inching my car deep back down the muddy time space-time continuum to this girl’s early American frontier home, I was relieved to find only her and her alcoholic mother inside. She was certainly the barely above average chick from POF, but I’ll admit I was pleasantly surprised by the size of her cans. Most broads do all they can to accentuate their tit meat in their profiles, but this one actually downplayed the prodigiousness of her sweater hogans.

As I immediately began envisioning my dick disappearing inside her aforementioned tit meat, T-Meat and her mom – who was sprawled on a couch sucking down booze and cigarettes – quickly began pointing out that as I pulled up to the house, the nefarious black mass spirit entity that inhabits their property bounded across the rooftop and leapt from the house. So, on first impression, everything seemed totally fucking normal. And after a solid half-hour spent as audience to Tit-Mom’s oral history of the property’s haunting, T-Meat finally managed to drag me away to her bedroom.

“When I went to the bathroom just a minute ago, it was to touch myself ’cause I was so fucking wet just sitting there next to you,” said T-Meat. Realize that this was essentially the second sentence she’d spoken to me since I’d arrived thirty minutes earlier, her first sentence having been, “Hi,” before I quickly became engrossed in Tit-Mom’s inebriated delusions. She required no witty response before she simply began sexually assaulting me. She stopped down after an inexcusably poor blowjob -

- Time Out – Diary Interlude -

I ask you, dear diary, how in the age of pornography-inspired sluthood can a female suck at sucking dick? What are you doing and what makes you think it’s sufficiently pleasing? Have you received positive responses to similar oral performances in the past? Between xHamster, bananas, work ethic, and human males, what’s your excuse for this blow-bore? Which of the four listed elements do you lack? This isn’t okay. When a man’s dick is in a woman’s facehole and he’s not enthused, that woman is minimally guilty of gross sexual negligence, if not greater crimes against humanity. Take your mouth off of my dick, get inspired, and get back to me. Fucking ridiculous.

So she stopped down after an inexcusably poor blow-bore to start telling me stories about the multitudinous rapes she endured throughout her life. I’ll admit, her rape anecdotes were more enjoyable than the oral sex she had provided up to that point, though they struck me about as true as her follow-up yarn of intervening in a subway stabbing-in-progress only to have the knife turned on her and be stabbed 36 times and left for dead. I did find it odd, though, that despite looking over her naked body, I detected no scarring whatsoever. Plastic surgery, she claimed. Then quickly returned to giving me lackluster head in an attempt to avoid follow up questions.

Realizing, after she’d audibled to rape and stab stories, that T-Meat is full-on fucking bonkers, I began contemplating an exit strategy. She must have sensed my shift in energy, as she took my indifferent dick out of her mouth and started in with the always-fun, crazy person conversation of, “So why did you come here tonight? Was it just to have sex with me?”

“Honestly, you’re my backup plan. I came to have sex with the roof spirit but it’s just not that into me,” I said. As she continued demanding to know if I came to her house just to have sex with her – the girl whose second sentence to my face was about having just masturbated to me in her bathroom – I continued responding with patronizing references to my desire to sexually conquer the black mass.

“Why don’t you think it likes me? Is it even into white guys? Does is shave under the hood? Can you get STDs from interdimensional sex? Climb out the window and put in a good word for me.”

Finally, she feigned huffy puffy no-pussy-for-you mode and laid back in bed. Somewhat relieved, having realized this is the kind of kooky bitch that’ll pitch a fake rape accusation, and maybe even a stabbing for good measure, I decided to retrieve my pants and try to make it back to civilization alive. Predictably, though, T-Meat came across her room like a sex-starved titty tornado and frantically executed an impressive rape mount on me. So I forgot about my jeans – as well as the rubbers in the front right change pocket – and fucked her.

But that’s when her wolf started bugging me. Oh, have I yet to mention her wolf? Allow me to do just that: Titty McTitmeat had a motherfucking pet wolf. Not a wolfhound, not a dog bearing resemblance to a wolf – a bison hunting, howl at the moon, scientifically classifiable wa wa wa wolf. And apparently, domesticated wolves outgrow wild wolves as well as guys with websites called Unleash The Beef, because this thing looked like Brock Lesnar in a fur fucking coat.

And apparently, domesticated wolves are into Eiffel Towering big-titty hoes, because I couldn’t get two pumps in without Wolf Lesnar leaping onto the bed to claim her front end for his red rocket. Cesar Milan’s techniques are highly effective, but when doggy-style fucking a broad with borderline personality disorder in a densely-wooded holler so far off the grid that technology doesn’t acknowledge its’ existence, following through on a well-placed touch and a gamed-faced “Tsst” is not reasonably doable.

Know what you’ll never see on Animal Planet, dear diary? Me, fully nude with a full boner, wrestling a 150-pound wolf across a bedroom and out the door while Farva simultaneously attacks the Dimpus Burger guy in Super Troopers on a widescreen television. No, you would have had to be with me last night to see that, diary. And even if Animal Planet does option Unleash The Beef Presents: Boner Battles With Wolves, they’ll never clear the rights to Super Troopers, and everything suffers without Farva.

I returned to T-Meat, having fought for and won my right to claim her, resumed bang, and as I fulfilled my earlier promise to discharge by doing so upon her prodigious titty meat, I howled triumphantly, drowning out the defeated howls of Wolf Lesnar still working to gain reentry to the room.

I also, finally, answered the age-old question: What does it look like when you throw Ghost Hunters, The Dog Whisperer, WWE, and porn all onto the same bed.

I slept in that bed, because it was far too late and too far from anything to leave. This morning I was awoken by T-Meat hastily informing me that, in the throes of his shameful defeat, her wolf had apparently wandered away and could not be found. I quickly manufactured an exit strategy wherein I feigned a resolute commitment to tracking down the wolf. I told T-Meat to head straight into the woods behind the house, since she’s familiar with the terrain, while I headed up the road in the other direction to look for him, i.e. got in my car and got the fuck out of the weirdest episode of Scare Tactics never filmed.