"Inspired by someone's bio, I wrote a parody of a sublime first message to send someone who takes your fancy. Use at your own risk, men!
"First date"
Hi fabwoman69. We'll start off with a relaxed, civilized chat, during which I shall mention my appendages and your orifices, in conjunction, every no more than 5 lines. In between, it'll be one liners (nonetheless riddled with grammar and spelling mistakes), thumbs up, aubergine emojis, and the occasional "innit".
As it happens, you will be absolutely powerless to resist this, and by the time (within 16, 17 tops, minutes of initially messaging you) I'll send you one of a plethora of tastefully (cit. needed) taken photographs of my schwanzstucker (that's my penis, but in fake German), you'll be begging me to have a videocall, which I'll politely turn down in favour of "why don't I just get over there and bend you over the bonnet? Be there in 20 mins". Which, obviously, you will eagerly agree to, because who wouldn't, with such a premise and overwhelming chemistry?
I'll roll up in my 1992 unmarked white Ford Transit, all dented and scuffed up and with mismatched tyres. The dashboard is BOTH completely caked in dirt AND entirely cluttered with crumpled up cigarette packs, cans of discount Monster energy (the green one), and empty McD's boxes. I do love me a Quarter Pounder as much as I'd like to give you a Full Pounding. See? Poet.
You'll obviously be waiting on the drive, because at this point you'll be just craving this heavenly body to be inside you, so much you can't even wait indoors any longer.
You'll wear a lovely outfit from Shein (the classy stuff, none of that tacky Primark crap, eh!), something short and revealing because nothing arouses me more than seeing labia majora peep from under the hem. Especially if they're dripping wet, such as yours will moist (see what I did there?) certainly be. Platform heels are a must, hopefully those really posh ones with the clear, see-through platform with holes running through: the more I'll suspect you just finished your shift as a stripper in Croydon, the better. Finshnets optional, preferably red, wide mesh.
I'll smell of Lucozade and Cheese Doritos. You'll smell of lust, whatever that means. I'll look 12 years older and 12 stones heavier. I won't even get out of the van, from the inside I'll lean across and push the passenger door open (I -am- a well-mannered gent, after all), you'll get in and before either can say "hi" I will proceed to jam my tongue in your mouth, leaving a trail of slobbery saliva all over your face in the process, like someone just threw a bucket of snails at you. From my passionate kiss (I learnt the "whirlwind" technique in primary school and it's served me well so far) you will clearly taste my last 3 meals (respectively a BLT I got on reduction from Tesco last night, a bacon bap from Gregg's at the services earlier today, and then whatever it was I had for tea, that I completely lathered in HP sauce), and will start tingling down there.
That'll be my cue to reach over and, without much ceremony, stick a couple of greasy (Doritos, remember?) fingers up your skirt, and proceed to fingerblast you until you obviously climax in 2-3 minutes. I don't have the stamina to finger you for much longer than that, but luckily I don't need to, those Moldovan professionals I often visit for sex reassure me it makes them cum almost instantly, and I don't believe in race so I don't see why you should be any different, whatever your ethnicity is (hopefully White English, because I voted Reform).
After you've copiously climaxed on my fingers, I'll pull them out and make you suck them clean, because I've seen 50 shades (not the actual movie, it was "50 Shades of Sasha Grey") and I know bitches love that shit. It's gross anyway and I don't want it on my fingers which, after you've licked them clean of your goo, I'll proceed to wipe on my Man Utd knockoff jersey (I haggled it down from 10€ to 5€ in Magaluf last year, because I'm a man of the world and I know how these things work).
At this point I just need to undo my hi-viz trousers, they smell of cement, dry paint, and vaguely of dog piss, and actually whip out what I lovingly call "the beast". Which you've seen many a times before, from all the artsy pictures mentioned earlier. I'll give you a knowing nod and you'll bend down and gobble on it: you won't even notice the never-before-trimmed greasy bush or the malted bread crumbs within, nor the 3 inches of fully erect wrinkly glory that I call a cock. You'll be so raptured you won't notice, either, the strong smell of feces coming from the general area, and after you've taken it in that filthy mouth of yours you definitely will not realize I've cum in 13 seconds, although my grunting like a pig that's been run over by a lorry might give away my very premature climax.
I'll say something to the extent of and of similar depth to "fuck yeah", rudely move your head away and do my zip up. "See ya" is all you'll hear from me before I'll obviously hint that you gotta leave, I'd love to stay and ruin your pussy but I gotta go home to my wife, whom I love and whom I think I've forgotten to beat for the last couple of days, and it's about time some alpha man (such as me) showed her her place.
---the end---"
Literally how most of the guys on ere are like, no sophistication but plenty of entitlement and bravado |
