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The SurpriseCBM

If girls are checking you out in public with love in their eyes and mist ‘twixt their thighs, it could be simply the case that you’ve got a ten foot hard-on walking ahead of you.

This happens when you’re daydreaming about last night. If you have an active, imaginative mind capable of weaving exquisite detail into a memory, you’ll often access those neural pleasure vaults that store steamy scenes of lovemaking, ancient and recent, while engaged in blissfully pedestrian activities, such as walking outdoors to get from place A to place B. Dulled by pre-collapse hedonistic pampering, you zone out to the thump of your playlist and recall in vivid hues that would be the envy of a weinstein bros production the girl you lacquered 18 hours ago. Your mind’s hand caresses her mesmerizingly rolling skinscape, exploring every hideaway, parting slick chrysalises, kissing lip and trough and mound, a stray nipple catching on your chest and springing away to resume its erect posture….

…and then you’ve got a boney. A big one. You look down and smile, because you’re not a soyboy ashamed of your surprise swole pole. Instead of concealing your insolence behind a stack of Atlantics, you milk your gristly thistle for all it’s worth, thrusting your crotch as far forward as it can go before you tip over backwards. Maybe you put your hands on hips to draw inattentive doe eyes to where they should be focused. A fat feminist shambles by, and practically salivates before remembering to be offended. You guffaw in her maw.

Personal space? That’s pleb talk. You have summoned a mighty pipe from your manly dendrites, and a gift as that should not go unnoticed.


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