Why are married broads more alluring? Why is it that a girl that would, if she were single, get an "eh" from me, gets me all aroused if she is married? Do I have some fucked up reverse cuckold fetish? Is it because I know that somebody else is already on the hook for all of her incessant bitching? I realize the horrific karma generated by wanting to have an unprotected, hair pulling, throat choking, good old fashioned SKEET on someone else's old lady's pelvic bone, and I feel guilty for this fetish. And yet, I find myself watching bored mature housewife porn on the reg. Please explain. - Two Tone
Wow, TT - this is a corker. I get it, though - believe me. The cougar thing. With the boobs and a few years on 'em and the slightly hag-like, mannish faces on a lot of them. Makes for a more layered experience, am I right? They're like an orgy in one, yeah? Cause with those sort of gaunt faces, you're sort of doing a dude a little bit, but then the boobs is like a whole other person. But still, with the zits on the ass. Always with the zits on the ass, am I right?
But this isn't just about you and me hashing through our own boner-makers. There's a lot going on here. In order to give this complex issue its due, I've opted to depart from our usual form a little bit. Because there are some many dimensions to your quandary, I've invited a panel to weigh in on this thorny pickle of a conundrum. Going around the table - to my right is Husband, Berserk With Jealousy That's Largely Unfounded, For His Wife Is No Prize, I Can Tell You (HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY); next to him is An Actual Wife - Because God Knows You Clearly Have No Fucking Idea What You're Wishing For, You Sad, Backward Man-Child (AAWBGKYCHNFIWYWFYSBMC); An Eight-Year-Old, Who Stumbles Half-Asleep Into Her Mom's Room To Find You Rutting Away At Her Mom, You Swine (AAEYOWSHAIHMRTFYRAAHMYS); and finally Emma Starr, one of the MILF porn's brightest luminaries - she really puts the STAR(r) in "porn star(r)"! Am I right, fellas?
Ian: Well, panel, I'd like to thank you all for joining us - why don't you each say "hi" t –
HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY (Interrupting). You lissen to me, you worthless little garlic fart - you keep your filthy mitts offa my wife, you hear me?
Ian: Whoa. Hey. Dial it back, there, HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY.
AAWBGKYCHNFIWYWFYSBMC (Staring into the middle distance.) …
Ian: Mmmmmkay. She's… got a bunch on her mind, I guess.
AAEYOWSHAIHMRTFYRAAHMYS (Weeping, inconsolable.) Why did you hurt my mommy in the night? Why? She was making ooky noises and I hate you.
Ian: It's OK, sweetie. It, it'll be OK.
Emma Starr (as Mrs. Shakewell): Sorry, Two Tone, but Candy's not home yet. You're welcome to come in and wait for him if you like. Here. Sit with me on the couch. You know, Two Tone, I'm glad we have this chance to talk. Maybe you can tell me why you're with a girl like Candy, when you could be… (Takes off naughty librarian glasses) with a woman. (Takes off her gardening gloves that have clearly never been used even once, which sort of ruins the illusion a little bit. NO! Must… suspend… disbelief!)
Ian: Um. Wow. That's… y-you're… it's… ahem.
You are the single greatest panelist we have ever had. On this or any other topic.
HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY: I KNEW it! You sunnuva– you stay RIGHT there! I'm getting my gun. (Door slam.)
Ian: I'm – he's, he's joking, yeah? That's not… nah. He's just gonna cool off a bit.
AAWBGKYCHNFIWYWFYSBMC: (Swatting your hand away.) No. Look. We've gotta figure out Thursday. I have that late meeting with the department heads; you've got that faculty thing; Sophie's gotta get from school to soccer to violin to home; and Jake needs to get from tap after school to basketball, and then home. And we've gotta figure out dinner. Can you email Lily's mom to see if Sophie can get a ride with them to soccer, then email Eva's folks to see if they can get her from the park to violin? Uch. Hang on. We need to get her violin from school to her music place. She's gonna be pissed if she'll have to lug it to soccer. I'll call Christopher's dad to see if Jake can go with them. Then if you can snag dinner someplace, I can swing by and get her from violin, and Jake can walk from Chris'. And? We gotta get the shocks on van checked - they're doing that weird thing again. And did you call the Alderman about the property tax thing? (She goes to sleep - she sleeps the sleep of the fucking dead, friend, so if you think you are getting anything like some school night sex, you think again. I am not shitting you, dude - you might as well head down to the fucking museum and try to wake a Pharaoh.)
Ian: Wow. Pretty steamy stuff. You gotta be rock hard about now, huh, bud?
You realize this shit is on a fucking endless loop, right?
You realize that this is what wives talk about? Ever. Like sixteen hours a day?
And that they murmur this shit in their sleep, too? How's it feel, big boy?
You think you can claw your way outta this fucking mineshaft of obligation?
Go ahead and try, hoss. Better men than you fucking die down there, every goddamn day.
AAEYOWSHAIHMRTFYRAAHMYS: (Wordless, agonized. pees on carpet like Regan in The Exorcist, a puddle of panic piss streams from the cuff of her Spongebob jammie pants that are too short for her, spreading on the carpet, like a pool of solvent that will dissolve every hard-on in your bonerless future.)
Ian: Well. At this point, I would hope Ms. Starr would have something to offer in the way of a silver lining. Cause I gotta be honest - this shit is getting bleak.
Emma Starr (as Mrs. Shakewell): Candy tells me your… cock is too big for her to handle. Do you think… I might be able to help? (locks eyes with you, reaches for your fly, now tenting above your swelling member)
Ian: And we're back on track!
HBWJTLUFHWINOICTY (Kicking in door, chambering round): You put that filthy dick away, and get on your knees, you scumbag! I am gonna empty this clip into your piece of shit face, you home-wrecking piece of shit! (Bawling, crushed by despair, he sinks to his knees, tucks gun under chin, fires. You are spattered with his brains. And skull. And scalp. If you live to be a billion years old, you will never have an erection again. Coma cock. That's you.)
Ian: Annnnnnnnnd off the rails we go.
Emma Starr (as Mrs. Shakewell): (unbuckles belt, unzips fly.) Well, well, well. What have we – um. (She waggles your forlorn little wiener. It's about as hard as water balloon full of pudding. For real, dude - it is like sad slide whistle/mute trumpet time down there.)
Emma Starr (as herself): Can we get a fluffer in here, please? Jesus. Be a fucking professional, man. Guys shoot themselves every fucking day. Look at yourself. You're all: "I got brain matter on me. It makes my wee wee soft. Wah. Wah." Seriously. Be a goddamn MAN for once in your life. You shit. Look: little leave puddles of terror-stricken pee on the rug all the time. And stare at you mute, while you try to get it on with a stranger. That's life. Grow up, OK? Get it together. I'm gonna go get my asshole bleached. I'll be back in an hour. Get yourself cleaned up, and for fuck's sake have a dick that works right, or I swear to God, I will be boning – YOU! What's your name?
Ian: Wha? Me? Ian.
Emma Starr (cont.) Or I will be boning this pasty bastard. And you can tug on that useless little thing while you watch. (Crosses to door, muttering) Swear to fucking Christ, I am only doing girl-on-girl from now on - these dicks, man, they fuck everything up. (she leaves.)
Ian: Um. Wow. You just got porn-fired, dude. Sucks to be you right now.
Looks like I'm getting called up to the big show. (Dropping pants.)
But isn't that what they say? Porn door closes, a porn window opens?
Not to be a dick or anything, but can somebody come get this eight-year-old outta here?
She's harshing my boner pretty bad.
There's like popsicles in the break room, I think. That's right.
Bye, sweetheart. Feel better! (PA leads her into next room.)
Well that's a relief, no?
And AAWBGKYCHNFIWYWFYSBMC's doing this squeak-snore thing that's pretty distracting.
Get her outta here, too. (Crew wheels bed out.)
Better. Nice. Good. Yeah. I am stoked for this. I am AMPED for some porn fuckin'!
(Dropping skivvies.)
Which is where you come in. You been demoted, bub.
Ain't nobody else here, so that makes you Fluffer One. OK, champ?
I'm new to the porn game, and I gotta say, I'm pretty nervous, so I'm gonna need an assist. OK, big guy? There's some flavored lube on the craft service table. Take your pick. What're you a French Vanilla guy? Chocolate Mint? Raspberry? Go nuts.
And get busy over here. Emma's gonna be back pretty soon. Chop-chop.
Let's go. Less stallin', more ballin'. Get crackin'. And don't skimp on the ass-play.
And that is the image that will stay with you. The next time you have skeet-thoughts about somebody else's wife, you will see me. Doughy, middle-aged me. White as the inside of an untoasted bagel. A shivering dick with your name on it. No, no. Don't look away. I want you to fucking memorize every dimple and goosebump on this nutsack. And if you think this is less than fully horrifying, you image-search me on Google right now. Yeah. I thought so. Quit screaming like a bitch, Bitch.
Now. Close your eyes. Take a breath. And enjoy the what shards of your fantasy life you can salvage, shit heel.
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