write the hit love songs for the womanladies: volume one!

hey you! do you like the womanladies? well of course you do! but how do you win them over? by beating them over the head with a tire iron? no! of course not! you have to write them the hit love songs! and now you can, with “write the hit love songs for the womanladies: volume one!” here’s one that is sure to make her ladyparts go ‘why yes, come in, right this way, sir, the water’s warm!’

i’ll be your tissue

girl
you know how the story goes
sometimes
you got a stuffed up nose

but that's okay
i still love you anyway
i'm not afraid
of your mucus parade

chorus (2x)

i'll be your tissue
blow your boogers in me
just want one wish, boo
together we'll always be

girl
i know you wanna have sex
but love can wait
first try this mucinex

well the guys
they all say i'm whipped
but they've never dealt
with post-nasal drip

chorus (2x)

i'll be your tissue
blow your boogers in me
just want one wish, boo
together we'll always be

bridge

and girl, when i first met you, i remember you told me,
'sometimes i let the waterworks flow'
and i said 'i know exactly what you mean
because i'm an emotional guy too.'
but it turns out you meant something completely different,
you were referring more to a particular physical ailment
that you suffer from.

chorus (2x)

i'll be your tissue
blow your boogers in me
just want one wish, boo
together we'll always be

never forget

Airport

***NOTE: This was written on a cell phone, in an airport, in real time. There has been no editing.***

What is it about the airport that gets me so horny? Maybe it’s because I’ve been napping and I got some strange nap-version of morning wood. Maybe my pants are too tight and are contracting around my penis–much like a vagina. Maybe it’s redisdual horniness left over from making out with my girlfriend when getting dropped off. Maybe it’s that I’m normally not around this many people and the chances of spotting an atractive woman have increased. Maybe I’m just lucky and all the womn around me just so happen to have nice asses. Maybe its the desire to release my frustrations with the airport in a sexual way, in the bathroom stall. Whatever it is, damn, I want to fuck.

Two mega-cute black-babes sitting infront of me. The one that got up to throw away her wrapper, she is wearing hose tight jean wthout any back pockets. Damn.

the girl sitting to my right, looks a little young and has a ring on her left hand. But she,s got that “lay around in bed naked and reading a book all day” kind of look.

The middle-aged and short latin lady at the ticket counter has those juicy catour, fuzzy, fuck-me pants on. Reminds me of my ex.

the girl lookingfor a seat with her shaggy, care-free dirty-blonde hair and her spandex tights and sweater. Shit, those are some nice looking legs.

the flight attendant that’s peaking at me as I pretend to sleep and peak at her. A little tall, but that uniform. Id love to hike that skirt up. Rectal exam.

oh god. The middle aged latin woman is back. She’sstanding infront of me, back side. She’stapping her foot impatiently, making her ass jiggle in the perfect way that represents firmness and softnes. Oh shit, she’stapping both feet now.

even the chubby girl with the cute face wearing capries and a blazer. I wouldn’t mind ripping those stupid pants off in the airplane bthroom and giving her a good spanking.

What is it about the airport?

In Which a Young Chest Landers Has a Realization

If I had to choose one word to describe the effect of having a girl fart in front of me for the first time, I would characterize it as world-shattering. But luckily for you I don’t have to use just one word, I can use multiple words. Here are some more of them.

As an adolescent lad, I developed my view of girls like any other kid my age: by consuming large amounts of internet pornography and various other unrealistic media. To me, girls were these beings that walked around and exuded pure sunlight. Each of their lady parts smelled like fresh picked flowers and their feet never managed to touch the ground, for it would sully them so to have any contact with such filth. It was an immature outlook to say the least. One in which god, in his infinite capacity for doucheyness, took great pleasure in dismantling.

Girls certainly didn’t poop either. I constructed an elaborate fantasy explanation for how girls eliminated solid waste. Girls’ bodies were much more efficient in digestion and metabolizing, I theorized, and only required elimination of some sort once per year. This special time came at the same moment for every woman across the country. When the women of America felt the time drawing near, they all traveled to their nearest factory-type building in a sort of pooping pilgrimage. The factory manager arranged the women over a moving conveyor belt where they commenced to produce the world’s supply of marshmallow peeps for that year. In rare exceptions (perhaps they ate too much Indian food that year) they were allowed a second trip to the factory to help add to the supply of Christmas cinnamon buns, which everyone knows are usually produced in the dreams of kittens. I went to great lengths to convince myself that this fantasy was real. Why else didn’t they shit uncontrollably when they had two penises up there in those videos on the internet?

The first time a girlfriend farted in front of me broke me down so completely and with such vicious efficiency that I mentally aged ten years in the ten seconds it took me to process what had just happened. It was like if I was expecting a trip to Disney World my entire life but was taken instead to a live viewing of my dog being shot in the head. And at that viewing my grandfather kicked me in the balls. And then he was shot in the head. It was like my parents told me they were taking me to a wizard so I could get superpowers on my 16th birthday, but then dropped me off in a field. Full of cancer. And then I got cancer in my balls and ass. It was like my brain suddenly caught progeria from her fart.

I had a harsh realization all those years ago that girls were just the same as I was, with the same bodily functions and the same kinds of hang ups about their bodies. The magazines, the advertisements and the double penetration videos had all lied to me. Women were not these pristine temples of light filled with muffins and rainbows. They were pristine temples of light filled with poop and hair. They just looked and smelled way better on the outside than men did.

Don’t misunderstand the intention of these words. I didn’t think women were gross then and I don’t think they are now. In fact, in retrospect, that watershed moment had the exact opposite effect. I appreciate women more now than I ever could have as an immature Chestlet. Bodily functions have a way of humanizing people, instead of them remaining these objects to be held on a lofty pedestal. Farts and peeing and other human quirks and imperfections are things that bring us down to each other’s level where we can all be together in one dirty, shitty smelling group.

To My Sweetheart

Hey Cutie,

I know you haven’t asked but you know I like to think a lot.

I was taking a shower and reflecting on that one time you mentioned you might want to have a threesome with another woman when I was eating you out after we watched Zack and Miri Make a Porno. I started thinking about which friends would be comfortable enough to have sex with. Thinking of friends eventually lead me to thinking of some man friends. Then I began thinking about a threesome involving another man.

At first I thought, “Yeah, maybe. Those two-guy-one-girl pornos can be kinda hot sometimes.” I thought I could be open minded and comfortable with the slight homosexual element. And yeah, I am open minded and not afraid of another naked dude. But then I immediately became uncomfortable and decided I could not go through with it.

That might be enough to satisfy other humans; the thought that they cannot go through with something because they are uncomfortable. But it’s not enough for me. I had to analyze why I would be uncomfortable with this hypothetical threesome.

It’s because I know how men can think. I know of the dirty, disgusting, and objectifying thoughts that can run through their heads. I don’t want another man thinking about you in that way; it offends me. You’re so much more than a sexual object–I could write several things about you and your beauty, but I’ll save that for another time–and that’s how he would view you. I would probably take a swing at him, nudity, wrestling, you trying to break it up, lamps and things getting knocked over–you can hear the Yakety Sax playing, can’t you?

Then I thought of another way a man can think: one filled with passion, emotion, and feelings. Ew, so totally gross. If this man was thinking of you in this way I would get jealous, worried, insecure. I Would feel as if he rivaled me. Worried if he could steal you away. Those are feelings I would rather not have, especially when we (and someone else) are having sex.

Even though you have not asked and I have no idea if you would even be interested in this, I’m sorry; I can’t do it. I’ve been a man for far too long and I care too deeply for you.

Yours,
Maxwell

Creepy?

I’ve never done anything like this before. Well, maybe in a joking manner, but not as seriously as I just did. Today, I returned from a camping trip with a beautiful girl that I’m seeing. She looks beautiful, her personality is beautiful, she smells beautiful, she kisses beautifully–you get the point. As I was throwing towels, sheets, and my dirty clothing into the washer, I noticed some of her beautiful underwear had snuck in.

At first I wasn’t sure what it was. Some sort of snap or tie for the tent? I unfold it and realize it’s a thong. Surprised, I hold it in my hands and recall vivid and exciting memories of what this tiny piece of cloth has encompassed. Then it happened. I thought about smelling them. I doubt if I should go through with it. Why should I? What will this accomplish? And, most predominately, we were quite sweaty and dirty for several shower-less days, they may smell bad.

Ha. Her, smell bad? What an outrageous thought. I quickly smell them. Don’t get the wrong impression; I’m no professional pantie sniffer. It wasn’t a deep inhale with the underwear covering most of my face as I’m sure you’re imagining, more of a curious sniff at a curious distance. I get shivers and her pussy floods my memory. I’m hungry. Sex. Shortly after my eyes roll back into my head, I throw the underwear in with the rest of the laundry and resume cleaning.

Later, I find myself unfolding a strange, small piece of cloth at the bottom of my washer. Again, I’m slightly shocked when confronted with the symbol of sex. Prior to re-finding the underwear I was thinking of things that I must tell this beautiful woman the next time we speak. I think about telling her how I found her thong and I smelt it and liked it. And I doubt myself.

Will she find it creepy that I smelt her underwear? Will she become self-conscious and worried due to our level of uncleanliness throughout the trip? Or is it creepier not to tell her, like some sort of pantie sniffing ninja? And fuck, how creepy will she find it that I devoted several paragraphs and intense thought to the thought of telling her I smelt her underwear?

Shortly after these questions raced through my mind, I toss her thong into the dryer. I’ve decided that I’m thinking way too much about this and I will tell her when and if I feel like it. But, extrapolating these questions to everyday life and more encompassing of more situations: to confront or remain secret, which is more creepy? That is the question.

Like a Looming Black Cloud on the Horizon, of Anus

A disturbing trend is slowly sweeping the darker corners of the internet. Like a swarm of locusts rolling over a field of crops, blotting out the sun and putting tears in the eyes of innocent children, shots of men’s assholes in porno scenes are seeking to take over our senses of sexuality, one computer in a dimly lit basement at a time.

We’ve all been there. Skipping merrily along in the fantasy world you’ve created for yourself. One in which there are no bills, no work, no wives nagging you about why in the hell you never put that little plastic thing back to secure the bag of bread. IT’S JUST AS EFFECTIVE TO TWIST IT AND TUCK THE PLASTIC DANGLY END BACK UNDER THE LOAF, CHERYL, THAT’S FUCKING WHY.

For those precious few minutes, there are no concerns in this wonderful, insulating, escapist state of mind that we, as men, enter into every week, day, or hour (depending on how much free time we have). It seems like just as we settle into that final movie clip which we have deemed “the one to end on”, the director inexplicably decides to get the camera mere inches away from the male actor’s akimbo ass cheeks, thus crumbling the world we have created in a disaster not unlike the crumbling Twin Towers on 9/11.

What motivates a director to include scenes like these? I can only imagine the director’s thoughts while he’s making the movie: “Yea, this is some really hot missionary style! Shooting it from the side or from over that guy’s shoulders is totally played out and I want to go really avant-garde with the 37th edition of Clam Crammerz. Let’s put the camera on the bed, directly behind this guy’s sweaty, straining ass and hope for the best.”

Only it’s not the best. It’s the Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds, of masturbation. Every time I see a man’s anus from this angle, I feel like I’ve been wronged cosmically. I’m dirty and need to expel the evil I’ve just taken in, like John Coffee throwing up black flies from The Green Mile. I’ve reached my critical mass of anus. Please, for the future, for erections everywhere, for the children, stop showing guy’s assholes in porn.