Grind

I am sick of women trying to stimulate their box by grinding on my spear. Don’t they know what jeans will do to your helmet after several minutes of friction? I sit here today a man in pain. My Johnstone is completely raw. I met a woman last night that decided it was a good idea to use my third leg as a crotch post through denim. In case you are wondering, yes she sanded my shroom to the point of new layers of flesh. You can’t comfort that pain. It is even sensitive to air when it’s been cheese graded to a dusty pile of trouser trout. After you undergo this penile injustice, try not to shower until it scabs over, the soap burns worse than an open flame dancing around your twig. Every step I take is a raw reminder of the several layers I am missing just left of the eye. It resembles a blister than has had the skin bubble removed. It is quite disturbing to look down at Sam Benedict and view this sensitive, wet side of a split open grape wound inflicted by this hooker’s belt sander of a crotch. I did get even at the moment of truth by sealing her eyes shut with a clean shot of dry wall mud aimed at her grill.