A Short Rant Before Bed

A pathetic fuck that chased this piece of ass since summer 2003 got nothing more than a piece of my mind today. This guy who, if I remember correctly, is 28 years old, recently broke up with a girl named Alisha (not to be confused with this Alisha) who has sexual dysfunctions so serious she requires therapy. Personally, I think the only real dysfunction was the union between herself and Jonathan, the little fucker who finally got a piece of me—just not the one he wanted. With only three sexual partners under his belt, he never figured out why so few women desire him—what, with that nasally geek voice and heavy breathing, constantly trying to grab goodies no one actually plans to give him, and the genius mind of one mathematically inclined. (He is attempting a doctorate in mathematics.) To say the least, he is the kind of guy one fucks when stuck in an all-time desperate low or absurdly drunk in the way that causes amnesia the next morning. He is the kind of cunt that spends so much time with himself that he knows, and has pictures to prove, that he can balance a quarter on his cock.

And he thought I wanted to get with that? Please.

Attempting a halfway civil manner, I always played nice but never craved to fuck such a desperate prick. Though I do sometimes jump into bed with the wrong dick, or just feel so horny that I take what is available at the time, I just couldn’t muster the patience or density one needs when taking such a man to bed. I could not and would not do it. When he asked if I cared to take a visit to his place, I kindly remarked that I had some place to be at some particular time, and just couldn’t spare the time to swing by. For about six months, this kept up until he asked whether I felt anything for him. Truthfully, I told him that I did not and had no desire to fuck him whatsoever. For at least three months, I heard nothing from the stupid fuck and forgot about him completely. Then, during this summer, he contacted me again and professed the inability to stop thinking about me. In actuality, I seriously doubt that I’m all that hard to get over but you, dear reader, must keep in mind that this guy is brain dead and hopeless; such a deadly combination! Considerate of his feelings, I accepted the flattery while wishing he had done the sensible thing and lost my phone number. Not long into the brief reunion, Jonathan began asking for sex again, thinking that I would just give it to him because “that’s what I do.” Frankly, I thought it a little presumptuous to disrespect the ass he tried to coherence into bed with him, especially as he was (and still is) a pathetic fucker.

Again, with a little imagination, I blew him off at every turn with full knowledge that I would never stoop so low as to fuck him. I came up with a plan to get him off my back without getting confrontational; so, I began giving him all the possible signs that I just was not into him. If he called, I never phoned him back. When he did catch me on the phone, I never responded to his conversation because I was too busy daydreaming about killing the sick bastard. When he talked about covering me in cum from head to toe, I got repulsed at the thought. (However, when my boyfriend mentions such things, I get exceptionally horny.) Still, he would not give up nor did he seem to notice my lack of interest.

Finally, after a few months of occasionally getting a call from the cunt as he suffered through a terrible bout of arousal and had nothing more than his two hands to keep him entertained, he confronted me today.

“Is there any reason why I should keep your phone number?” he asked, the pathetic whine to his voice aggravating my nerves already.

“No,” I replied, with a flat emotionless voice.

“But why?” he asked. Again, just as honestly, I answered, “I’m just not feeling you.”

“Well, you keep saying you want to meet up with me, keep telling me to call, and then I call but something keeps coming up. Then I don’t hear from you for weeks,” he rages on.

With no expression, I reply, “Those should've been good enough signs that I'm not into you, while trying to be nice and let you get uninterested in me without being straightforward. Had I not kept your pathetic feeling and futile sexual come-ons in mind, I would have told you to fuck off a year ago. In fact, I would have furthered the favor by explaining just how appalling sad I find your sexual state, and that I never give such useless fucks like yourself the time of day.”

He stammered back, “Damn, I hate when girls are bitches,” and that was the end of the conversation.

Please, like such a weak ass line will hurt my feelings or damage my pride, especially when I consider the source—a cunt worthy of little more than the blow-up doll sex and cheap cum-pumping porno addicted existence he currently maintains.

PS: This is the 100th post here at Love Is A Cunt...I think. :)