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I’d Be Your Fuck Toy All Over Again
Sex, Fucking, Love I Prefer Fucking
Have you ever noticed how the air gets heavy, almost thick with sticky hypocrisy, whenever the conversation veers into sex, real desire, those relationships that dare to dance to a different tune than the one society keeps playing?
It’s a love fest, like it’s the only star in the sky, and sex?
Oh, sex is just a passing comet, a barely noticeable detail.
But what if I confessed to you, eye to eye, that for me — and for a legion of other brave souls who don’t shrink away — sex, that kind of fucking that makes you vibrate to your core, is as essential, as vital, as that romanticized bullshit they’ve been shoving down our throats since we were in diapers?
I’m sick of this prissy talk, this act that we’re all little angels searching for our other half to take hand-in-hand strolls at sunset.
Fuck, some days all we want is to get fucked.
And in style, with a side of foreplay that leaves us drooling and a climax that makes us forget our own names.
Forget the sermons and the pointing fingers.
