Everything You Know About the Man in Woman’s Erotica

I have a super evil growl that can be heard from 56 states away. MEOW!

My entire vocabulary is made of adjectives. Wet, wanton, seething ones.

My cock is as hard and thick as a truncheon, but don’t ask me to tell you what that is. I’m only smart enough to use synonyms. If I could talk in similes I’d be in a Sylvia Plath collection, not in this smut post.


I’m a genius at pussy eating. So respected are my talents that it takes me two hours to inspire a fake orgasm. Uh… wait. That’s the smut writer’s ex-boyfriend, not the dude in her smut. In that case, I inspire millions and gazillions of orgasms just by looking into her eyes. She’s never squirted before, but that’s because she’s never seen my eyelashes, which are wet and wanton enough to fill an entire thesaurus.

I can count backwards even though I have an IQ of 60. Five. Four. Two. Three. One.

I look almost exactly like Jamie Dornan. Wait… Holy shit! I *am* Jamie Dornan. Awesome.

My penis has 12 different names, all of which are euphemisms. I’m starting to wonder if I’m Catholic.

I’m super proud of the amount of semen my lustful, wanton manhood can produce: infinite, streaming buckets of the stuff. You could basically make an entire bukake clip with my orgasm alone.

My cum tastes like honey. Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t write this shit.

I’m into three kinds of kinky sex: the missionary position, blowjobs, and pussy eating, all of which I perform while flexing my left forearm for some reason.

I think glitter is a part of my daily diet because my skin always glistens.

I could balance a mug of coffee on my erection if I wanted to. I don’t want to, though, because I’m too busy growling and flexing this forearm.

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