Because you have been down there, Neo. You know that road. You know exactly where it ends. And I know that’s not where you want to be.
Yes, I have. And no, I don’t.
Vanilla is my milkshake preference. Give me a scoop of Dreyer’s Vanilla Bean on my homemade Apple Pie, and I’m in heaven. That’s where the love of vanilla ends.
I can’t imagine going back to sex without a hand around her neck. Or super-aggressive fingering until I make her squirt. Or standing over a woman and slapping my cock on her face before I hear the gagging sounds. I can’t imagine, regular old sex.
There was a time in my life I wanted nothing more than just sliding it in, thrusting away until I came.
I had no idea it could be so much better.
To me, sex is best one way: angrily executed while uninhibited passion is central to it all, and the woman feels wanted, not hated, but done in a rough and angry, almost hateful way. A series of mixed messages constantly mixing around in her head as your face beats red and you are always simultaneously doing something to her body, aggressively, like fingering her deep while you eat her, or stretching her ass with two fingers and pulling her hair while you pound her pussy, always running on full adrenaline. Bring in some toys or restraints from time to time and it’s all good and adds to the mix.
I dread if I ever have to date again the old fashioned way, for the simple reason, what if I find that girl who I absolutely Love, but she only wants vanilla? So many women who follow this blog see that in the men they have in their homes. Dead lay vanilla men. Locked into a life of passionless sex. I hear it all the time.
Fuck that. Fuck vanilla. I’ve been down that there, I know that road, and I know exactly where it ends.