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last week i had a one time thing with this girl from my advanced poetry writing class. it was pretty good, for me. i don't know that she enjoyed it quite as much, but i also don't care. i went down on her for almost a half hour, so i felt no remorse whatsoever when i grabbed her hands and held them back while i plunged my dick repeatedly down her throat. afterwards i said i thought she was into it. i didn't really expect to think any more about it.

but last night in class she read out loud. her poem was a sickeningly graphic description of the horror she endured at the hands of my cock. i squirmed in my seat as i listened to her words. i choked down my own vomit as she vividly recreated the scene, her feelings, my own sick, silent fury. i could see in her poem a picture-perfect reflection of my own monsterosity. i felt the whole class staring at me. they all knew how disgusting and pathetic and afraid i am inside. when the poem ended, the professor asked me first what i thought of it. i have no idea what i said...

after class she approached me and asked me if i was doing anything later. i said i was busy and went home.

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Simp-light, Poor Man's Simp, Straight-to-Video Simp, etc., etc.

Listen, B.M., even Simp struggles to pull off Simp nowadays, what makes you think you can do it?

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to me, i'm doing something totally different. also, not having been around that long, i can't really compare simp's older work to now, but i personally find his windsock persona very interesting. his commitment to the character is to be commended.

also, all of this is true. i am adrift. where's the compassion, preverts?