Whaaaaaaaah?

Apparently I’m doing better than I thought.  Making the transition from an insecure young person devastated by mental illness, who was brainwashed into taking on a woman’s persona, into a happy, hot, sexy muscle guy who truly feels like a real man on the inside too, is possible.  I almost gave up several times, but I’m glad I didn’t.  I must have had subconscious faith in myself and my dreams.  I always felt so bad that I took it for granted that guys would look down on me, especially hot guys.  And the possibility of them feeling jealous or intimidated?  Wow, that didn’t cross my mind until today.  I keep forgetting that American men are masters of hiding their true feelings.  I know I did it for decades.  Why do I keep getting fooled?

My erect dick started out at 5.75 inches long.  But through a lot of perseverance with my penile enlargement exercises, I have made it to 7.00 inches on the dot.  It sticks out far now.  Guys seem to notice.  And the more fat I lose down there, the bigger it appears.  I definitely would like to make it even bigger.  It takes a long time and you have to be careful not to overdo the exercises.  But it does work, obviously.  I can’t help it.  I gotta either have a huge cock and/or get my hands on one, one way or another.  A good friend of mine has a boyfriend with an eleven inch dick.  When he told me I started to cry, no joke.  Right there in the coffee bar.  The barista gave me a free drink.  He probably thought we were talking about someone who died.  I felt sad that the guy met my friend before me.  My rectum felt sad too.  Using dildos, I calculated that I can fit 9.5 inches of whatever into my boy pussy.  That would leave about an inch and a half of wiggle room…

I got to know the eleven inch guy.  And you know what?  He’s a bit precious.  He clearly enjoys spending time with me; when he does grace me with a get-together, he opens up and we talk and have lots of fun.  But he still hasn’t returned several important text messages I sent him days ago.  Once I texted him when my car broke down.  Everyone else I knew was busy or out of town, and I was trapped in the Whole Foods parking lot–a fate worse than death.  I was surrounded by pretentious douchewads as far as the eye could see but, in their defense, two of them did help me bump start my car.  Anyway, the guy totally blew me off.  Apparently he’s moody and goes home and plays his guitar by himself for hours on end, due to him being so deep I guess.  These are classic symptoms of low self-esteem, and I fear he is depressed.  Fortunately he has my good friend as a boyfriend.  Anyway, I wonder why he doesn’t have some sort of penis-related self-esteem.  But if self-esteem were physiologically connected to one’s penis, then we both should have superhero confidence, right?  I’ve had a rather hefty seven-incher for a couple years now, but I have developed self-confidence by many other means that I do not wish to gloss over in this post.  But I shall save them for another time.

Tonight, however, this is what happened.  I met a guy on Craig’s List and we seemed to hit it off.  He said he was interested and sent me his picture.  He was a bit plump, but I didn’t mind.  I liked his crotch.  And his face was so cute!  I just wanted to meet new guys and socialize anyway.  Rejecting him for his weight was the furthest thing from my mind.  But the whole time it turned out that he was super insecure about it.  Finally, we got into an email argument over nothing, and he wrote, “And we’re finished.”  I was like, wow, so dramatic.  I wrote him back to explain that if he couldn’t handle the simplest of conflicts, then how exactly did he function at work, for example?  And that I genuinely liked him and gave him a chance.  I assumed that I would not hear from him, and I wasted my valuable time and energy on yet another ridiculously immature flake.

Then something interesting happened.  He wrote back with a lengthy tirade about how guys always find something to reject him over, and all the pain he was in over being overweight and out of shape.  I could hardly believe my eyes:

  • I know I’m not fit and handsome like you, and obviously you have your shit together and I don’t, you’re witty and intelligent, and you have a big dick–many good attributes.  I liked you too, and I was flattered that you even talked to me.  Fat, ugly, out of shape, bald me.  But there always seems to be something where when guys see me they find something to nitpick just to get out of being with a fat ugly guy.  I’m sorry, maybe that’s just my wall that I’ve built, but that’s how I feel.  I’m always on guard and probably overreact.  Okay so this is a rant–I’m sorry.

I really didn’t mind the weight.  He didn’t appear to be morbidly obese or anything like that.  I bent over backwards in previous emails to assure him that I was not concerned about his appearance.  But obviously he did not hear me.  I decided to try a different approach with my response:

  • You may be surprised to learn that I used to be overweight and very out of shape.  But I decided to change and was a personal training client for four and a half years nonstop.  I’ve been relatively hot for enough years now that I forgot what you might be going through.  But I am still over twenty percent body fat.  Guess what!  I have really thinning hair and thick red psoriasis on my scalp.  I took it for granted that fatter guys would NOT feel intimidated by me, but I was wrong of course.  I understand what you say in your email.  All guys want to be hot.  I’m sorry guys were mean to you.  Like I said, the guys who were born hot are all but worthless.  They are really horrible.  I have stories of them.  They don’t even know how to speak like a man.  I’ve met some who literally seemed retarded.  It’s crazy.  If I meet a kind hot guy I will let you know, in the mean time it’s up to the rest of us to find a way to meet and be friends and fuck I guess.  🙂

Here’s the deal.  The difference between being born hot and becoming hot later in life cannot be overemphasized.  It’s like the difference between being a native speaker of French and learning it from scratch as an adult with flash cards.  And I’m not even extremely ripped or anything yet!  But apparently, this guy assumed I have my “shit together”?  Good God, if only he knew.  I’ve been trying so hard for so many years to make up for the depth of my insecurity and perceived lacks, that I forgot to notice how far I’d come.  Native French speakers are notorious cunts, just like the hot fags who treat everyone they meet like shit, especially if you dare to have more than an ounce of fat.

Once, at college, our native French teacher’s parent’s showed up during class; they were visiting from the homeland.  The previous day this instructor, who was actually pretty nice, told us they were coming, and encouraged us to practice speaking French with them.  So, naturally, when there was a lull in the conversation, I gathered my nerve and bravely asked if they had been to any shows on Broadway.  New York is known for the theater, of course.  I thought this would be an excellent way to start.  I don’t even remember how I said it because it involved one of the past tenses–you know, Have you been to the theater, that sort of thing.  Well, the dad totally yelled at me!  He was like, NO.  We HAVEN’T BEEN to the THEATER.  One could have heard the proverbial pin drop in the classroom.  I looked at my teacher.  She looked embarrassed, which helped a little.  No wonder everybody hates these goddamn fucks.  Years later, an American French professor, who went to boarding school in France as a child, explained it to us:  they are taught by the school system from an early age to have a cultural superiority complex.  That, combined with a hefty national chip on their shoulder, makes for a pretty unpleasant group of people.  Just like the hot fags who roll out of bed every morning looking like a Greek god.

So it finally happened.  Someone out there is jealous of the forty-one-year-old guy who can’t work, pulls in a cool ten thousand dollars a year from Disability, has to live in a bad part of town, and has a hard time brushing his teeth regularly.  And all because I’ve managed to counteract my dumpy genes with several years of nonstop ass kicking in the gym to put on a few pounds of muscle.

Please continue reading at Whaaaaaaaah? II.

{>^<V}

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s