As any man who’s been with a number of women will tell you, every woman has a bad day down there occasionally. It isn’t an STD issue (unless you are screwing a conspicuous skank). It might be diet or her cycle or the flu or incomplete showering, women just have those days when they aren’t as “fresh” in their doodle-cave. The musty, organic smell, to a normal man’s nose, is unmistakeable, and quite nauseating — like a devil’s recipe of Roquefort cheese, sweaty armpits, compost and ear wax. If she hasn’t thoroughly scrubbed her ass crack clean, the shit smell on top of everything else will make your stomach turn.
Needless to say, this is bad for the boner business.
I had been with a girl for a couple months, and she was turning out to be everything I aim for in a lover — sweet-natured, averse to attention whoring, cute, well-groomed, eager to please (in all ways), charmingly affectionate, supportive, compassionate, apolitical, anti-feminist (in action if not necessarily in claimed beliefs), socially adept with my friends, able to slow down and enjoy life without feeling that incorrigible SWPL urge to “do something”, and a damned fine cook. And her cooking wasn’t the equivalent of the TV dinner especiales; she used ingredients in her food. Bonus: I never once saw her wear flip-flops.
One evening, after a very good home-cooked meal, we tumbled into bed. She liked to finish up doggy style, reveling in the complete surrender of her body to my animalistic poundings. The lights were low, but not so dim I couldn’t feast my eyes on the action. Soon after raising her buttocks to accept my divining rod, a pungent odor hit me square in the nostrils with such force that my head jerked back and to the left. Stifling a reflexive “phewf”, I gamely tried to recover my senses without interrupting my rhythm, but quick as my head turned back and my eyes focused on the penetration below, another wave of the most rank effluvium attacked my nose. I pretended it was a stray waft from outside — perhaps a garbage truck had just rumbled by? — but when my eyes began to water I realized the source of the hell odor originated in the very hole (holes?) my dick was sabotaging.
I was near climax, so there was no point stopping now. What excuse would I use? “Oh, babe, I have to stop. Your vagina stinks so bad I’m choking over here.” Or perhaps I would say it in Elizabethan English, to add a dash of romance to an otherwise morbid turn of events: “Oh, m’love, I must cease. Your nethers usher forth an odoriferous assault so breathtaking in its impudence my manhood doth reclaim its softness.”
You want to eviscerate a woman’s ego and scar her for life? Offer some lame excuse for disengaging from her pussy just before you, and her, are about to cum. Say “Um, hey… gotta take a break. I’m feeling a little queasy. Probably the Mexican I had” right as her moans of ecstasy peak. Extra ego-smashing points if you pull out semi-soft.
Since I did not want to eviscerate her ego, this option was right out. I had to see this through, and fast, before my boner was gone. I redoubled my efforts and concentrated on the sound of my balls slapping against her slippery mons. I say “sound” because by this point I was looking up and away at the ceiling, pinching my nostrils shut with my left hand and counting the spackle nubs in the paint job. I dared not look down at the action for fear that I would forever associate the rancid smell with my lover’s vagina. Call me a romantic.
For about twenty seconds, it worked. With the increased nostril distance from her privates, the smell became tolerable. Not acceptable; just not as bad as shoving my face in a well-used tray of kitty litter.Â My gagging stopped and I could take small inhalations for life sustenance in between my lengthy exhalations. Unfortunately, habit got the best of me and I glanced down to savor the visual of meaty intrusion.
Big mistake. As before, the smell crushed my face. Even worse, I began to embrace my masochism and spent an inordinate amount of time examining her ass crack and taint. Against my better judgement, I gingerly… cautiously, ever so cautiously… spread her ass cheeks. The light was ambient, but I could see details well enough to note, surprisingly, for the first time, just how dark and mysterious her womanly furrow revealed itself to be. Shadows danced in the Mariana Trench twixt her glutes, and twilight fell like a pall over her taint and labia. My cock shaft, clear as day as her youthfully fresh lube glistened on it, simply disappeared into the murk of some unfathomable abyss of wombness.
Now well acquainted with the stink and unmoved by prudence, I moved in closer to discover… what? the holy grail? smurfs at play?…, a glimpse of what it was that inhabited the dark place, but her Crack of Shadows denied me illumination. For a second, I thought my ears and eyes played tricks on me as I heard a rustling that one might hear from a grove of cattails in a windstorm and I saw a fleeting sight of black squiggles thick and luxurious like a jungle canopy. But just as quick, the visions were gone, and I was left there pistoning like a robot, hypnotized by the siren smell of the inscrutable, ink black crevasse swallowing my cock whole.
My eyes now red with the stinging nettles of her vagcloud, my breathing reduced to staccato gasps, I relinquished the usual victory to my rapidly deflating cock, and decided to beat a hasty exit before she noticed the flaccidness and spend the next few weeks questioning her attractiveness to me. (“Do you think I’m fat?”, and its various permutations, swiftly becomes old after the 100th iteration.) One last deception up my sleeve — one I don’t use except under the direst of circumstances. I withdrew my 1/2 full member, mimicked a few groans of completion, and loogied a warm globule of spit, Beavis and Butthead style, onto her right ass cheek. It dribbled down her hip. Before she could examine the evidence, I grabbed a nearby towel and wiped her off.
“Big, wet load that time!”, I lied.
“Yes, baby. Come here, I want to snuggle.”
We snuggled, my nose pressed hard into her pillow, relieved of duty.
As we lay there, I made a solemn mental vow to call the girl I had met in a furniture shop a week earlier. She was sexy and smiley, and likely a bit slutty. Her red dress danced the tango in the cottage of my mind.
Guilt? I felt some. Here was sleeping next to me, by most men’s measure, a catch. A girl you take home to mom. A girl for the long haul. She was the good girl in nearly every way. But that smell… so unforgettable. If her pussy was an Etch A Snatch, I wanted to shake it clean, start over. Everything she gave and all the great feminine characteristics that are so important to me, I was ready to throw away in an instant because of a visceral reaction to an unfortunate, and temporary, body odor. When would the odor be back? I didn’t want to find out. Did I care that I might walk away from a real gem? Abstractly, yes. Emotionally, no. If I didn’t have the ability to go out and meet new women, and to bed them with relative ease without needing a marriage contract, I might think twice before cutting and running on a woman with a heart of gold but an asscrack of dubiousness.
And what guarantee that the next girl wouldn’t have the Crack of Shadows? Crack to crack to crack… my eternal search continued. Relentless. Uncompromising. Unwise.
We talk a lot here, justifiably, about the feral nature of women’s drives and desires, and how such knowledge is ignored if not outright censored by the larger society in the interest of promoting beta male (and to a lesser extent, alpha male) obeisance. The Chateau, a house of thrill repute, acts also as a foundation of change, of enlightenment, and of power, that will bring balance to the force, a balance long denied in the West and bursting with the will to reclamation.
But we should remember that men have an animal nature, too. And while women’s wild sexual energies are more dangerous to civilization if left untamed and unbroken, men’s sexual energies can be a force for destruction and dissolution as well. The man with sexual options, (not many by any reasonable account, but enough to make a difference), when left to his own devices and free from social stigma or peer punishment or self-imposed female chastity, can rampage through a harem of pussy before the typical beta male with his steady paycheck and doting attentiveness has even fapped to the first dribbles of pre-cum. If you think this is the way to a prosperous nation, I invite you to look at these two pictures:
I called the red dress girl. Her crack was better. Because it was new.
This entire post, while true, served a dual purpose as parable of the current political climate and the electorate at large.