My girlfriend told me I made love like a comfortable machine. According to her I was predictable, mechanical, and cold.

“The missionary position isn’t the only way to skin this cat,” she would tell me in her nagging and degrading patterns. Yet, only a glimpse of a much larger pattern that used to emerge between her possessive squeal and my boring atrocities. Neither of us could barely cope with the redundant plot. Nor, the taunting symptoms of our personalities that buzzed around our relationship like flies would to a dead sticky missing person.

Our love affair was like a permanent citizenship to a hostile nation of wonder, run by daily feelings of dread and lust. And among all of the repetitive tension and dissatisfaction neither of us could gather up enough strength to leave the other.

I think it was the depression we both suffered from. It forced us to desperately need a host to survive like an excellent parasite would. We were both terrified of our own shadow and the allegory that castrated it. We were both disgusted with our brains and the faulty wiring that consoled it.

She and I both viewed the antagonistic world through a filter of deceit, sort of like wearing a pair of obsessive glasses that would mutate each conspiring image. That depression was an exhausting appointment, the kind where you could spend a lifetime in a tacky euthanasia waiting room.

With each violating poke she became more and more animated in pleasure. She was so aroused that I thought maybe she had mistakenly turned the faucet on or, maybe something weirder, like the lubricating apparatus in her pussy had cracked in invasion, because a deep population puddle began forming at our feet.

The unusual biological spill of our intimacy would prove to have a promising affect on our mental illness. While she was wallowing and lost in the atrocious motion of my hips and I was hypnotized by her wild acceptance of my cock neither of us noticed that the toaster oven was teetering on the edge of the countertop. Until finally, it must of dropped into the puddle at our feet causing us both to retreat into an unconscious thrill of Electro Shock Therapy in the Comforts of Your Own Home.

When me and my girlfriend woke up from our Freudian slumber, we both agreed we felt a sensation that we had never experienced before, and it was suggested by her that it might possibly be happiness, and I agreed. Our depression was gone!

This afternoon, all of this changed in a clumsy act of inadequacy. I returned home from the pharmacy where I was picking up my monthly supply of antidepressants and she was doing the dishes in her iron skirt. My libido agreed that this would be the perfect opportunity to change her opinion of my boring sexual participation in our insect relationship. I crept behind her and began licking her surprised neck. With my right hand, I positioned her body into an eloquent Heimlich Maneuver position. With my left hand, I lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties and like an erotic chef, prepping the most distinguished ingredient of her reproductive parts. My fingers were soft spider legs probing around the mysterious folds slowly searching through the vast and delightful disease of her cunt in hopes of finding that secret location I had always been unsuccessful at finding. Unbelievably, she began to leak slowly and I laughed to myself because all I could think of was the broken radiator in our car.

I eventually inserted my cock into her astonished her pussy. She expressed her joy and disbelief towards my unexpected behavior in various celluloid moans. Her response inspired a new carelessness and brutality to my performance. It encouraged me to thrust with more and more violence.