They may have lost, but we knew that was going to happen. They just couldn’t make their shots, and they weren’t taking enough of them. They knew that they were through. That last game was their chance to survive, and they didn’t. This was the moment where the enemy’s will overtook ours, and we experienced our last suffocated moments as the enemy raped our surrendered body into a corpse.

I should have stayed until the end, but I let myself leave. Gor-don Hay-ward chants filled the stadium. The fans want him to stay. I want him to stay. I don’t know what I’ll do if he leaves. I don’t know if I’ll keep watching. I’ll be devastated. I wish I would have stayed. I would have chanted with the rest of the audience. I would have liked to have been surrounded by the chant. I’m connected to Hayward at a soul level, and he is the soul of the team.

I was out on the porch vaping. There was toilet paper on my dick. It fell off and blew down into the courtyard. Both my wife’s cum and mine were on the toilet paper. Some dog will probably eat it.

Back inside, my right hand, like a relentless and bedraggled horseman, hops back on my penis and wraps its spidery limbs around the pulverised girth, taking another run at clearing my pipes, chugging into a picture that I took of my wife’s twin on the trail, in a sleeveless sports top with a pink sports bra underneath. In the background, I have a video running of a cam girl, whom I have never seen naked before today. She’s squirming around the tips people are feeding her Lush device, moaning and speaking with a Brazilian accent, the television in front of her showing a couple of shirtless hunks plunging their butts and rubbing their chests together, giving the cam girl a sunset of her own to rub into.

I should really be in bed but find myself cumming again after stumbling upon an article in Uproxx that highlights Carrie Coon. I search her name nude in an incognito video tab, and the first result is a sex scene featuring her and Justin Theroux from The Leftovers, season 01 episode 07. It’s the first time that their characters have been intimate, and there’s a moment where Justin Theroux’s character hesitates, his face being zoomed in on, a look of consternation on it as he contemplates whether or not he should proceed. His wife has separated from him to become part of a white wearing, cigarette smoking cult that doesn’t speak, and Carrie Coon’s character has been suffering through the whole series because her family was taken from her during the rapture. This is both of their first moments of moving on.

Carrie Coon releases Justin from the moment by moving up and down on his cock, causing Justin to smile, continue, fall forward into Carrie, and finish.

I have to watch the video a few times, studying its peaks and valleys, before I allow myself to cum, but even after all of my warming up, I miss the mark. Justin’s face is on the screen as I’m tensed up, jizzing, watching through the side of one eye, with my jaw locked, not wanting to look at Justin, but also not wanting to miss the primetime shot of Carrie that I’ve been saving up for.

I don’t want to be gay. Justin seems like a good guy, but I don’t want to look at him that way.

What’s so wrong with it, asks the Preceptor. You would advance if you allowed yourself to cum to both men and women, transgender, children, animals, and your relatives.

Considering the possibility, Justin becomes less than good enough for me. I know others who don’t respect him as an actor, and I’m finally seeing it for myself. There’s not much to him. He’s not worth my first gay orgasm. He’s stiff, lifeless, and dumb. I need someone who can rise me up in class as well as progressivism, someone that I’d be proud to call my own. I’m not talking about a Carrie Coon, though she’s fine. I’ve fucked myself to enough women to make each individual one not so important as the grand collective. Losing your virginity opens up a whole new can of worms. It sets a standard. You’ve got to be a little choosy when selecting your figurehead. It’s a matter of making history.


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