u/crackfan666

I wake up one day, I'm black and I'm in a bad neighborhood. No family money, my parents are in the same position I'm in. Gameplan:

Corral the neighborhood for the smartest thugs. Create a team of 6-10 dudes and buy a cheap house close to work. We study martial arts and meditation to keep our high T under control. Gain entry level jobs and save money. Don't commit crimes as much as possible. Take on new responsibilities at work and gain trust due to the lack of committing crime, we all do this. Talk with each other about how traumatizing being black and sheeit is so it doesn't affect us. Pool our money and buy up the neighborhood, while converting other thugs to the idea of saving money and eating out less. Have stable family units and keep our women under control and pass these ideas on to our children. Tell other bad neighborhoods how we did it.

Then, once we own the community, and all our brothers are cops and lawyers and holding public office, me and the original gang knock over the local gas station and fuckin throw slurpee all over the floor, haha. It would be really gratifying because with a small crowd we could get away with it, and plus we could like take all our shirts off to flex and slide around in the slurpee haha

Just as girls never gave me much attention in high school, the same has carried itself into my adulthood. The common joke that NO ONE (other than Roosh V of course) understands women never made me laugh, it just made me feel inadequate. The way I think, there are men out there who have been to war, who have killed people, who have been under fire for hours at a time with a heart rate of 170, and even they struggle with women, get "divorce raped", cheated on, etc. As a perpetually skinny guy who gets hit on by potentially pedophilic gays any time I go out, I've just never felt romantically confident in myself. Ive been told that I'm "cute", which means boyishly attractive, and the only women into that are high school English teachers on antidepressants with cottage cheese ass and wicked glossy eyes.

I've only had 2 sexual experiences in my life. One was when I played doctor with the neighbor girl when I was 5, and the other was when a shemale molested me at an underground punk rock venue during a heavy moshpit.

Sometimes I get "sick", as I call it, when I desperately wish for a positive sexual experience for once in my life. Sometimes I pray to God just to be able to hold someone who wants me back, it's sick and sad, I know.

So the other day I decided to stop moping about it and actually DO something. That's when I remembered the Asian race - the race of handjobs. Luckily, living in the valley, there is no shortage of Asian salons and massage parlors. I caught an uber to a salon named "Hot Spa", that I heard about on an Internet forum of people who LIVE for Asian handjobs. A guy named "ChinkTinglez" rated the place five stars. I was excited just at the prospect of having a decent time sexually.

I went in and ordered a "full body massage", but the lady at the counter didn't understand me, so I said "four brody massrage" and then she nodded her head, confirming what I was paying for. I was then escorted to a massage table in a run-down looking corner room, nestled on the right side of a long oriental wallpapered hallway.

That's when the massage therapist came in.

She was absolutely beautiful. She had to have had some sort of surgery, I thought to myself. Why is she doing this shitty job? I should save her just like Travis saved the prostitue girl in Taxi Driver - I should blow these chinks away, they have to be holding her hostage.

I was on the table face down when she started to run down my lower back with scented oils. Then I remembered the cluster of pimples on my left ass cheek, a tight bundle of pustulating sores that have been giving me trouble for a few weeks. She got closer to them, and I could feel the deep cavern of bloody puss buckle under the pressure of her hands.

I felt hot liquid running down my ass crack, and it wasn't the oil.

She didn't seem to notice, or if she did, she didn't seem to care. She asked me to turn over, with my ass juice gleaming on her fingers. I was red hot in the face, and literally unable to speak. I was on the precipice of a potentially positive sexual experience, but at the same time, her hands were covered with bloody curdled pimple juice. I was understandably conflicted.

She put two fingers on my urethra, and I felt some of the juice slide down my peehole. I felt like I was going to throw up, but at the same time I had flutters in my heart and that comfortable burning sensation in my chest, that common sexual feeling. I was completely aroused as she began to stroke faster and faster, and the smell of the pimple juice grew and grew with the friction. How could she not smell it?

I grew more sick as I grew more sexually aroused, creating a very confusing blend between disturbia and pleasure. Then, completely out of no where, I went flaccid. 100 to Zero in mere seconds.

She looked at me with confusion, and I did the same to her. "Uh..." I said, but it sounded more like a burp than anything.

The next part will stay with me forever.

She reached underneath my ass, squeezed the cluster of pimples, then rubbed her hands together, completely lubing them in what looked like bloody lemon marangue pie custard.

This confirmed my worst fear. She was doing it on purpose! My mind rang with thoughts of what could possibly be wrong with this bitch. There's no way I could trust her anywhere near my penis or my butthole. I got up and bolted, dick out, ass naked, down the hallway and into the main area of Hot Spa, carrying my pants in my arms like a football. As I ran out the door I heard the Doppler effect, like when a car passes you, but instead with a bunch of nagging Asian voices.

I had to get into an Uber with only pants on, and the guy almost kicked me out.

This happened yesterday. I guess I'll just continue to pray to God that I find someone who wants me back. Thank you for reading.

"Kids? No, not for me you see. At twenty-three I've got my whole life ahead of me.

The turmoil and tussle of the little pitter patter would throw my whole life down the crapper.

No, a couple years more scrimping and saving and then I can think of scrubbing and bathing.

Til' then, just me! Easy, Breezy, Living Life With Me In Mind"

And so the years passed, like granules in the hour-glass. A doubt here and there, but a singular perseverance to keep her appearance. Her life was easy, breezy, filled with pleasure that came nice and briefly. Finger nails on glass brought the dopamine rush and for anything else the liquor cabinet never thought her a lush.

"So what?! Thirty-five is the new twenty. Time, I've still got plenty!

A few sour relationships don't mean anything, I've experimented enough and now I want offspring!

LOL I'm ready now to have my little bundles, plus I'm assistant director so time to quit Bumble!

Still Easy, Breezy, Living Life With Me (And my baby :p) In Mind"

Years are cruel on her once porcelain face, time spent that she can never replace. All the frivolities of life seem so pointless and absurd against the lack meaning in an existence so blurred. A dwindling flame sojourns in a soul which is now forlorn. Her femininity a cruel joke which mocks in unison with the ticking of the clock.

"You're not truly alive until you're forty-five!!! I'm thinking of in vito or maybe adoption, fingers crossed, I've still got some options!!!

I gotta admit this isn't like Cosmo said it'd be, sometimes I wanna be around someone other than just me!!!

I sometimes wonder about that trip to the clinic, why oh why was the younger I a cynic?

Just me. Easy. Breezy. Living Life With Me In Mind"

On her 50th birthday a pain so stinging and numb finally forces her to reach for the cocked and loaded gun. Cold steel tastes just swell compared to the farce of her living hell. Lead astray at every turn, her nature spurned and mocked 'till the vessel sat empty up on the dry dock. Hammer cocked, goodbye.

Chunks of of mushy viscera splash the studio walls. Her cats will eat well tonight

You should have ambition and goals because that is a positive force behind your development as a man, and everything like that, but there's something I heard him mention that many people have just mulled over.

When your kid is at school and your asian wife is out shopping with your money, you need a little alone time. You need some time to relax, readjust. Have a good breakfast, take a shower, then sit naked on your bed, Indian style. What you have to do next is recycle your wind, your natural air. Inevitably, after having a nice breakfast full of protein, you will pass gas. What you need to do is funnel your shit-air into your boomer nose. To do this, create a vortex with your hands so the gas is naturally lifted upwards, then simply inhale. The Methane from your bowels will fill your head and give you new ideas, like wearing a suit and retreading two decade old 4chan threads. Thousands of teenagers will eat up all of your diarrhea brain ideas without hesitation, boosting you into millionaire tier.

He then goes on to say that one of the best ideas he came up with by using this technique was "clean your room bucko". As you can see, this is really revolutionary stuff.

About two years ago in my junior year of highschool I finally built up the courage to ask a girl out who I'd been ogling over pretty hard since the school year started. We shared a math and English class which gave me a lot of time to stare at her, but I was never satisfied, even when I learned every intricacy of her body. One time I heard her talking to her fat friend about how much I was staring at her but she didn't say it was weird or anything she just seemed very indifferent. Her friend even said I would be kind of hot if I wasn't so short.

As the year progressed I got pretty tired of the daily monotony of driving home, running into my room, opening pornhub, jacking it to the closest likeness of this girl I could find, and then going to bed. So I resolved it within myself that I'd ask her out the next day, no matter what. I knew this one act could make or break me. I knew that if she rejected me I would fall into an even deeper depression than I was already in. It wasn't even about HER at all, it was mostly about the prospect of rejection itself. It's very easy for me to fall into a slippery slope of negative thinking.

So when the morning of my asking her out came I was understandably nervous. My heart was racing all morning before school to the point that my chest began to ache with adrenaline. I had severe diarrhea due to IBS but thankfully I woke up 2 hours early in order to deal with it. I had barely slept the night before and I was extremely scatter brained.

I finally got to school and the bell rang for classes to start. I was sitting at one of the lunch tables in the commons when I felt the cool tile beneath my feet. That's when it hit me.

I forgot to wear shoes.

My mind began to race, I was trapped. I had skipped so much school previously because of IBS that if I missed one more day I would fail my classes. I couldn't just go home and put on shoes and come back.

I got to my first class without anybody noticing my feet. I have little tiny baby feet; hairless, nicely trimmed toenails, stubby toes, fat soles. I can wear a size 6 but I wear a 7.5 just so I don't look too awkward. But now I had nothing to conceal my embarrassing feature, no shield whatsoever.

I was sitting down on my chair Indian style, trying to conceal my bare feet from the rest of my classmates, and more importantly my crush Courtney, who sat across the room. My old man English teacher walked in and immediately noticed how I was sitting. He tended to be obnoxious and often tried to humiliate students.

"Why are you sitting like that" he asked loudly. Everyone was staring at me. I had to think of a plan quickly to deescalate the situation. I grabbed the pen from my pocket and began writing on the bottom of my feet, still keeping it under my desk and concealed from my peers.

"No reason..." I said looking down and scribbling on my right foot as fast as possible.

Finally in his obnoxious way the old fart teacher screamed at me to look up at him and stop sitting Indian style.

"What is your deal this morning!?" He yelled at me again.

My heart was racing. It was time to initiate the plan, to diffuse the situation the only way I thought how. With the whole class watching on I started.

"Sir I have something I need to ask Courtney..." I said. The eyes of the classroom shot towards her and then back to me.

The teacher was sort of taken aback. "Well... what is that?"

I paused for a moment and took a breath. Then I stopped sitting Indian style and stuck my feet out together from under my desk for the whole classroom to see.

On the bottom of my feet I had scribbled "Courtney will you go out with me?" In blue ballpoint pen.

The room was hit with awkward silence as my baby feet barely poked out of the bottom of my jeans. The foot openings of my my jeans made my feet look especially small and child-like. Some kids were squinting to read the words properly, I guess the writing was small. I had a huge grin on my face trying to conceal my fear. I kept my feet in the air with my soles pointed towards Courtney while sitting on my desk.

The room was still silent. I could feel the disgust emanating from everyone in the room. Even the teacher stood motionless with his mouth open. Then his face took on a look of fatherly disappointment and he grabbed me by my arm, stood me up, and escorted me out of the dead quiet room. As I exited the room with the putter patter of my bare feet staining the air, I took one last look at Courtney.

She was crying.

Just an idea, do you think this already exists? I don’t see why current regs would disallow such a thing, almost impossible to detect. Its just a question of whether a team has come up with this concept and how viable

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