You are a miserable piece of shit. A slimy, corn-studded turd without feelings. You drew me in with a sob story of your shitty childhood, your divorce, and your bipolar disorder. I was at the lowest point of my life, and you took advantage of that, assuring me you understood my pain. I was starving, and you were there offering me a crumb. I blindly accepted it, not realizing that you were really a womanizing sociopath. I risked my marriage and family. When the fog cleared, I saw you for what you really are: a fat, depressed loser with nothing to his name but desperation, loneliness, and material things he can't afford.

I must tell you that when you were fucking me for that one week in April, I had to sometimes open my eyes to make sure I was not being fucked by a rutting moose. Your grunts and groans were a major turnoff, and the only way I could actually reach orgasm was to think of my husband. You think you are a swinging bachelor and a hot lover, but it was only my dirty fantasies that gave me those multiple orgasms, not your strangely shaped pencil-thin dick. recommended