Human Sexuality: The Apex Of Folly

  
   As always--my books:  King's Books!
   Never would a righteous man be incredibly intrepid enough to tame a toxic womb; furthermore, the odoriferous chemistry of pussalicious contagion enchants them not; still, myriads of mild-mannered men are caught observing PLANET OF THE APES, peeling their peckerish bananas, eager to violently thrust within a reeking vaginal cavity, not minding that yeasty cream is always an infectious possibility--the modern girl gallant enough to dangerously deny the immaculate benevolence of peppermint douche, which also promotes healthy bowel function, beyond the lip-like labia, where resides a self-cleaning oven--what hogwash.
   I imperatively urge all foolish females to meticulously douche, imbibing the bacterial inertia of Live Cultures from Greek yogurt while dreaming of John Stamos; plus, take the dietary supplement known as acidophilus pills, keeping them refrigerated for an even fresher cleanse of gregarious genitalia--women enjoy sex since the 60's, the eager exposure of the clitoris deeming them anthropologically-constructed for multiple partners.
   Why do men thunderously thirst to hungrily spread the lesser sex, hoping for wicked entrance until the demon of discharge contorts their countenance like a country singer vocally animated by facial expressions of anguish and sadistic suffering?  Where is Free Will?  Sex commands man--makes him a slave to seduction.  Hence, ask a Freudian physician to remove a testicle, crafting you more docile, or plead for chemical castration--all in altruistic hopes of dismissing ape-like lusts to lasciviously lay the pipe.  Men are morbid monsters, deconstructed spiritually by a million nagging sperm spawned daily within their sacs of eternity.   Thus, to transcend the terrible trauma of humanity outshines the admiration of your own ejaculation, denying the magnificence of a low rent Moll ornamented in talocrural region tattoos and shiny-pink pumps, wanting to be ogled by masses of men; next, ravished till stupidly squirting, as if this type of fluidic climax makes her lover the best of men.  Verily, Big Deal if men grossly glare at your buxom blessedness or hearty thighs, for men will boldly bang anything--this does not make you special ladies.  Nor does back door entry, which is similar to getting a recreational colonoscopy for kicks without the tranquil effects of conscious sedation.
   Truly, there is no Free Will save in the awesomeness of asceticism, and we are all chimpanzee-like coolies without proletarian humility unless disciplined by a cosmic conscience constructed towards a targeted lunacy of Earthly denial.  I'm guilty of being Curious George as well.
   Sincerely, Mark David King