It started about four months ago. I was home alone, trying to recover from a long work stretch and I thought that a good wank might be in order. But when I opened up my laptop I was devastated to find that the wifi was out. In a half-hard panic, I scrambled around my room for some kind of magazine or even that Sweetwater catalog that had that kinda hot boom mic operator in it. Then I remembered the copy of Yellow & Green I stole from my last girlfriend. Unfortunately, now I can’t get off without several layers of symbolic imagery. Help!
There’s just something about a topless woman cutting a swan’s throat with a knife that really does it for me. It started to become my go-to cranking material. I bought Red, Blue, and Purple too. Then I pulled my pud until it was red, blue, and purple too.
I couldn’t get enough. The imagery and symbols really started to take me to new autoerotic heights. I couldn’t get enough. My first trip to the Philadelphia Museum of Art went smoothly. It was cold so no one questioned my oversized trench coat as I stood, hunched in ecstasy, in the “Symbolism of the Late 19th Century” exhibit. It was like being in the Playboy Mansion, but instead of Hugh Hefner showing me around it was Klimt, Moreau, and Munch.
Before I knew it, I was banned from every art museum in town. And as much as I’d like to indulge in this new kink in the privacy of my own home, Pornhub has yet to add a visual metaphor filter to its search engine. I heard there’s a new Baroness album in the works, so I can at least look forward to that. Hopefully, there are some she-wolves and poppy flowers on it.