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We Listened to Every Sufjan Stevens Album and Now We Are Giving Secret Handjobs in a Cornfield

One of the many enjoyable aspects of writing for The Hard Times is being able to review the artists I love. This week, I thought it could be an interesting idea to look back on Sufjan Steven’s extensive catalog. However, what I didn’t account for was how this would lead me down a path full of handjobs framed by the backdrop of rural Illinois.

To say there has been a major shift in my life would be an understatement. Where I used to have quiet evenings spent with my wife of 5 years, I now instead lay awake with a pit in my chest every night thinking of lost lovers and the battle between trauma and recovery within a family setting. Strangely, the only thing that can take my mind off those thoughts, is sharing intimate moments with hundreds of anonymous gay lovers.

More specifically their magnificent penises.

When you consume 15 straight hours of beautifully crushing harmonies being whispered over a gentle yet persistent, piano melody, you reach a point where the only thing you need in life is a man named Anton to make passionate eye contact with you while you absolutely crank his hog to completion. I don’t know what it is about Stevens’ delightfully haunting lyrics that speak to my boner, but they truly do. I have never felt both as religious and horny as I have since doing this deep dive into Stevens’s catalog.

Is this just who I am now? Will I ever be satisfied with anything other than gobbling a knob while surrounded by sturdy and steadfast stocks of Illinois corn? I don’t even live in Illinois. I flew here for the sole purpose of sharing tender sexual moments in a cornfield.

 

An overwhelming feeling of peace has washed over me. A peace that feels like terror. Is this newfound peace dependent on moments of the flesh? Is that what I now gage comfort by? This is what scares me. I may never be able to shake this. I must accept that this is me now. A married man who can not stop giving passionate handjobs in the cornfields of rural Illinois. This is a sad outcome, but the sadness just fuels my craving for my flesh to be pressed against another man’s chest.

Anyway, I give Sufjan Stevens’ catalog a 6.5 out of 10.

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