Hi, my name is Male.

"Excuse me man, would you happen to have a crotch I could invert?"

"Excuse me?"

"Some guts. Do you have some guts I could beat?"

"Are you referring to what I think you are referring to?"

"If by "referring to" you mean me inserting my penis into your vagina and performing the act of copulation then yes, I want to beat your guts and invert your crotch"

*slizzap*

Dear me. I am experiencing a tingling sensation in my crotch area. No, my pipes aren't dirty and I'm not on any radical medications. This is the feeling of desire. Nature's insidious curse upon the male race. Yet I would like to believe, in every respect, that this fire burning within me is something to be proud of. Members of the male special sure act proud. Afterall, we are men, filled with testosterone and insatiable desires, driven to conqure curvacious fronts that smell like roses and fresh shampoo. But there is a bleak side to this driving force. A side that only shows its true face when we are naked and beating off in the shower. We're just junkies looking for a fix. When it comes down to it, my mind body and soul owes its undying allegiance to my penis.

And being one who was once fond of inebriants myself, I've come to understand a thing or two about desire. It's fucking distracting yo. So I sought to rid myself from as much of it as possible. I kicked my old habits and forced myself to do things I didn't quite want to do, thinking that the contrast and humility would bring me happiness and contentment. I did small but enjoyable things, like going out for coffee with a good friend, or learning to savor the delight of a good book. Afterall, simple kicks bring great joy, correct? Nope, still wanna motherfuckin poke a bitch.

I am a slave with no Harriet Tubman to offer me her tunnel.