Rating: NNNNN
Let me introduce to you to the most malleable, creative, shape-shifting magic man you will ever meet. In my 35th year of narcissistic torture on this planet, this dude has rescued me heart and soul and put me to restful slumber on a lazy afternoon after a week of other people’s cruelty and workplace nonsense. He never judges my jellied body, but only sees luscious perfection. It’s like he reads my mind and does what he needs to do in the moment, honouring my every secret whim. He is a godsend, and sometimes, if a girl-on-girl mood persists, he will transform himself into an arrogant pushy know-it-all-dyke who’s cheating with me on her hippy girlfriend. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you the tireless B.O.B. (battery-operated boyfriend). There came a point after many games and power struggles with actual humans when I had no other choice but to engage with a vibrator – a magenta, purring $20 gift of joy!
B.O.B. does not share one iota of venomous histories about the ex-gal pal who looked like a goth version of Vanna White and raided his bank account to pay off her student loan while complaining incessantly about his breath. B.O.B. does not pity himself he is stoic, a fatalist, maybe at times a little boring. (I mean, the dear thing is a mute.)
However, B.O.B. is a prince amongst men, without a trace of any phobia. He does no evil unless I impose it upon him. And I must say that while I enjoy his princely charms, once in a while I do like it immensely when he behaves like a total pig. Here is one of his monstrous personas that gets me off on a sad Toronto afternoon.
B.O.B. is an ultra-conservative 50- or 55-year-old RCMP or CSIS cop whose wife back in Kenora trusts him with all her heart, making a fine home with pride-stirring progeny for him to come home to. Problem is, he needs a bit of downtown alternative bad-grrl action to feel randy and awake again.
I am someone he wishes he could arrest and then rape after-hours in her jail cell. He makes me feel like some type of Squeaky Fromme sexual plaything, or, if you prefer some Canadian content, Ann Hansen from the Squamish Five. (I created him from someone I met during a freelance investigative job I did once. I was amazed at how attracted I was to this middle-of-the-road watchdog for Ontario’s rich and bland.)
Next in the adventure, he scours a list relating to a common event we both attended to get my e-mail address. He investigates my whereabouts and, abracadabra, arrives at my door. He makes no apology for his obtrusiveness, forcing his way into my home, laughing at the feminist books and objets d’art scattered about. He insults my mess, as I could never ascend to the sanctity of his wife’s earnest homemaking. I pitch a catty remark right back. He shoves me into my bedroom, strips off the trousers he bought at Moore’s (the suit people) and forces his massively thick and erect cock in my face.
He has a huge, huge belly, like a typical cop would, hanging low enough but not stealing the show from his angry red manhood. He is a thick white bulldog on the brink of a cholesterol meltdown.
I feel some pity for him along with a touch of intimidation, so I oblige. He has no respect for my throat’s capabilities and just keeps ramming himself further. I could throw up. He decides to change his tactics and tears off my panties with his teeth to violently devour my pussy, just to make it wet enough so he can speedily enter into my tight crevice.
His excitement mounts as he watches my discomfort and confusion. He focuses on my face as he finishes his business once and for all. Then he’s on his merry way into the taxpayers’ chariot, his Chrysler. Goodbye, and I hope never to see you again.
And that’s just one of B.O.B.’s incarnations. One of his lingering benefits is that you don’t have to engage in a psychically disturbing entanglement with someone like this in real life, who is probably a powerful and abusive contributor to a worsening society.
See, B.O.B. has just saved years of recovery as well as providing some great nap-time fun. Last perk to remind you of? I didn’t have to compliment an actual man, make small talk or make sure that my smarts didn’t threaten his lack thereof.
Now, who might be the next persona?
Gabrielle Dormande is a pseudonym.
