My American concubine gives me everything I need. She is sexy, soothing, and so so sweet. I like the way her nails scratch my scalp. How she traces the shell of my ear and whispers that I am loved. that I am good. that she is grateful. that I am God. There is something deliciously subordinate in her nature, and that is why she is the perfect woman.
My American concubine marks my temples, forehead, and the front of my neck with kisses as I cup the soft flesh of her hips. She bends over when I tell her to, and vows to always be by my side. Those who speak ill of me, she will deal with herself. I cannot imagine how. But there was once I reached into her bedside drawer, grasping/patting/pinching for a condom and lightly grazed something cold and hard. The barrel of a gun? Of course, it doesn’t mean it was a real one. She’s into freaky stuff.
Can you believe that for my birthday (May 14th), she gifted me with homemade GBU-39s, MK-84s, and BLU-109s? Better than some cheap, from-the-box cake and grocery store candles. She reassures me that 300 children deserved to die—they were unsalvageable. And it was basically like shooting a crippled horse. My American concubine is Sleepy Joe flashing his veneers. Musk nazi saluting. Trump on a Truth Social rampage. My American concubine is the University: Columbia-Harvard-Notre Dame. My American concubine is