Two Vagnettes From The American Sexual Market

I experienced two unfolding events in one day recently that imo are microcosms of the American sexual market.

Scene 1:

A car was pulling out of a parking garage and for a second the driver didn’t notice a woman pedestrian walking in front of his car until his bumper was almost at her knees. He braked about a foot short of grazing her. She whirled around and, flush-faced, yelled at him to watch what he was doing. He gave the universal non-verbal cue of culpability for a driver misstep — shoulder shrug, head dip, and hands up palms facing outward — but this wasn’t enough penitence for her, and she slapped the hood of his car while yelling ‘fuck you’.

This was an outburst too far. The driver, a pudgeball-faced White dude, rolled his window down a little to yell back ‘hey don’t hit my car you crazy bitch’. The woman, a White, manjawed 30-something who if looks are anything to go by was not ((())), had stomped ten feet away from the car, cursing like a drunk sailor the whole time as families with little kids strolled near. The driver’s impudence reignited her rage, and she whisked around once more to launch into him, a fusillade of “fucking dick”s flying from her piehole.

Then, amazingly, she PUT UP HER DUKES and challenged the man to fight her. AN ADULT MAN. “Why don’t you get out of that car and say that to my face, fucking ASSHOLE”, or words to that effect. Her bony cheeks had deepened to a burgundy hue and she was rocking back and forth on her post-workout sneakers, ready to Amazon Prime drone those hands. She looked every bit the crazy bitch the driver called her. Much screaming and breast-thumping later, coupled with the growing risk she would try to kick out his car’s headlamps, the driver rolled up his window, flipped her the bird, and zoomed off, a final victorious BITCH carrying on his exhaust fumes.

She seethed and as I walked farther away from the scene of the gine I could hear her F bombs reverberating down the street. I remember thinking, ‘that bitch has more testosterone than half the men I know’.

Scene #2:

Not more than a few blocks from aggrocunthighTgirl, I had an opportunity to uncrinkle the lingering disgust etched on my face from bearing witness to a manjawed psychoplath chimping out like a ghetto thug. Turning a corner, I found myself walking behind a vision in a powder blue felt sundress that stopped just below the cutaneous crease demarcating ass from leg, the kind of dress that clings softly to the skin, dipping into valleys where erogenous splits in womanly flesh funnel to downy furrows. The bottom of the dress imitated a lily-lipped bell, which amplified its impact on my horny level, and my thoughts drifted to a stiff breeze catching the parabolic fabric in an upward draft, revealing the snapper clapper inside.

From her tiny, thin waist bobbled a magnificently round ass, and her tits must have been spectacular because I caught a corona of side boob from the back. I tried not to look directly at it, using a mirror instead. She was tall and shapely, a hot rod of pure hourglass humdingery, wavy flaxen hair running riot over her entire back, framed by bare arms of the most delectable peaches and cream hue. I walked closer, thinking this was a va va vooman I had to impose my will upon, or at least had to see if her face was as inspiring as her body.

I wouldn’t have to bother. She heard a voice calling her name and turned toward the direction of its origination, which came from behind me, thus giving me a full view of her otherworldly visage…..

which, by my calculation, was the face of a 14 year old girl.

The discovery did nothing to thwart my emerging boner, but it did give me a bit of a queasy feeling somewhere nestled in the higher cognition modules of my brain.

The voice belonged to her cow mother, who shambled to her daughter’s side and took her arm, French-style, and they walked quickly away in another direction. I saw no father with them.

Two vagnettes, in my mind, so emblematic of our liberated sexual market. A pugilist city spinster with a man-hating chip on her Crossfit-carved shoulder, and a sexpot teenager whose mother had probably paid for the sexy clothes that would make her daughter look like a much older sophisticated slut.

Woman living vicariously through man, mother living vicariously through daughter. I living vicariously through myself. Pepe strokes his green chin knowingly.