Won’t you graze thigh free ball yeah
How have I been so remiss to have never discussed this topic before? Free-balling — going commando — is an effective means of fortifying your Inner Game and of projecting that ZFG Martin Shkrelli-esque jerkboy entitlement that beguiles goils.
When you’re strutting through public throngs and antifa freak shows with only a character-building starchy denim preventing your cock from raping the world, you can’t help but feel like a pussy slayer and renegade from the stifling soul prison of our globohomo corporatocracy.
It’s even better to let your boys breathe easy at night, in steamy ova-scented bars and clubs. There’s nothing quite like the exhilaration of approaching and chatting up a hot chick while unbeknownst to her your half-chubbed meat sniffs around her twat trench through one precarious layer of fabric stretched to its absolute restraining limit.
HODOR! HODOR! HOLD THE HAMMER OF THOR!
Bonus exhilaration if you’re wearing loose-fitting shorts in a Miami den of iniquity, and an insolent spheroid squeezes past a sentinel seam.
Going commando means taking command of your environment. When you free-ball, girls won’t miss that mischievous smirk that tells them you are hiding secret knowledge, something delicious and naughty that would scandalize wilting flowers. Plus, free-balling is a bedroom accelerant. Take her home, strip off clothes, she gasps as your falling jeans reveal fruit minus the loom, and wonders if you were expecting her surrender all along, an expectation which she will happily oblige.