By David Futrelle
Our old friend Heartiste, the Nazoid pickup artist with the penchant for overwrought prose, has penned a short paean to the alleged joys of “going commando” — that is, not wearing underwear. It is … something.
Here’s my favorite passage, by which I mean the part of the post that nearly caused me to lose my lunch, on how much fun it is to pester women in nightclubs sans undies.
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.
Heartiste (real name James Weidmann) apparently also likes it when his balls fall out of his shorts. At least I think that’s what he’s saying here. Heartiste is such a terrible writer it’s a bit hard to tell.
Bonus exhilaration if you’re wearing loose-fitting shorts in a Miami den of iniquity, and an insolent spheroid squeezes past a sentinel seam.
And now I’ve ruined lunch for everyone, I guess.