So? Do men really think about sex all the time???

October 10, 2005 by NML

Let me ask you this. Is the desert sandy? Is snow cold? Do monkeys like the little diapers we put on them? Exactly, now you have your answer… yes, men do constantly think about sex, but it’s not because we’re dirty horny little bastards that want to spend our entire lives in between the thighs of some femme fatale. Well no, to a degree it is that. But there is more to it then the warm and soothing feeling of a well you know what… though not much more.

And here it is. Back in the day, oh I’d say sometime around 1977 when humans lived without the modern necessities, i.e. iPods, DVD players, Mobile Phones, and that thing called the Internet, men’s prime purpose was to run around and stick our little guys into pretty much anything that would mate with us, this behaviour as some anthropologists put it was to replicate en masse, preserve the gene pool, blah blah, yadda yadda… if you really want to read up on this topic, this dude apparently he had a few things to say about it. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_darwin So. As we matured as a race in those twenty-eight years since 1977, these natural traits have not left us, and us men still want to stick our little guys into anything willing to let us, that’s not to say we don’t care about you, we just can’t help it. But… yes there is a but.
But, that’s not the whole story; there is of course the other angle to this entire male obsession with … well… the quivering mound of love pudding, and actually with women as a whole, in the whole (oops sorry bad pun).
You see, if women went around wearing burqa’s all day long I don’t think it would be as bad as it is. But when you’re standing there on the subway platform at eight thirty in the morning, and you see some fine ass baby breathing heavily because she just ran down the stairs to catch the train that just pulled away that very second, her boobs moving up and down with each breath, a little trickle of sweat running down her face, and her lips plush red from the blood in her head. I mean what the hell do you expect… that’s just hot. I mean not only do we have that whole genetic predisposition problem, but add this to the equation and… well… girls, ladies, madams, the next time your man turns into that vile creature that wants to possess its pray and ravage it over and over until it subdues in a fit of great passion and fall asleep without talking to you, realize (or if you’re thug, recognize)… it’s not completely his fault.
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