The way you describe your devotion to Spite Transylvania's girlcock is honestly quite moving. It's poetic in its futility. What a beautiful tragedy this could be!
Spite Transylvania’s lollipop theory haunts me. It’s like a gay thought I can’t purge.
I keep imagining the perfect girlcock—like five inches of transvagical spite. I’d worship it, write manifestos about it, maybe even start a cult. But mostly I just jerk off to the idea and cry about my mortality. Fuck, man. Spite Transylvania, why’d you do this to me? It’s not just about the dick, you know? It’s the whole package—the spite, …