Platform: Fucked-Up Fantasies

Recently, my ever-horny BFF Sarah decided she wants to be “raped.” Previous fantasies of Sarah’s include having sex with a senior citizen, having a threesome with a married couple and fucking a blind guy (which I’m pretty sure she stole from me). But the problem with Sarah is (aside from the fact that her vagina probably looks like downtown Baghdad), when she really wants something, she finds a way to get it. This is why I’m slightly worried about her current mission to be violated to the nth degree.

If you ask me, rape fantasies are so whatever. So cliché. So try hard. Like, you know when something is so cool that it sort of transcends the limits of cool and just becomes really uncool again? Well in my opinion, rape fantasies are so morally wrong that they skyrocket past taboo and land somewhere in the realm of painfully fucking boring. They just don’t make sense. It’s like, “I’m a vegetarian but I secretly want someone to shove a cheeseburger down my throat while wearing a ski mask.” But who knows… maybe I’m just not controversial enough. Barf.

Sarah, on the other hand, seems totally enamored with her newfound sexual desire. She’s been talking about it endlessly. Trouble is, I don’t think Sarah realizes that the reality of being raped would be far different from whatever bullshit she’s got going on in that pretty little air-head of hers.

“If you were a guy, and you saw me in this outfit, would you want to rape me?” asks Sarah, slipping into a black lace negligee with nothing on underneath but a thong.

“Depends…” I respond, wearily. “What kind of guy am I? Am I a sexual predator? A gay? A priest?” She’s not listening to me.

“Ugh!” she moans, stamping her foot. “Where can I find someone who wants to rape me?! Why is this so hard?”

“What about Ollie?,” I suggest. (Ollie is my sexually retarded housemate. No one will have sex with him—not even his mail order Asian wife.) “I’m sure Ollie will rape you. He’ll take anything he can get.”

“Eww! I don’t want Ollie to rape me!” she shouts, disgusted. “He’s sooo not my type.”

“Yeah, but Sarah, that’s the whole…. never mind.”

If I know anything about Sarah, she’ll be out on the streets of south London tonight, wearing nothing but her underwear, holding a sign that reads HELPLESS AND HORNY. She might be a moron with a death wish, but I give her a ten for determination.

Whenever I get fed up with Sarah and the naked circus that is her life, I just try and remind myself that it’s not her fault she suffers from severe mental decay.




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