You know, I've done a lot of reflecting on my writing, on my past, and the time has come to admit it and repent.

I write a lot of sick, sick smut. I've written about handholding. About dalliances with hobbits, and dances with Death that turn into getting a surprisingly warm blowjob from a cute Grim Reaper, and about cuddling under the blankets with a woman I'm not married to for the purpose of romping about lustily.

And during all of this, all of it, I've neglected the real purpose of sex. Yes, when I've spent nights fawning and flirting over writerly lasses far afield, I've ignored the true design God and nature intended for that smoothly-arced, vein-laced shaft between my legs that drips and throbs with passion aplenty.

Yes.

I've been a wicked man, and it is time to complete the atonement for my shame.

For the idea of all of this ought to be, as it has been said, to gift a woman with seed. And on that day, that beautiful day, when life flowers anew inside of her, I will cease my wanton indulgence in lust and never long to lick and grasp and pin and kiss again. Never, when that happens, will I set my fingers to typing, eyes glittering with thoughts of lewdnesses and lasciviousnesses again.

And never, then, when my true purpose is fulfilled in accordance with all that is good and right, will I look upon a woman with lust, and strip her bare before me, and while away hours locked in a passionate embrace rife with thrusting and caresses, laughter and blushes, a whispered fuck it before the carnal storm.

So please.

Aid me.

Together we can strive for that day, that magical conception. Allow me to lay you chastely back on a suitably comfortable bedspread, only the most gentlemanly of gazes falling on you, as I spread your legs and rock them back. A pillow, perchance, might help.

Allow me to dip my fingers in moist slickness, teasing and lapping at the pink garden of delights between your thighs before I slide smoothly and thickly into your luscious ass, and we will join together in holy union, thrusting and gripping as one.

We will, of course, have to repeat this process, regrettably, staining our souls with sin in copious nights of rutting, wanton, steamy lovemaking in ever-more-exotic forms, until finally blessedness arrives.

At which point, of course, we will cease such wickedness. Forever, bound in eternal and gracefully celibate bliss.

Join me.

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