Then I had the rest of my beer and went up to them and admitted I was shocked she asked me and if they’re serious I’m down. They both smile and we went back to their apartment. I sat there and they gave me the ground rules. No touching myself or anything weird, no recording, no yelling anything, I can say stuff but nothing loud or obnoxious, absolutely no grabbing or touching or trying to join in.

I sat there and when they started I was immediately turned on at how smooth and tan her skin was. It was like, I always assumed in pornos they touched up the video to make them look smoother but now I’m doubting it. Not a mark on her entire perfect body or weird hair or birthmark. Just pure beauty. Their sex was kind of boring and he was in great shape but his dick wasn’t huge or anything. Mine is bigger not that any chick would ever see it.

The whole time she was looking at me and saying weird shit like “you like watching me don’t you. You like seeing this.” At first I imagined I was dating her and she was doing it to turn me on or something. Then reality set in that I’ll never fuck a girl that hot and I felt sad. Then due to some botched cum shot he ends up cumming all over himself and walks to the bathroom with his hands out covered in semen. She sat there panting and I just sort of thanked them and left.

One of the weirdest experiences of my life and yes XO 2025. But closest I ever got to a girl that hot in my 47 years of life.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5724645&forum_id=2#48928258)

I just wanted to have a beer. That’s it.

A single pint to mourn my mother and pretend I am still a disgusting “human.”

Instead… I became a prop in someone else’s kink play.

Not a participant.

Not even a degenerate.

A fixture.

A lamp with eyes.

She kept looking at me like I was supposed to react.

Like I was supposed to “Smile ☺.”

I didn’t know where to look. So I stared at the wall behind her and counted the drywall screws— like I used to in the breakroom, during those 2 AM freight shifts.

Kalisha — my $afeway subordinate, self-proclaimed BBW, and spiritual adversary — laughed when I told her that once.

Said the screws were “judging me.”

Maybe she was right.

Anyway - and then he… finished.

All over himself.

Like a broken water balloon of masculine failure.

She didn’t flinch. Just panted. Smiled.

Like it was normal. Like this was my gift.

And me?

I "thaknked" them.

Then I walked home alone and microwaved the leftover kale.

It had wilted into a greenish-black sponge. I ate it anyway.

I deserve that. And I continue to dream of Chad - he is just around the corner.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Underneath three weighted blankets, I muttered: "This is fine."

But...topping it all off? That night, a note was slipped under my door. No envelope. Just grease and toner residue.

"$hredding won’t save you, Evan ;). Your hour'$ have been billed."

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5724645&forum_id=2#48929222)

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Candaulism

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5724645&forum_id=2#48928849)

https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/5/57/Gillray_-_Sir_Richard_Worse-than-sly%2C_exposing_his_wife%27s_bottom%3B_-_o_fye%21.jpg/500px-Gillray_-_Sir_Richard_Worse-than-sly%2C_exposing_his_wife%27s_bottom%3B_-_o_fye%21.jpg

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5724645&forum_id=2#48929236)

I just wanted to have a beer. That’s it.

A single pint to mourn my mother and pretend I am still a disgusting “human.”

Instead… I became a prop in someone else’s kink play.

Not a participant.

Not even a degenerate.

A fixture.

A lamp with eyes.

She kept looking at me like I was supposed to react.

Like I was supposed to “Smile ☺.”

I didn’t know where to look. So I stared at the wall behind her and counted the drywall screws— like I used to in the breakroom, during those 2 AM freight shifts.

Kalisha—my $afeway subordinate, self-proclaimed BBW, and spiritual adversary — laughed when I told her that once.

Said the screws were “judging me.”

Maybe she was right.

Anyway - and then he… finished.

All over himself.

Like a broken water balloon of masculine failure.

She didn’t flinch. Just panted. Smiled.

Like it was normal. Like this was my gift.

And me?

I "thaknked" them.

Then I walked home alone and microwaved the leftover kale.

It had wilted into a greenish-black sponge. I ate it anyway.

I deserve that. And I continue to dream of Chad - he is just around the corner.

Happy Mother’s Day.

"This is fine."

Topping it all off? That night, a note was slipped under my door. No envelope. Just grease and toner residue.

"$hredding won’t save you, Evan ;)"

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5724645&forum_id=2#48929223)

Date: May 15, 2025, 7:42 PM Subject: (Posted from a Gateway laptop in Starbucks, 2013. Tabs: Craigslist, Monster.com, XKCD)

Mainlining & Boom, my friends...

Bros… I’m shaking typing this.

2012, I answered a Craigslist ad: “Seeking introspective soul to observe intimacy.” Thought it was a prank, but I was 22, jobless, and living off ramen.

She was like a J.Crew ad—cardigan, freckles, no flaws. HE looked like he taught yoga at a community center, all hemp bracelets and vegan smugness. They said, “Just be present.”

No rules, just vibes. I responded with "sounds Yummy!"

I’m on their futon, smelling patchouli and regret. She’s moaning, staring at me, saying, “You’re part of this moment.”

Yet, I’m clutching a warm Sprite, wondering if I’m in a cult.

Then he whispers, “It’s okay to feel small.”

I cried. Not because it was hot. Because they played Bon Iver. Amazing singer-songwriter.

When it’s over — him dripping on a hemp rug — they offer me a Luna Bar. I mumble “thank” and stumble out.

Drove my Corolla to a Kroger. Bought Gatorade (Frost Glacier), expired Chobani, and a single banana. Ate in the lot, staring at a flickering streetlight. It was my 23rd birthday.

OP, you’re not alone. You were their prop, bro. Not even a cuck. Just… there.

Mainlining tp (or "Me," hehe), you get it. Tell me you’ve got a worse one.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5724645&forum_id=2#48929289)

Evan, bro… you’re killing me with that Bon Iver sobfest. I’ve got you beat, and it’s not even close.

2011.

I’m in a Super 8 off I-95 in Virginia, drowning my sorrows in Natty Light after my Blockbuster job went kaput.

This couple—her, like a Hot Topic cashier with a lip ring; him, a skater dude with a tribal tat—corners me at the motel bar. They’re like, “Wanna see something real?” I’m 24, broke, and curious, so I follow them.

No rules, just “don’t touch our shit.”

I’m on a musty loveseat, gripping a stale Coors. She’s loud, screaming, “Tell him he’s nothing!”

He’s grinning at me, not her, like I’m the main event.

Halfway through, he pulls out, walks over, and drops his sweaty trucker hat on my lap. Says, “Hold this, champ.” I’m frozen, cradling it like it’s my non-existent kid’s ashes.

She laughs, calls me “cute, but pathetic.”

When they finish, he splatters the carpet — he high-fives me.

HIGH-FIVES ME.

I mutter “cool” and bail.

Drove to a Piggly Wiggly at 2 AM. Bought hummu$, a dented can of SpaghettiOs, and a single kiwi. Ate in my Sentra, radio stuck on a Christian rock station. Cried when they played “Jesus Take the Wheel.”

OP, you and Evan weren’t cucks. You were furniture. Their kink needs a sad sack to shine.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5724645&forum_id=2#48929311)