Man Eater

I have feasted on men for the better part of a decade, and now I am sitting at the table, fork in hand, with no appetite for men whatsoever. Man after man after man is paraded before me, dressed up in finery and flavor, but instead I sit here and sip my champagne. None of them are appealing. They all look like bad meals that will get stuck between my teeth and hours later I will be rolling on the floor with a stomach ache. Perhaps I have eaten too many men, and having gorged myself on the flesh of men, perhaps my appetite has been sated.

Although, no, that’s not it – perhaps it’s that one of the men I ate had gone bad, and he made me sick, and I was heaving over the toilet and rushed to the emergency room the next day. Maybe he damn near killed me.

Although, no – that has happened so many times in my life before, and it never stopped me then. Perhaps it’s that my appetite has waned. After all these years, my palate has evolved, and eating just any man simply won’t do the trick. I want to kobe beef of boys in my mouth tonight. No more drive thru hamburgers of dick and desire. I want something good this time. My appetite for shit men has evaporated, and I’m finding that this new diet is working quite well for me.

I sit at the table, fork in hand. I demand that you only bring me your best men to feast on. Nothing less will satisfy me. And I won’t leave until I’m done.

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