How pleasurable it is to masturbate in the countryside on Sunday mornings!

Now, I live in the city. It's because this vast inland old city has cut off its nipple, and the hot milk is leaking out like urine, spraying in all directions, endlessly spreading. As you might expect, I'm lucky enough to be surrounded by the city.

When I was twenty-three, I lived in the city, going out at sunset and resting at sunrise every day. Under the cover of night, when everyone's moral compass was slightly lapsed, I could do many things I couldn't do during the day. These things basically fell into two categories: First, gathering with some other losers to drink. Of course, this wasn't important, and there was no question of moral lapse; the key was that after a few rounds of drinks, I could flirt with the curvy waitresses; second, occasionally picking up prostitutes in twos and threes. I'd completely forget about this after I left. Not because I was forgetful, but because it was necessary to maintain my daytime moral compass.

Undoubtedly, rising with the sun and resting with the sunset is exhausting, but unfortunately, after experiencing it firsthand, I found that rising with the sun and resting with the sunset is also exhausting—if not more exhausting, then at least just as exhausting. But there is a benefit: it eliminates the hassle of three meals a day.

At twenty-three, I was as thin as a rake, my ribs jingling like harp strings all day long. Walking in the brightly lit, desolate nights, I always felt like a paper kite—this gust of wind held, but the next one might send me soaring into the sky. This thought was deadly, like the enormous breasts of my second-year university English teacher, relentlessly creeping into my daydreams.

When I daydreamed, it must have been incredibly beautiful. While the midday dust danced and swished between your nostrils and pores, the fairly bright sunlight would slant onto my bed, like a lustful, unsatisfied young widow, seducing me. In that environment, I felt a strong wind blowing, scattering the underwear of married women, mature women, and young girls, and incidentally lifting me into the air.

When I was twenty-three, my girlfriend ran off with someone else. I interpreted it as understanding—she was simply clearing the way for my glamorous nightlife. My girlfriend was very voluptuous, like a waterlogged sponge. She was a pure girl, and she loathed sex so much. Our everyday language absolutely forbids any pornographic or potentially pornographic content. For example, words like "yellow," "voluptuous," "chicken," "milk," "Kim Jong-il," "carrot," and "condom" are all sensitive words that must be blocked. This once made our lives tense, sharp, and full of fun, because—whoever crosses the line washes the dishes.

You might not understand the so-called fun of washing dishes. Don't worry about your intelligence—it's perfectly normal, because the fun originates from washing dishes, but extends beyond washing dishes. A famous scientist declared that washing dishes ages people. To avoid aging, we usually find various reasons to evade this responsibility. After a while, we discovered that physical bribery was better than any other method. For example, once, my girlfriend was sitting cross-legged on the floor reading a newspaper. In a moment of passion, she began to sing in a dramatic, melodious voice: "*** thought is good, it's so good, so good!" I was overjoyed to hear this and couldn't wait to point out that "***" was the same as "Mao Zhe Dong" (a vulgar term for a woman), a completely obscene word that had clearly crossed the line. After a fit of wailing and lamenting, she said: "How about I let you have sex with me?" This left me speechless.

Physical bribery was undoubtedly my girlfriend's invention. Afterwards, she remarked with deep feeling that the inspiration struck her like an apple hitting Newton on the head.

Generally, physical bribery goes like this: the lights are on, the air is warm, and the smell of stir-fried chives wafts through the room. My girlfriend swiftly strips herself naked and collapses onto the poor wooden bed like a dead woman.

Her breasts are plump, and when she lies down, they look like deflated water bags—far less firm than before. My girlfriend is very pale, both when she's dressed and when she's naked. So, when I stood up from the old sofa and swept my gaze across the bed, it was blindingly bright. Luckily, her hair and pubic hair were black, and her lips and nipples were red; these few unusual colors always managed to calm my panicked heart.

When I was pleasuring her body, my girlfriend's eyes were tightly closed, and her whole body trembled. This made me feel like a cruel rapist. The noise outside the window was like a fiercely beating war drum, enticing me to get into character:

Go for it, you rapist! I had no choice but to pounce on her fiercely, my mind conjuring up an image of a burly, bearded man shoving his massive head into the chest of a fair-skinned young woman. Then, I fell. My head hit the edge of the bed, thud—how delightful! Yes, there was always something lying on the floor to trip me up.

After I tripped, my girlfriend giggled, and in that situation, her body trembled even more violently.

She was like a leaf falling in the autumn wind. I stood up through gritted teeth, my eyes bloodshot, and told her, word by word, "See how I'll fuck you!" She screamed, quickly shrinking into the corner, her hair disheveled, shaking her head, saying, "No, no!" This scene was incredibly stimulating; I pounced on her like a wolf, my heart pounding with delight. I spread her legs, licking and caressing, until she was soaking wet. I parted her thick thighs, ready to thrust in. Practice

makes perfect, and each time I thrust in, I found myself impeccably dressed. How frustrating! This often wiped out the pleasure of our physical advances. Next, I dejectedly stripped naked, lay down on the bed, and the thought of the unwashed dishes only amplified my dejection. Then, the whole situation reversed—my girlfriend had become the rapist. She sat on me, and after a few moments of hesitation, she took my penis inside her. Then she would thrust her hips, her ample breasts bouncing as if trying to reach the ceiling.

As you can see, my girlfriend's sexual skills were exceptionally rich, and she was quick-witted and innovative. But that didn't mean she enjoyed sex—she just hated washing dishes. Even later, when she moved out of that run-down place to live with some rich guy, it was simply because he had a maid and didn't have to do the dishes. See, that's how it is, not too bad.

My girlfriend's name is Shufen. I first saw her in front of Building Zero at school. At that time, this girl stood in broad daylight amidst the bustling crowd, facing the huge tempered glass, resolutely squeezing the pimples on her face. This scene was truly breathtaking; I almost trembled as I rushed behind her, my eyes wide with rage and my mouth watering. Later, through the glass, I saw myself dressed in a suit and tie, quite handsome. But my trousers seemed a bit tight or loose—in short, not quite fitting, quite odd. I loosened my belt, pulled up my trousers, and spread my legs wide with the zipper flared open, hoping to find a comfortable feeling. It was so interesting; from the glass, it looked like dancing, so I was completely absorbed, even forgetting to observe the girl squeezing her pimple. In my utter ecstasy, a slap landed squarely on my face—it was the girl squeezing the pimple. She had finished squeezing, and was furious: "What are you doing behind me! You pervert, you filthy thing!"

At twenty, I was often in a daze, sweating profusely at the sight of women with large breasts or buttocks.

And the girl squeezing the pimple undoubtedly possessed a pair of proud, large breasts. At that time, for the first time in my life, I wore a suit, tie, and pointed shoes—a whole outfit costing 108 yuan. My initial reason for wearing the suit was to climb over the school wall, look out at the vast fields of crops, and derive pleasure from the stark contrast. Of course, if some passionate couples insisted on making love in front of others, I was happy to watch for a moment with a relaxed and entertaining attitude. Later, I discovered that it wasn't like that at all—I wore a suit just to get slapped across the face and then sleep with the person who slapped me.

Wearing a cheap suit, I was exceptionally brave, and it didn't take long to successfully persuade the girl squeezing pimples to be a potential mating partner. This was something to celebrate, but not something to celebrate—the revolution was not yet successful, comrades still needed to work hard—it wouldn't be too late to cheer after removing the "potential." Sadly, the process of removing the "potential" was really long, from the early spring when everything was reviving to the sweltering summer when braised crabs were in season, I only managed to touch Tangshan's big breasts through a one-centimeter-thick t-shirt.

You have to understand, at that time I was still a virgin, and every day I was tormented by my hard penis until my eyes were bloodshot. This shows how amazing my self-control was, and it also shows how firm the girl named Shufen's sense of chastity was, practically like a cold, hard chastity belt.

Regarding someone's chastity-obsessed view, my opinion is that even the most impregnable defenses can crumble; all that's lacking is effort. My strategy was to rent a place off-campus, thus providing a suitable reason and place for mating. Of course, the already poor quality food became even more appalling. I earnestly invited her to dinner, repeatedly emphasizing that boyfriends and girlfriends who haven't had sex aren't really boyfriends and girlfriends. I said this: if a boyfriend and girlfriend are close, but haven't even touched each other's genitals, how can they call themselves "close"?

The pimple-squeezing girl responded readily: whether a relationship is close or not depends on whether our hearts are connected, and our hearts are connected. For example, I know perfectly well your lewd thoughts. If this isn't close, then I don't know what "closeness" is!

At twenty, in a cramped rented room, the pimple-squeezing girl told me, "I know perfectly well your lewd thoughts." This made me extremely ashamed. As you know, as a virgin, even with burning desire, I was still shy and melancholic. At that moment, I hastily turned away to prevent large tears from falling into the greasy bowl and ruining the cozy dinner atmosphere. I stared at the constantly flashing "Cozy Couple" billboards outside the window, determined to no longer covet those voluptuous breasts, even if it meant castrating myself to establish a firm sense of chastity. After wiping away my tears, I turned around, only to be nearly slapped on the head by a pair of deadly weapons—a girl squeezing pimples was holding her breasts, smiling brightly at me.

I reacted quickly, throwing my melancholy to the back of my mind, turning around, turning on the radio, and turning it up to the maximum volume—Shan Tianfang was telling the story of the Three Heroes and Five Gallants. Then, to the rhythmic narration, I stretched out my greasy hands and grasped two white steamed buns. The nipples were like a pair of pigeon eyes; I licked them three times on each side, and then ejaculated a stream of semen into my crotch. This feeling was awful. I instantly thought of the haphazardly placed ads for erectile dysfunction and premature ejaculation plastered on telephone poles, and desperately believed I was one of their targets. I slumped back onto the stool, slowly finishing my rice. Then, I looked up and saw Tangshan's large breasts still trembling above my head, and my penis hardened again.

When I was twenty, I was still a virgin, and every time I was desperate, I would masturbate intensely. Watching the exquisite white arc flash by, I would involuntarily sink into sadness. As you might expect, I was always worried that I was a virgin. Later, I slept with my girlfriend, Shufen. Afterwards, I felt surprisingly good; I was delighted to find that I didn't have erectile dysfunction or premature ejaculation.

My first sexual encounter with my girlfriend was like this: the light was dim, and the air was stagnant. Shan Tianfang said:

The woman asked, "What's the name of that wine?" The man replied, "It's called 'Hiding Spring Wine.' If a woman drinks it, she'll be consumed by lust and will obey without question." I was overjoyed to hear this, and with a shout, I picked up the girl who had been squeezing pimples and tossed her onto the small single bed. I raised my arms and shouted, "Hiding Spring Wine! Hiding Spring Wine!" The girl who had been squeezing pimples remained silent. She pushed me away and quickly stripped herself naked. During this process, I skillfully touched her breasts three times and patted her buttocks twice. In general, the touch was like a sponge, and the sight was like tofu—perfect!

I was breathing heavily, my body burning, and I rubbed my hands together, eager to apply the sexual techniques I had observed over the past few days to the girl. The girl glared at me, one hand on her hip, the other pointing straight at my nose: "Take it off!" I frantically stripped off my clothes, feeling deeply guilty for not being properly prepared. This guilt, mixed with frustration, quickly brewed into a cup of sorrowful wine.

As you can see, my habit of being impeccably dressed at crucial moments really surfaced at this very moment.

One summer night when I was twenty, many virgins disappeared from the world. I was fortunate enough to be one of them.

From that night until I was twenty-one, my left chest was always adorned with a mark left by a tooth-like creature.

At first glance, this mark looked like a flesh-colored medal, but upon closer inspection, it was utterly unremarkable—just an ordinary tooth mark, without any unusual embellishments like canine teeth, gap teeth, or buck teeth.

This tooth mark was truly hard-won: the first thing I did after taking off my clothes was to find the right equipment for my lustful penis, as anxiously as someone with frostbite needing gloves. My cleverness lay in not letting haste cloud my judgment—I immediately launched a fierce attack on the gray area under my pubic hair, instead of looking for a breakthrough on the face, chest, or buttocks, so I was able to enter quickly. What followed was a process where island culture and farm culture shone brightly. It's worth mentioning that the girl squeezing pimples was like an addict—pale-faced, clenched teeth, sweating profusely, and silent. Finally, when I ejaculated and showed her the mottled bloodstains on my penis, she cried out in a rapid, violent sob, telling the world she wasn't mute. Twenty minutes later, she choked out, "I'm heartbroken for my ex-boyfriend. He couldn't even prick it, and you got your way!" I could only hug her, pat her head gently, indicating my helplessness regarding my ex-boyfriend's regret. She stopped crying and leaned against me obediently. After a moment of silence, I said sincerely, "If only I had met you sooner." Hearing this, her body melted into water, clinging tightly to my withered chest.

I spat out a mouthful of phlegm and continued, "If I had met you sooner, I wouldn't have had to masturbate for so many years." Then, the toothed creature bit down on my left breast, almost injuring my nipple.

When I was twenty-three, I often just spaced out. I usually wake up from a daydream around 5 PM, and the first thing I do is stare blankly, then wash my face and brush my teeth, and then continue staring blankly. Staring blankly isn't necessarily interesting, but if you can find enjoyment in it, things are different. More importantly, things other than staring blankly aren't necessarily interesting. Or, to put it another way, even if staring blankly is boring, it's much better if you cultivate the habit of staring blankly.

Besides staring blankly, sometimes I also interpret my own dreams. This is normal. Everyone will inevitably go through a phase where they are keen to interpret dreams for others, ask others to interpret them for them, or interpret them for themselves. Okay, then let's take out the daydream, like a white sheep spread out, pry open the big white sheep legs, and insert the hard penis all the way in. Unfortunately, in most cases, the mystery I rack my brains trying to solve is completely forgotten before the analysis even begins—the white sheep is gone.

So, my so-called dream interpretation is nothing more than searching for that white sheep that has vanished without a trace.

In addition, there's another point: every time I look in the mirror after waking up, I find myself unbelievably handsome. Despite being sleepy-eyed and covered in eye boogers, despite being disheveled and having terrible breath, despite being pale and thin, I was still so handsome. In this state, I could only helplessly look in the mirror and say: "Wow, fucking handsome."

Zhang

Feihai adjusted his glasses, the brown lenses reflecting a shy light. He seemed to have finally mustered his courage, slammed his hand on the table, and said, "I'll tell you all a joke." Everyone was stunned for a moment, but quickly put down their beer mugs, which had been repeatedly raised to the point of annoyance, and stared intently at Zhang Feihai's enormous, bulging face. Yes, we were all waiting to see what kind of fart this guy would come up with.

Zhang Feihai opened his mouth, but no sound came out; at least, the sound wasn't in the range of human hearing.

Behind him flashed a dirty fluorescent billboard with three blood-red characters: "Sexual Health." Of course, on the other side were other words: Yuan's Barbecue. This rare and opportune backlighting transformed the obese Zhang Feihai into a Buddha. Unfortunately, even dressing as Buddha didn't allow him to speak—Zhang Feihai struggled to open his mouth again, and with a loud "Wow!" a bright arc shot out—he was now a fountain of fervent emotion.

Someone started clapping, and quickly, as the aroma of beer mixed with cumin rose from the table, sincere applause tore through the night sky, transforming into a sea of enthusiasm. Not only us, but the young men and women at the next table, the migrant workers, even the waiters who had been intently watching from the street, eyes wide open to prevent customers from escaping, all stood up and generously clapped their hands. In the murky, damp city air, everyone nodded amicably, as if they had finally grasped something.

This clearly embarrassed our friend. He quickly straightened up, smiled, wiped his mouth, and gave everyone a satisfied look. Then, Zhang Feihai excitedly said, "Thank you, thank you everyone!" He sat down nervously, but the applause showed no sign of stopping, so he stood up again, waving his strong arms to signal that everyone could stop clapping; the applause he'd received so far was enough to satisfy him. Zhang Feihai chose to express his satisfaction with tears streaming down his face. He sobbed, "Thank you, thank you everyone!" (Please excuse the poorly told joke!)

I was sitting opposite Zhang Feihai, wolfing down a bowl of noodles. Now, the noodle-eating process was clearly about to be interrupted—I watched helplessly as several streams of pasty material from Zhang Feihai's stomach shot like arrows into the large bowl in front of me. I rubbed my numb hands, sat down, and rubbed my numb hands again—this bowl of murky noodles made me as depressed as a person suffering from severe constipation.

Xiao Yong let out a loud burp, like a proud hen laying eggs. He put his arm around Hui Juan's shoulder on his left, rubbing it with practiced ease, and said, "So, guys, are you all done?" No one answered. The dramatic scene of vomiting had plunged everyone into endless sorrow. "I say, everyone, shall we go?" Xiao Yong persisted. "

Go to hell!" Zhang Feihai jumped up, his massive body trembling strangely. Today—he grabbed a beer bottle and smashed it decisively on the edge of the table. "Whoever leaves today, I'll make sure they don't see the sun tomorrow!" After saying this, he threw down the bottle, a lewd smile spreading across his red, fat face: "Don't go! Tell me, how long has it been since we got together? Tell me, tell me! I love you guys to death! Do you even know that?!" Zhang Feihai sat down and started crying again.

Whether Zhang Feihai cried or not was irrelevant; even if he swallowed the vomit displayed on the table, it wouldn't dispel my sorrow. The regrettable thing was that while he was making those remarks, his eyes, like flypaper, were glued to me. As you can see, I've been thrust into the limelight; I must stand up and respond to Zhang Feihai's words. This is an inescapable responsibility, but my short-lived sorrow—how cruel! I stood up, cleared my throat, and scanned everyone in turn. The surroundings were eerily quiet, as if everyone within a kilometer radius was waiting for my response.

I said, "Waiter, table eight, please change seats! Can't you see he's vomited a mess?"

Before Zhang Feihai vomited, everyone was downing drinks. Suddenly, Zhang Feihai put down his glass, staring intently at Huijuan. He said, "Zhao Huijuan, I want to write a poem for you." No one paid him any attention, or perhaps no one heard him. Anyway, look how busy everyone is! Zhang Feihai pulled out a five-yuan pack of White General cigarettes from his shirt pocket, poured out the crumpled cigarette, and spread the cigarette paper on the messy table. He took out a pen and began to write.

As a middle school teacher, Zhang Feihai always carried various colored pens to deal with sudden bursts of poetic inspiration in various situations. The above statement can also be understood as: it was precisely because of this asthma-like, mysterious poetic inspiration that Zhang Feihai chose the profession of teacher. In short, it was indeed a good habit, saving Teacher Zhang from the pain of constipation. After a moment, amidst the clinking of glasses, Zhang Feihai announced: I am going to begin reciting my poem.

If you are a sheep, I am willing to become grass, even if I am shattered to pieces, I will warm your stomach. Juan's hand gently stroked my thigh, but her eyes were fixed on the "sexual health" on Zhang Feihai's back, ethereal and indistinct.

This feeling was not bad, because her small hand had unreservedly grasped my penis.

If you were a sheep, I would cut out my heart of grass and press it close to your gentle breasts. I picked up the beer mug, downed the beer, my throat trembling, making huge gurgling sounds, like biting my own penis.

Ah—sheep—I am your grass!

Zhang Feihai, as if he had exhausted all his strength, slumped back into his chair, even taking off his glasses, as if to emphasize his exhaustion. Everyone laughed, how joyful, as light as a swallow's tail.

What a poem! Everyone said. Then, they continued, "Cheers! Look, look, how much beer is left in the bucket?" I grabbed Huijuan's hand and said, "Waiter, a large bowl of noodles!"

As far as I know, Zhao Huijuan was Zhang Feihai's junior from teachers' college. In his glorious years of masturbation, Zhang Feihai repeatedly scooped up the hot semen, held it high, hoping to offer it to the goddess in his heart. But Zhao Huijuan refused. Her way of refusing was to ignore it, as if she couldn't smell the strong almond scent that filled the campus.

As it turned out, this method of refusal wasn't very clever—it constantly gave Zhang Feihai the impression that the amount of semen wasn't large enough, the smell wasn't strong enough. Zhang Feihai became more determined with each setback, and as you can see, he later grew into a melancholic improvisational poet—masturbating fiercely, ejaculating violently. Unfortunately, he still failed, or rather, he was always on the road to success, and when that road would end was unknown. Zhao Huijuan, that flat-chested, big-mouthed slut, could flirt with any man in any situation, but she completely ignored Teacher Zhang Feihai.

That's how it was. What could we do? We couldn't do anything but flirt with Zhao Huijuan; there was absolutely nothing we could do. Even if she masturbated us, we would ejaculate without any guilt.

When we sat down again, Zhang Feihai ordered eighty skewers of mutton. He glanced at each of us, his gaze gentle. He said, "It won't kill you!" How could it kill us? I heard Xiao Yong laugh. I cleared my throat, rubbed my hands together, and said to Zhang Feihai, "Another bowl of noodles, please, otherwise you'll definitely die." The meaning was clear—today, Teacher Zhang Feihai was teaching with virtue, and he was paying the bill.

At twenty-three, and even before that, I had never realized that anything in the world was more worthy of gratitude than a free meal. Especially a meal like this every day. So, I stood up, walked around the table, and bowed deeply to Zhang Feihai. I cried bitterly: "Teacher Zhang, if you're willing, you can fuck my ass." Everyone laughed again. How joyful. Even that bitch Zhao Huijuan was giggling. Okay, I downed another beer, patted my ass, and went to the roadside to take a hot piss.

Even the piss was joyful; it fell to the ground with a pleasant groan. At this moment, Zhang Feihai seemed to stand up again, and I heard him say, "Zhao Huijuan, I wrote a song for you." He tapped the table with his chopsticks and sang:

"You are the sheep I've been searching for, even if the sky falls and the earth cracks, I will never leave you; you are the sheep I've been searching for, even if the sea dries up and the rocks crumble, I will stay with you forever." This scene was incredibly captivating, so I turned to look and found Zhang Feihai with his eyes tightly closed, his brown glasses slipping off his nose—he looked like a wronged pig. I laughed. Then I peed my pants.

Back in my seat, I became restless, a wet feeling brewing a torrent of poetry within me, almost bursting forth. In this state, I looked like a hemorrhoid sufferer forced to rub his buttocks. And as everyone knows, the core of a hemorrhoid sufferer's spirit is melancholy, so I looked even more like a poet. The painting was served, reeking of an unpleasant fart. Everyone stared blankly at the table, their backs ramrod straight—each one completely absorbed, greedily savoring the overwhelming sorrow brought by Zhang Feihai.

When I was twenty, I had forensic medicine classes twice a week. Basically, half of each class was spent in the basement, indulging in close contact with cold, lifeless corpses, hoping to one day cultivate myself into a zombie. Because of the scarcity of corpses, each change of training partner was a grand, much-anticipated event. The teacher, in a half-squatting position, would give the order in a booming voice: "Open!"—and the freezer would open with a bang, revealing a gentleman or lady's unashamedly sizzling, chicken-like body. As it lay on the aluminum dissection table, under the spotlight for further detailed examination, everyone would hold their breath, lost in their own varying degrees of self-pity and sorrow.

At this moment, a loud, satisfying fart was needed to rescue the masses from their sorrow.

Today's sorrow was no different from yesterday's. I could only take a deep breath, hold it in, and let out a fart, sharp as a whistle, loud as a trumpet. There was no other way; logically and emotionally, only I could shoulder this responsibility. There was truly no other option. Fortunately, the effect was immediate. Everyone instantly became possessed, focusing their attention on my farts and using it to analyze my vulgarity. Zhang Feihai, meanwhile, lay on the table, only one finger tapping his beer mug—this guy was definitely brewing a new piece. Suddenly, Zhang Xiaoyong said, "I've also written a poem." He slammed his hand on the table, stood up, and said, "Now I'll recite it for everyone."

"The waitresses are all women! Thirty women are all waitresses! Thirty I see one waitress, and I see all the women! Thirty I see one woman, and I see all the waitresses! Tsk tsk, awesome! What a poem!" Everyone exclaimed in admiration, their gazes falling on the slender waitress and the obese Zhang Feihai. Unfortunately, the former remained unmoved, as did the latter. Xiao Yong sat down, smugly shaking his head, clearly still immersed in the pleasure of venting his poetic thoughts. At this moment, a dark shadow flashed, and a woman stood beside us. The speed was so strong that no one could tell where she came from. Of course, that didn't matter, because she had already spoken. "

Excuse me, may I sit down?

I think your poem is bad, what you said is wrong.

Shouldn't we respect women? This is the new century, the new society. Think about it with your conscience, is what you said right?

Article 33 of the Constitution clearly stipulates that all citizens are equal. How can you discriminate against women! You can't do this! I will never allow you to do this!"

She became more and more agitated, finally standing up, her breasts no longer slapping the table. Everyone was stunned, as if waiting for her to grab us and throw us into jail to be gently tortured to death. "Damn it," the woman grabbed a beer bottle, pointing it at Xiao Yong's head, "Your mother's the waitress! You idiot!" After saying that, she strode away, and a moment later, a "smash" echoed in the distance—she had smashed the bottle.

The bottle hadn't even been opened yet; I'd thought this bitch had come to trick me into buying more. After a century of silence, Zhao Huijuan, that slut, laughed. "Uh, let's go?" Xiao Yong yawned. "It's time to go. Tomorrow's Sunday; there's a wider world waiting for us to show our skills!" I stood up, as if eager to stride towards a bright tomorrow. Zhang Feihai finally lifted his face from his fat arms, as if someone had disturbed his sweet dream, muttering, "Go, go, all of you, let's go!"

Zhang Xiaoyong and Zhao Huijuan hailed a Fukang and sped away. Zhang Feihai staggered to pay the bill. I was stunned for a moment, then decided not to waste the drawing, so I sat down and buried myself in it. Just as beads of sweat started splattering into the bowl, Zhang Feihai came out. He didn't leave; instead, he sat down beside me. This feeling was really unpleasant. He was staring at me with his chin propped up, as if he were about to pounce on me and have anal sex. "Fuck you!

I know you," Zhang Feihai grumbled. "

Fuck you, I know you too!

I really know you, I mean, I've known you for a long time."

I wanted to call him an idiot, but I was chewing on his drawing, so I kept quiet. "

Not only do I know you, haha, I also know your girlfriend. You didn't know that, did you?"

I didn't know what this idiot meant, but obviously, I needed to figure out what he meant. So, I looked up at him. "

You, haha, not only do I know your girlfriend, I've fucking slept with her! You didn't know that, did you? I've fucked her cunt!"

Looks like this idiot's gone mad. I turned the picture upside down on the table, watching the soup and liquid spill down, and laughed so hard I fell into my chair. Zhang Feihai laughed too, slapping the table with his fat hands, splattering oil everywhere.

Yuan's Barbecue wasn't far from the square. Zhang Feihai and I staggered forward. This idiot had a giant bladder; he had to stop and pee every few steps. Besides, he'd mutter, "See? I'll find you a girlfriend, and then I'll go to a brothel for you, see? See?" His tone was incredibly provocative, and I couldn't resist kicking his fat ass a few times. But Teacher Zhang Feihai had amazing willpower; he always managed to quickly climb out of the pee and continue muttering the next time he needed to pee. See, what could you do? There was absolutely nothing you could do.

The square was brightly lit, but there were hardly any people around. Of course, the purpose of building the square was to make it brightly lit, not to have people in it. But Zhang Feihai insisted that he'd found prostitutes there.

He even said that one of the many prostitutes was my girlfriend, and that it would feel pretty good to have sex with her. While saying this, he kept slapping his butt, as if a couple more slaps would turn him into a galloping horse far away.

But, there really wasn't anyone to be found, let alone prostitutes. I plopped down on the ground, like a lazy, complaining woman, and said, "Zhang Feihai, are your eyes on your dick? Or has your brain been splattered out?"

Zhang Feihai didn't stop, stubbornly continuing forward, looking back as he went: "Look again, look again, this is it! There are prostitutes everywhere, look, there are prostitutes everywhere." I decided to ignore this idiot. I wanted to take a nap. The marble floor was cool and comfortable.

I don't know how much time passed before I was shaken awake. Zhang Feihai was leaning against a woman standing in front of him, like two pillars at the gates of hell.

The woman was heavily made up, scantily clad, and her snow-white thighs were as thick as a tennis racket. She leaned down and asked in the most lewd voice, "Sir, wanna play around?" Zhang Feihai laughed heartily, his chest far more impressive than the woman beside him: "Her name is Xiao Hong." I jumped up, pretending to be furious, pointed at Zhang Feihai's nose, and cursed, "Fuck your mother! My wife's name is Da Hong, the Da Hong of Da Hong Da Zi, where did this Xiao Hong come from?!"

Zhang Feihai shook his head like a pig, his eyes turning red with rage. He frantically waved his arms, almost flying, but quickly deflated—the breath he used for flight was roared out: "God! I really slept with your girlfriend, really, really, absolutely true!" After saying that, he cried, his tears hitting the ground with a deafening thud. I patted his shoulder, wanting to tell him to be mindful of his image in front of prostitutes, or he'd be at a disadvantage in bed, but he just pushed me to the ground. He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, stamped his foot as if still unsatisfied, and continued, "Why don't you believe me?" "Tell me, how can you not believe me? I guarantee it with my integrity as a teacher!"

Zhang Feihai burst into laughter after saying this, because it was so funny that even the chickens were laughing. Xiao Hong covered her mouth and said, "Hehe, this handsome guy is really witty." Changing the subject, she got straight to the point, starting to promote herself and reminding us that if we slept with her, we'd be getting a huge bargain. She summarized herself with a famous four-character idiom: "Good quality at a low price."

Zhang Feihai pulled me up—even brushing the dust off my butt—and solemnly told me, "You can ask her if I've ever slept with your girlfriend." Of course, I didn't know how to ask. So, Zhang Feihai, this middle school teacher, patted his chest and took my place.

Zhang Feihai said, "Hello, Xiao Hong."

Xiao Hong said, "Good customers are what truly matter."

Zhang Feihai said, "Have we done this before?" Xiao Hong

said, "Protecting our customers' privacy is our bounden duty."

Zhang Feihai said, "You have a lot of chickens in your shop, right?"

Xiao Hong said, "A considerable number, good quality at a low price."

Zhang Feihai asked, "Do you have this gentleman's wife?"

Xiao Hong exclaimed, "My god, are you guys even doing this or not?! We're only making a living on our youth! Every minute we delay, the more we give in!"

As you can see, nothing was asked, unless the above conversation was some kind of coded message. Worse still, Xiao Hong turned to leave—she possessed a strikingly beautiful backside, its folds gleaming in the night.

At that moment, that beautiful backside receded further and further into the distance. It seemed she really wasn't planning on doing this business. But clearly, we couldn't tolerate such a beautiful backside leaving us like that. We had an obligation to stand tall like a single man with frequent sexual impulses and embrace it.

It's common knowledge that teachers' words carry great weight with students. This authority is amplified by students' trepidation and malice, to the point that many teachers remain blindly confident even when dealing with people other than students. They always like to harbor the dreams of a private tutor, stepping forward as intellectuals. Like Teacher Zhang Feihai at this moment.

He cupped his hands into a megaphone: "Hey, you, Xiao Hong, come back!" I said I'd definitely sleep with you! Damn it, he's using his teacher's reputation to vouch for it again.

I didn't know where the brothel was. I was incredibly sleepy as soon as I got on the bus. Through my hazy vision, I saw Zhang Feihai sitting upright, like a damn national leader. Just now, we'd made a deal with the prostitutes to go check out the place—that was Zhang Feihai's idea. His tinted glasses looked like dung beetle eyes under the light, but unfortunately, he seemed completely oblivious to this. He said to one of the girls with a sly smile, "Take us back to the shop, sister. Two grown men can't gang rape you, can they?" Ah, sister. But, it's a deal, I'll fuck you then!

In my mind, brothels were always glamorous on the outside, pink and voluptuous, and this one was no exception. I stumbled inside.

Several prostitutes were playing cards. When they laughed, you really couldn't tell they were prostitutes. This situation gave me a creepy itch, and I even had a grand idea rising from the depths of my spine: find ten thousand chickens, test every single one of their expressions, analyze the data, and see under what circumstances their vaginas would give off a commercial invitation vibe. As for why ten thousand, you'd have to ask Professor Zhang Feihai; he's quite the impromptu poet!

Some of the chickens glanced up at us, then locked onto Xiao Hong, saying, "Back." Xiao Hong didn't say anything, but nimbly jumped into the chicken pile to watch the poker game. The scene was harmonious and joyful, no different from any male dormitory in a university. They pointed and joked, laughing and cursing, completely absorbed in the joy brought by the poker game, even neglecting their duties. How gratifying! In between their acts of selling their bodies, they could so beautifully indulge in such a light, fun, and even intelligent leisure activity. I clapped in admiration. "

What's up?" one of the chickens asked.

"Uh, almost forgot, business is coming in, who's going to do it?" Xiao Hong said.

"Whatever, I'm not doing it anyway," another chicken said. "

It doesn't matter who does it, everyone's meat is meat," yet another chicken outside the three said.

Of course, not every chicken needs to speak; they just need to express their current mental state and subjective will in an orderly manner. Unfortunately, none of the chickens are my girlfriend Shufen, although I can't count exactly how many chickens there are. I turned to look at Zhang Feihai, that idiot was actually asleep on the sofa, every snore, every tremor of his flesh was a poem that made me constipated. As you can see, the situation is very bad; I'm trapped in enemy territory, but I'm all alone.

Okay. Why should I stay here like an idiot? I should go back, get some sleep on my wooden bed, a bright tomorrow is waiting for me! I hopped to the door in two strides, grabbed the doorknob, and was about to go out.

Hey, handsome, aren't you looking for someone? Xiao Hong, the chicken, crowed at the most inopportune moment. Now I can't leave, I really can't leave—since I'm looking for someone, I should at least look, whether I find her or not—there's just no other way.

I turned around sheepishly, walked back, and stared at them—everyone stopped playing cards, stood up straight, their eyes burning, like focused elementary school students—and said angrily, "I've looked you all carefully, none of you are my girlfriend!" "Really?" Xiao Hong was very surprised, but still smiled—"No, maybe it's not Xiao Hong. Whoever it is, once they're in the brothel, it's very difficult to pull them out again"—this brothel said, "Look again, look carefully, maybe you missed her!" "

Impossible, I've been careful enough, there's absolutely no way my girlfriend is hiding among you brothels!"

"Really?" "Maybe she's not here, we have day shifts and night shifts." "Oh right, your girlfriend must be on the day shift!" "Yes, the day shift!" "

People come to fuck during the day?" I was very surprised. Yes, I spend my days sleeping and spacing out, I never thought I could fuck during the day.

Of course, the time allocation is different; we have to take care of all the customers! However, there are definitely fewer customers during the day, so your girlfriend's workload will be much lighter! But, she hesitated, and naturally, she earns less money.

Well, since you've said that, what can I say? I decided to leave now, without wasting a second.

I smiled at the chickens: "Then I'll come during the day!"

"Ha, don't go, sir! Tell me about your girlfriend. What does she look like?" "She's one of our sisters!" said another chicken.

Their enthusiasm in putting down their cards to have a pure conversation with me is truly touching.

I can't find a reason to dampen that enthusiasm. So, I should answer this not-so-excessive question. But, what does Shufen look like? I really can't remember. I really can't remember. Not at all.

Should I tell them I can't remember? -- Good heavens, that would be too cruel for them. I had no choice but to walk over to Zhang Feihai and, with a swift, decisive move, pinched his two large breasts—the effect was immediate. He shivered, sat up, and stared blankly at me.

I said, "Excuse me, Mr. Zhang, could you please tell me what my girlfriend looks like?"

Zhang Feihai was clearly still dreaming,

smacking his lips repeatedly. I slapped him twice: "Tell me! What does my girlfriend look like?!"

This time he was truly awake, because as soon as he grinned, tears streamed down his face, landing hot on my arm. It really was a giant bladder.

I turned around, sat down on the sofa, smiled at the girls, and said, "My girlfriend...long legs, slim waist, big breasts, and no pubic hair."

That's right, one of the girls on the day shift really does have such a girl! As I said this, their gazes stubbornly lingered on Zhang Feihai—this old guy was crying non-stop. "

Oh, really? I think he's talking about the boss's wife?" another girl said, her voice still childish. But clearly, ambition knows no age—she not only successfully became a prostitute, but also possessed a keen professional eye.

Her words immediately resonated with all the prostitutes. They echoed her sentiments, both pleased and ashamed, blaming themselves for not thinking of that themselves. "

Yes, your girlfriend is our boss's wife!" "Yes, yes!" the prostitutes chorused almost in unison. They shifted their bodies, as if they had finally reached the ultimate truth, and there was nothing more to discuss. "

Does the boss's wife allow sex too?" I expressed my doubt. But no one answered. The prostitutes turned their attention back to the cards, heads bowed, chests shrinking considerably. "Does the boss's wife allow sex too?!" I turned to Zhang Feihai. The latter blushed deeply, fidgeting and muttering incoherently. This situation was truly unsettling; I needed to do something, anything at all. So, as you can see, I stood up, sat down, sat down, stood up again, and so on several times. It seemed I had truly grasped the essence of life—I felt completely at home, utterly melancholic.

Hey, brothers, are you in or not?! After what seemed like an eternity, the chickens finally spoke up. "

Of course we'll have sex! I promised! Besides, what are we doing here if we don't have sex?" Zhang Feihai's voice was deep and dry; he had long since stopped crying, and his head was bobbing among the chickens. "

Then hurry up!" "Little Er, you're not playing cards, go and help out! These are young, strong, handsome brothers!"

A chicken was pushed to the forefront of the commodity transaction. Despite her reluctance, she stood up, took a few steps in the cramped space, then plopped down next to me, letting out a long sigh. As you can see, this wasn't a hardworking girl; she didn't even possess the most basic, hardworking, and prosperous qualities of the Chinese people. She looked at me, pouted, and said: "Sigh!" Then I lowered my head, then quickly raised it again, saying, "Sigh!

I don't want to wrong that girl, and besides, forcing someone to buy something isn't exactly honorable." I pretended to be very angry and stood up, facing the pile of chickens, loudly demanding, "Call your boss's wife, I'm going to fuck her today!"

One of the chickens exclaimed in surprise, "My goodness, brother, what are you saying!" The boss's wife was very busy! She shook her head vigorously, even throwing the playing cards in her hand onto the coffee table. Zhang Feihai emerged from the pile of chickens, saying generously, "What's the difference who you fuck? I'll treat you to fucking!" Fine, I'll treat you!

As everyone knows, I came to see my girlfriend, not to solicit prostitutes. Why should you, Teacher Zhang, spend money on me? Undoubtedly, I should have righteously and firmly rejected this vulgar offer—how could Teacher Zhang even think of such a thing!

But, in fact, before I could react, a prostitute named Xiao Er grabbed my arm and dragged me upstairs.

As she dragged me, I walked ahead of her, and when I turned around, I caught a glimpse of her large breasts, comparable to Shu Fen's. At that moment, Zhang Feihai gave me a bright smile and said, "You go first, I'll be right there."

In the cramped room, which could only fit one bed—and in fact, only one bed—Xiao Er quickly stripped off her meager clothing, her speed comparable to my girlfriend Shu Fen. Afterward, she turned and collapsed onto the bed, sprawling out, her eyes fixed on the low ceiling, unblinking. Throughout this entire process, she remained silent, like a silent white sheep, much like my girlfriend Shu Fen. When I pounced on her like a rapist filled with deep resentment, she suddenly pointed her finger at my nose and said, "Take it off!" This makes her even more like my girlfriend, Shufen. As you might expect, I instantly felt a surge of excitement, my penis rock hard.

When I, grinning foolishly, stripped naked and pounced on her again, the Aries turned into a compass. This chick's legs were raised high, straight, forming a 30-degree angle, her crotch smooth, covered in wrinkled skin. She stretched out a hand, staring at me menacingly, and said: "Pay up first, then I'll fuck you!" Yes, that's what she said. Faced with such a sudden change in circumstances, what could I do besides say "fuck"? So, I shrugged and said calmly, "Fuck!" It's truly a masterpiece of fate that a penniless wretch like me encountered such a greedy chick. I really am penniless; my pockets are full of damn RMB. Besides public transportation, the only thing I can afford is a bottle of water.

It's truly heartbreaking!

After a moment's hesitation, I pulled out three coins from my pocket, shook them, and placed them in the chick's palm. I told her, "That's all." This devastating news made the sorrowful girl even more compassionate. She stroked the gleaming coin, hesitated for a long time, and finally let out a hearty sigh: "Alas." I think my poverty moved her. She sadly lowered her raised legs, spreading them apart like a dead fish, as if she no longer had the strength to control them. She clutched the coin tightly, glanced at me, and said, "Come on." She meant that I was too poor, so it was my turn to serve her, not the other way around.

Unfortunately, she overlooked one thing—how could a poor idiot like me have the strength to serve a chicken? I felt like I was filled with lead, and the only thing I could do was lie in bed for a while. I used my last bit of strength to push the chicken against the wall and lay down next to her. I stared at the ceiling pressing down on my head and said, "Alas."

The white chicken, as white as a white sheep, twisted her cold body, pressed her hands to her lower abdomen, and said without showing any weakness: "Alas."

As you can see, a spectacular sighing contest unfolded between me and the chickens. Both sides displayed their wits and courage, employing various tricks to fully demonstrate the skill, artistry, willpower, and intelligence characteristic of the competition. Of course, competition came second, friendship first, and in the end, we embraced each other contentedly and drifted off to sleep with a touch of melancholy.

When I came downstairs, Zhang Feihai was already waiting. He was still huddled among the chickens, swaying his head like a poet reciting verses. This was exactly the same as before I came upstairs. So, I had no idea whether he had gone upstairs to have sex with them. He looked at me, his eyes gleaming with excitement, and said, "Ah, okay." I nodded and said, "Okay." He jumped out from among the chickens and said, "Shall we go?" I said, "Let's go." At this moment, the chickens spoke up: "Sir, our vaginas aren't free!" I patiently explained to them: "I know your vaginas aren't free, the key point is, I haven't had sex with any of your vaginas at all! Not even a touch!" Meanwhile, I looked around for the prostitute, but to no avail—it's incredibly difficult to pick out a specific chicken from a pile.

See, there's no way, absolutely no way. I asked them, "How much?"

"Two hundred."

I turned to Zhang Feihai, who resolutely avoided my gaze, muttering incessantly, "Come on, come on, why pay if you're not going to pay?

How about a discount, ladies?

Two hundred, handsome."

I glanced at Zhang Feihai, and the two of us dashed out the door simultaneously, as excited as fifteen-year-olds taking the 1500m physical education test. The street was pitch black. I could hear my heart pounding against my heels. This situation wasn't exactly good, but fortunately, Zhang Feihai was clearly in a worse situation than me—he was already far behind. I felt like I couldn't get enough air in my lungs, and I was incredibly anxious. Not long after, I vaguely heard someone scream—Teacher Zhang got caught for not paying for prostitution! I was dizzy and couldn't help but think how wonderful it would be if I could run to Africa like Kunlun slave. Later, I stopped, hugged a tree, and thought, if only Brother Lu Zhishen were here, he could uproot this thing and give those bastards a truly profound shock.

When I was twenty, I had many dreams, dreams filled with large breasts and big buttocks. When I was twenty-three, I still had many dreams, but I forgot them all as soon as I woke up. This dream, however, was so vivid: I dreamt that I became a cow, with swollen, bright red teats, mooing as I grazed on fertile grass.

I defecated very quickly, without any sorrow or constipation, my tire-sized dung pan splattering and shaking the earth. As you can see, when I woke up from the chaos, I smelled the fragrant grass, still deeply immersed in the dream of the cow.

But, swiftly, a bittersweet emotion gripped my anus. Sadness stemmed from the fact that I was completely disoriented, naked, covered in sores, and bruised; joy came from the fact that our respectable teacher, Zhang Feihai, remained steadfastly by my side. He lay curled up, his bloated body as peaceful as a dead pig. The thought of death filled me with a strange sense of exhilaration. Was this vast, chaotic void hell? In other words, had we already left the human world and safely arrived at hell? For me, this question was clearly too immense, so I slapped the white buttocks beside me twice. Zhang Feihai jumped three feet high, yelling and screaming. He even got up and ran a few steps forward before abruptly stopping, turning back to look at me: "Damn it, are we dead?"

Who knows? In the distance, there was a gray sky, dark forests, and beneath our feet, waist-high, damp grass, glistening with dew. There was no artificial light to remind us that this was a 21st-century human settlement.

We began to move cautiously, venturing deeper into the grass. It was a wondrous place, dotted with small wildflowers, and occasionally grasshoppers would leap from the grass, hopping across our naked bodies. Birds chirped in the distant woods, their wings flapping in the air with a melodious, crisp sound. What if there were snakes? We cheered. If we caught one, we'd roast it—the taste… indescribable! "

Have you ever eaten snake?" Zhang Feihai asked. He squinted, his glasses gone. "Me

? Uh, no, but I know it's delicious. I've seen others eat it." Damn, this question was embarrassing. "

What, have you eaten it?" I stared maliciously at Zhang Feihai.

Of course, he proudly declared, "I've eaten it once. It was fucking expensive, but incredibly delicious, absolutely divine." He was already drooling.

Well, what could I say? This pot-bellied, dirt-poor idiot Zhang Feihai was more knowledgeable than me—he'd eaten snake, I hadn't! "Ah, I'm fucking poor, I'm the poorest!

You motherfucker, if you have money, why don't you pay up? Are you just sticking your ass out and asking to be beaten up?!

" "No, no, I already paid, I don't have a penny left.

You're dragging me to a brothel if you don't have money! You idiot!

Yes, I don't have money. Why can't I go to a brothel if I don't have money? Look, we did, didn't we?!" "So what?"

Zhang Feihai stretched out his lazy, fat flesh to show me, "Is a piece of flesh missing?" "No." "I'll go to a brothel again next time!"

Silence fell again. Only the sound of grass rubbing against his body, crisp like fragments of a soul. Suddenly, the sound of rushing water came from somewhere, was it a stream or a mountain spring? This wasn't the city, it was the suburbs.

Finally, a path appeared, winding like a snake, too bad to catch and eat. We stood on the path, bathed in the early morning wind, our stomachs rumbling. Which way to go? A straight line has two directions; obviously, we had to choose one.

This way, this way. Zhang Feihai wiggled his fat, his little penis shrunken in his pubic hair, almost disappearing.

That way? Which way is that? This idiot, I really don't know why he would choose that direction. I'm going this way; it will lead to where we want to go. I told Zhang Feihai resolutely.

No, no, I still have to go this way; I can only go this way, there's no other choice. Zhang Feihai had already started walking. He looked back at me and said, "Bye-bye."

He was serious; his fat back jiggled—this guy's dick's crying again. Well, let's allow him to go astray. There's nothing anyone can do. There's absolutely nothing we can do. I waved at his back and turned to go my own way. The path was winding yet flat, soft under my bare feet. Ahead, it remained hazy and gray; I felt as if I were walking on a road to the womb. In other words, at that moment, I was walking inside my vagina, everything around me, everything I smelled and touched, was part of that fleshy vagina. Ah, this vagina, caressed by the gentle breeze.

After what seemed like an eternity, my vision opened up—a highway. A ring road? I didn't know; in any case, it was a fresh asphalt road. There were no white or yellow signs, no green belts almost identical across China, just a simple highway, without even a car. As I walked on it, it was already bright daylight, the eastern horizon a crimson red. I saw the wet dew dripping from my pubic hair and shook it off. At the other end of the path were majestic mountains. Let us bless Zhang Feihai; he has finally been able to strip naked and run barefoot through the forest, becoming a true wild boar.

When I was seventeen, in my second year of high school, I would climb over the wall to get home every Sunday before my English class.

The campus had just moved, and a fresh asphalt road stretched out just outside the walls. Walking on the empty road, I felt a sense of exhilaration, and thinking of my voluptuous chemistry teacher made my penis hard. I pulled down my pants, stared at the five-starred red flag drooping above the campus, and rapidly rubbed my penis, always managing to ejaculate with a satisfying thud.

Today, the road is no different from the one of yesteryear. Looking at my emaciated body, touching my ribcage like harp strings, I began to rub my long-dormant penis. I felt my chest expand, like a sunken ship in the deep sea.

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How pleasurable it is to masturbate in the countryside on Sunday mornings!

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