Spam me my friend

I get an e-mail that reminds me that horny housewives from all over the country are seeking my attention. It tells me in descriptor phrases, what they are looking for me to do to them, and at what angle. It gives me descriptors like deep, hard, wet. It sometimes flashes me a picture of what I'm missing out on.

It gives me the impression that there are lines and lines of women, shelved liked produce, stocked up in some stuffy suburbanite home, waiting for the ephemeral escape to sexual enlightenment. It defiles my senses with qualities of arousal coupled with regret and imposition; a sense of intimacy battled with a feeling of violating.

It's stretched out on some arid Ohio wasteland block of community, several acres of modern saltbox homes. In these prefabricated cardboard houses, welded together with starch and finish nails, doled out one per home, sit the actors that play your lonely housewife. Acting on instinctual predation urges, the site due paying male stalks the front. No jealous husband... Sneak a paw into the trousers and prepare to wow a member of womankind with the beast of harmonious love.

Check this out; I'm awed again by the intuitive knowledge forthcoming in my e-mail box. Not only can I shag someone's wife, I can with certain guarantee lengthen my member by about 3 inches. I have never been happier. I can have it all...