You want to know what women want? It’s a big topic with no universal answers. But there’s a hint in this excerpt from a post at More Pecudum:

The power of two skinny legged, perky breasted 18 year old pussy-carrying miscreants isn’t a thing you can measure with a few words about heat. Girls like my cousin and I are crazy dangerous on our own. She had a talent for not giving a fuck, and I had a talent for giving off a sex vibe. So, young, full of sexy, and with access to clubs since she was running sound for rock shows and I was holding, we had a few solid weeks to fill ourselves with any cock we pointed ourselves toward.

The night I met you, we were bored as hell with the usual routine… We were stoned, we were driving around, and we saw you and your friend walking down a sidewalk. We circled the block and we picked you up.

Over the next week you kept coming over, and I took your virginity, and you kept calling me your fantasy woman. The way you looked at me as I walked around naked, summer sun skin and strawberry blonde hair, I felt like a girl out of a song. Nobody had ever — nobody has ever looked at me that way. I blame you, in a way, for all the years that followed of me loving every single song with “girl” in the title, because all I ever wanted after that was for someone to think I was their fantasy.

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