Meditations on Meatholes

Yes. Meatholes.

Is it wrong how excited I am that there’s a new Meatholes sister-site coming out soon dedicated to nothing but girls being violently face-fucked until they gag on cock, often vomiting on themselves?

Is it sick that I watch all the Meatholes trailers, all the way through, over and over again, with slack-jawed awe and wonderment at a woman’s ability to take punishment and their willingness to be utterly humiliated by assholes and goons?

Is it weird that I show this shit to my boyfriend, tell my mother about it, make reference to it in casual dinner conversation, and site it as a phenomenon in Philosophy of Media courses?

My aforementioned boyfriend asked me, after a particularly heinous episode starring Meathole Kerri which we watched, silently, mouths agape, “Why would a girl do this?” I mumbled a bewildered, “I don’t know.”

Did Nikki’s parents abuse her? Did Kat’s father not love her enough? Was Kerri ignored? Molested? Raped? Was Jane on drugs? How much money could they possibly be making that would make this “worth it”? Are they really just dumb whores? Why are they willing to be treated like abject objects? Like pieces of meat?

Why do I watch it?

The folks at Meatholes are definitely onto something. They have found an audience. Masses of people hungry for more dirty whores, willing to be spit on, sat on, stepped on, slapped around, mocked, humiliated, spanked, fisted, choked, gagged, and more. They make these girls lick ass, drink piss, swallow spit, and take cum directly in the eyeball. Many of the girls “break” at some point. A lot of them cry. It’s terribly awful.

How real is it? I don’t know. How much of it is “acting” and how much of it is honest moments of realization of what they have become? I don’t know.

I watch it. With my mouth agape and my brow furrowed with a mixture of concern, horror, and fascination. I watch the whole thing. Somehow I think it’s making me stronger, in the way that Nietzsche says what doesn’t kill me will.

In the same way that a kid pokes at a dead bird or picks at a scab, I keep coming back. I look at the site from different angels. I try to analyze it and understand it. I want to know how many of the girls are dead, on drugs, in institutions, married with children, prostitutes, suicidal. Sometimes I wish I could give them a hug. Sometimes I want to slap them for being such dumb bitches. I am conflicted.

I whole-heartedly recommend the site to family, friends, teachers, and random folks I meet on the street. I link it up to my website. I accept the challenge. I do battle with my demons. I am glad that I am not them. I am grateful for their sacrifice.

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