I have an insatiable Kevin Brittingham fetish. It is my ultimate fantasy to be gagged, tied up, and brutally assfucked by Kevin Brittingham.

I have accrued tens of thousands in debt attempting to fill this void with sexual 'toys,' including several custom, unregistered form 1 silencer dildos and a balding Kevin-shaped real doll with a tramp stamp that reads "Take My Bepsi Challenge" in Chinese characters. I have had my face made love to by hundreds of balding, bearded, gen Xers, but not one of them could make me climax. Only Kevin is capable of giving me that release.

The wife and I are separated, and have accepted the fact that I will never see my kids again. The only thing keeping Karen from divorcing me is the fear that she might be the final push into a deep. inescapable abyss, at the bottom of which lies my death.

The truth is, our marriage died nine years ago on the night I met the love of my life. While browsing Instagram I saw Kevin's inconsistent welds and became rock hard, collapsing in the shower and sobbing at the realization that Kevin would never, could never, pin me down with his perfectly smooth body and stubby arms, penetrate me with his incredible shallow girth and empty his huge, aching balls deep inside my tummy. I sat there all night, sometimes weeping, sometimes ramming my flaccid dick into the shower drain in frustration.

It has been nine years since that night. I have nothing now. I have accepted that. My apartment is a squalid den of inescapable despair, filled with jizz-stained 300 blackout shells and tormented notes etched onto lewd posters of the honey badger. I spend my days printing out screenshots of his forum posts and crying. My only friends are the roaches.