Progressivism always progresses. Just as too much government control is never enough, sexual depravity always has to be pushed still further. At this point, homosexuality alone barely qualifies as woke. Cutting edge gays embrace puppy play. A practitioner and advocate tells us all about it:
I’m a pup. When I meet a “handler”—someone who prefers the dominant side of the scene—I bark, wag my “tail,” and (if he’ll let me) bury my face in his crotch.
An example of a handler would be Sam Brinton, the luggage thief and Sister of Perpetual Indulgence whom Democrats entrusted to handle nuclear waste.
Puppy play gays collect special gear:
I have a “tail” (a butt plug with a curved, canine-like tail attachment) that I shake and wag and look adorable with. I also have a neoprene puppy hood with floppy dog ears that covers my mouth and resembles a dog snout.
Here’s what passes for romance in a realm of sheer moonbattery:
When my boyfriend at the time decided to collar me, we went to Home Depot. I measured different chains around my neck and asked a (very confused) sales associate to cut them. Then we went to PetsMart and bought locks and tags. I’ll never forget sitting in the car in the parking lot when he locked the collar around my neck. It was arousing, sure, but also incredibly sweet.
Moonbats are not the ideal people to have steering the course for American culture.
On a tip from Mike B.
