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From the earliest days of our youth, we are schooled in the national myth of freedom, of a personal liberation we can and must achieve. They tell us to Be yourself! Do your thing! Do you! Be you! You go, girl! Get ‘em, boys! Tell the world to take a number, get in line, and kiss the cellulite-ridden cottage-cheese ass you live your life in front of courtesy of the obesity crisis! Think—as they themselves refuse to do in employing so tired a cliche—outside the box! Until, that is, you actually do go ahead and follow this advice—that’s when you’ll find that they really don’t want you to be yourself. No, your wife, husband, your friends, mommy and daddy, your kiddies, your colleagues, the good people of the world and even Jesus Christ Himself: they want you to be who they want you to be, to live how they want you to live, and to pork like they want you to pork, which usually ends up looking something like—Saturday night, missionary position, simultaneous orgasm on the connubial couch. But what if, in the backseat of your car, you want to clutch fistfuls of your wife’s hair while dumping the 57 ropes of cum you’ve been brewing for the last two weeks into her tight, empurpled starfish of a butthole, exulting in thrill of risky semi-public sex while oblivious families picnic nearby? What if you want to invite your old college bros to the office for a wild afternoon of bukkakeing your secretary, cum all over her face and hair and tits and glasses, and all over the Danish that she is obliged to wash down, bite by bite, with a steaming, foaming cup of cum coffee? What if you want to hire an escort and dick slap her for ten minutes straight while she sings the National Anthem? Or what if you’re a chick and are in a mood to drop 15 clams on a set of ginormous, 88 Triple F porn-star tits, for no reason other than that you like the feeling of cocks sliding between them, and the more jiggle and amplitude, the better? Never mind that you will henceforth be obliged to walk with you