TITLE    : Dream Girls
STORYID  : dream-girls-1
SUMMARY  : They've cum a long way, baby!
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2009-07-01
CATEGORY : adult-humor
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |dream girls|galatea|pygmalion|plato|bikini|sex|girls gone wild|actress|cock|breasts|


If you're a guy (or, for that matter, nowadays, a chick), take a look in the mirror. A long look. Would you go out with you? Be honest now; it's yourself you're talking to.



You would? You could really overlook the crow's feet, the turkey neck, the knee-length breasts or stubby, uncut cock? The elephant's knees?



You're not that bad, you say?



Remember, it's yourself you're talking to.



And even if you're not that bad, even if you don't have thunderous thighs and a flabby ass and pimples that have haunted you since you were twelve and had braces and wore thick-lens glasses, are you really likely, with all those freckles, to catch the eye of a hot, twenty-something in a thong bikini?



No, let's be honest. Whatever your age, gender, sex, and waist size, and whether you've had breast-reduction or -augmentation surgery, you're about as likely to attract a member of either sex as you are a Sasquatch of any age, either gender or sex, and a waist size under eighty-five inches, whether the hirsute creature's undergone breast-reduction or -augmentation surgery or not.



The only girl you're likely to lay is a Dream Girl, one whose tits and ass consist of pixels rather than flesh and blood and who'd be willing to open her arms (much less her mouth, cunt, or ass) to you only in your wildest dreams.



But that's okay. Dream Girls are actually better than real women, even of the Girls-Gone-Wild kind that one encounters, if at all, only during Mardi Gras in New Orleans.



Besides, Dream Girls are available free. You don't have to splurge for dinner and a movie before trying to knock them up or even spring for some cheap costume jewelry, just to get them to lift their tee shirts. In fact, most Dream Girls don't wear tee shirts--or anything else, for that matter.



Dream Girls are the Internet's gift to men, especially overweight, balding, dirty old farts who sit around naked in front of semen-smeared personal computer monitors, their altars to the Dream Girls whom they worship from afar--or, at least, through the screens upon which these goddesses frolic. Although he probably won't admit it and will, in fact, try to deny it, even if his wife catches him red-handed at the shrine of his latest digital damsel, every pudgy, thin-haired guy over forty has a harem of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Dream Girls.



Dream Girls confirm Plato's idea of forms, according to which any real thing is but an imperfect image of the real deal, which exists in the mind of God. We know this, because we've never seen a real, flesh-and-blood woman as perfect and beautiful as a Dream Girl.



The last perfect woman, besides Galatea, whom Pygmalion carved of ivory, was Eve--and that was only before the Fall. After she'd shared the "forbidden fruit" with Adam, she lost the mystique of being the world's only virgin, and everything was downhill from there--until the Internet launched the billion or so sites featuring Dream Girls, and billions of bare breasts, shaved pubes, gaping cunts, and sleek, round asses were available to millions. A guy could get laid again, right in his own bedroom--well, as long as he'd content to let his hand stand in, as it were, for his Dream Girl's computerized cunt.



With the advent of the Dream Girl, women have risen up and lived out the creed of the Virginia Slims advertisements. They've cum a long way, baby. Gone are the prune faces, the acne, the melted necks, the deflated, sagging breasts, the stretched labia, and the cellulite-"dimpled" asses. Dream Girls are slim and trim; they're light and tight; they're sassy and brassy. If Helen of Troy's face could launch a thousand ships, theirs can, and do, launch a billion sperm, each and every day.



Pygmalion's Dream Girl, Galatea, was sculpted, and today's digitized Dream Girl is a figment of her creator's mind, too. Instead of ivory, she's made of pixels and light. She's posed in perfect light. Her hair is styled. Her cosmetics are applied by makeup artists. Her clothing, should she wear any, is selected with consummate care to accentuate her curves. Blemishes are airbrushed away.



Moreover, Dream Girls are actually happy to be women. They exude confidence and joy. Unlike the old battleaxe to whom the Dream Girl's devotee is married, if he's married at all, a Dream Girl actually smiles, even when she's getting laid.



She's available, too--any time, and for whatever kind of sex happens to strike one's fancy. She's as adept as a whore at every possible way of making whoopee, too, and the kinkier the sex, the better. Yet, despite her considerable experience--she's done it with nine-tenths of the world's male population and at least fifty percent of the planet's females--she retains her virginal, barely-out-of-her-teens look of innocence, a perpetual virgin who just happens to suck cock like a Hoover and take it up the ass like the world's biggest slut. She can even get off without hours of "foreplay"!



She's an accomplished actress, too. She can play the part of Little Miss Innocent, all wide eyed and blushing, or she can be a dominatrix bent upon teaching a lesson her despicable slave will never forget. She can be the proverbial whore with a heart of gold, a back door girl, or even a nun who's forgotten her vows of chastity--if she ever bothered to take them at all. She can be a living doll or the girl next door. She can even be mom, a sister, or a daughter. She's a Dream Girl, after all, and she exists for just one reason: to make your dreams come true, no matter how wholesome, sick, or perverted they may be.



She may be black, she may be white, she may be Asian, she may be Native American, but, one thing's certain: your Dream Girl's ready and waiting.



She's out there, somewhere, right now, dreaming of you. 

