You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I mean who wouldn’t want to fuck a blobfish? I’ll tell you who wouldn’t want to fuck a blobfish; people who have fucked a blobfish.

Sure, it looks enticing, a surfaced blobfish, what with its pouty face and honker’s nose, ooh with its soft, squishy flesh and a little, non-threatening fins, boop bogga zoop dogga doop with its innocent nature and trusting eyes. It wants to be fucked. That’s what it looks like its made for. It’s a fuck fish! That’s what everyone who has fucked a blobfish told themselves. It’s what I told myself before I fucked a blobfish, but it…

Gaahh.

As soon as you push your penis into that squisher’s flabby flesh, you understand, and I mean truly understand, why it’s called a blobfish. Your throbbing dong has nothing to work with in in there, just pure tepid jelly. There is no feeling, no sensation. My mind went blank as my numb meat wobbled aimlessly. Thrusting did no good, how could it? It’s all blob. There’s no back and forth sensation to speak of, just all blob.

After a while, and this is something that happens to everyone who fucks a blobfish, the blobfish just kinda sloughed off my dangler. I didn’t even notice. I was in a stupor. As feeling and conciousness returned to me, I realized by the tenderness in my penis, that I had ejac’d several times over the course of only a half hour of being fleshly engaged with that blobfish, but did I feel any of those glopper pops? Nope. Not a one. Instead, that tender post-ejac feeling stuck with me months after that blobfish dropped off my cock and splatted on the pavement (yeah, I fucked a blobfish outside on the sidewalk).

Not worth it. If you feel like you want to fuck a blobfish, believe me when I say that you don’t want to fuck a blobfish.