i apologize in advance for this updateI came into the world of cakefarts more or less accidentally. I never expected it to happen. I never expected to learn the things I know. I certainly never expected to meet Cakefartin' Steve.
That's just life I guess.
Perhaps some backstory is in order.
This tale begins, as they so often seem to do, with the SomethingAwful forums. I was idly browsing one day, avoiding work as usual, when a thread caught my eye. The title was simple. "You know what I like the most? Cake farts." I was puzzled. I am not provincial or ignorant. I am well schooled both cakes and farts, and frequently produce piping hot and aromatic examples of each. Still, I couldn't for the life of me think how cakes and farts might be combined in a superlatively pleasing pastime. I entered the thread. There was a link to YouTube. I was curious. I clicked. I watched.
As it happens, "cake farts"--or, if you prefer the gerund, "cakefarting"--is pornography of women farting onto cakes. This video was the king of its kind. It was the archetype. The Ur-cakefart.
If you've been lucky enough to avoid watching it until now, allow me to set the stage:
A camera pans around an unassuming chocolate cake sitting on a kitchen counter. After a few seconds it cuts abruptly to the face of the film's star, a rather fetching young harlot who would look almost attractive if it weren't for her haphazardly cascading teeth and meth addled smile.
"You know what I like the most?" she croons, with the sort of coquettish whimper that can only come from a few hard years in a trailer park harem. "Cake farts." She then wanders around the counter, trailing her hand seductively along its surface, naked from the waist down. She mounts the table. She straddles the cake with her back to the camera. She roosts upon it, settling down like a mother hen over a particularly prized egg. She leans forward to give the camera an unobstructed view of her rear. She moans.
And then she farts.
Over and over again. Roost, lean, moan, fart. Roost, lean, moan, fart. Roost, work the frosting deeper into her crack, cantilever onto her elbows, sigh lovingly, pucker her butthole like a the mouth of a petulant child trying to avoid his vegetables, and let loose with the sort of thunderous PPPPHHHLLLBBBTT that you imagine God trumpeting after downing the world's largest chili dog. Two solid minutes of this. By the end, I swore I could taste chocolate and smell methane.
In retrospect, cakefarts shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did. Strange pornography on the Internet is nothing new. In fact, I myself always assume that any link I click on will possibly take me to some new and horrifying website filled with conservative furries or religious sex toys. I am rarely disappointed. Nor was I surprised to see farts used as an erotic device. Such practice is, I am sad to report, altogether too common, and longtime readers of SomethingAwful may be having flashbacks right now.
It was the cake that threw me. The birthday cake, the center of childhood innocence, the gravitational center around which revolve the balloons and presents and clowns with inadequate appreciation of personal space. To see it so ruthlessly defiled was a horrible and soul shattering experience. I knew that once YouTube found it they would delete it immediately, and this prime example of Internet decadence would be lost forever.
So, of course, I made a website and posted the video to it. Within hours, the traffic had overloaded my server and brought it crashing down as hundreds of thousands of people tried to trick their friends into watching a naked chick pass gas on a cake.
Meanwhile, my inbox flooded. There were cakefarting enthusiasts inviting me to their forums. There were fart porn actresses begging me to advertise their wares--short, downloadable movies with titles like "Public Fart Diaries: The Donut Shop 1" and "Public Fart Diaries: The Donut Shop 2." I wanted to ask the director what vision he had about farting at the donut shop that wasn't adequately addressed in the first volume but didn't dare.
I was up to my eyes in cake farts, barely able to breathe, when suddenly, out of the mist, arrived an email from the man I would come to call Cakefartin' Steve.
|From: Steve Norris <[email protected]>|
Subj: i have more material for cakefarts
I think your website is excellent and I would like to suggest a few contribution to it:
1. I am the moderator of a yahoo club called "Women into Farting on Cakes". In it you will find a few links
2. There is one more video I found - a free one - it's on rapidshare. In it, a girl named Mandy Taylor sits on,
This was amazing. I had to know more. I emailed him back to ask where he had developed these urges. And so my journey began.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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