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That Moment When Andrew Tate Died
It was a cold and dark November night and Andy sat snuggled up in his lonely, empty bed. He had no one and recently it really had started to tear on him, every other alpha male had a girlfriend so why couldn’t he just get one? Sure, it could be due to his seemingly “strange way of perceiving people of the female gender” but why couldn’t women just get that deep down he’s just a special soul trying his best to help other males live the lives society wants them to have? Andy took in a heavy sigh as his mind started to wander, wander away from his love of teaching young men and boys, wander away from his troublesome love life, wander.. wait, it just stopped… something had fought his eye, was it, no it could be? But it was, it so was.. his mind had stopped at the lonely cactus plant he had on his bedside table. So lonely yet still masculine and…oh yeah… it would do what he only could dream of.. he could feel his pants starting to get tighter and tighter just by the thought of it.. “Could it even fit?” Was all he could think about. Sure, his pp was tiny and he was indeed an incredibly submissive but there’s no way a thing such as this should get him this horny. Well, there’s only one way to find out. “Maybe just maybe this could help me blow off some steam for once.”
Andrew had long lived with the insight that men couldn’t fall this hard for any woman, hell, not even a plant. But it was at this moment he had discovered the true meaning of life. He panted loudly as sweat flooded from his temple down and dripping onto his bare chest and the cactus started losing more and more of its sharpness as most of it had already gotten stuck to his insides as he slowly started losing consciousness. The last thing he saw before blacking out was his loving, beautiful cactus, now drenched in his dark red, drippy blood yet still seemingly unbothered by his animalistic activities that made him feel so, so good..
It has been a week since the incident with the former internet celebrity and the cactus yet the towns people still gossiped about it like it was yesterday. They had heard about Mr. Tate being strange but this had been on a completely different level. There were multiple interviews a day with the policemen who had found this man’s corpse lying in the bloody bedsheets. The policemen always told the reporters the same thing, no new information had or would ever be obtained about this weird suicide, they had never even mentioned it revolving a suicide coming to think of it… maybe Mr.Tate had just taken pleasure in the poor, poor cactus.. maybe, maybe there had been something that the doctors had failed to notice when they had preformed the autopsy… maybe his sick sexual preferences had been the one and only opinion he had held to himself and not put on the internet ..