Fingerfucking art is pathetically ignored in the history books. When it occurs at all it is relegated to "the history of pornography" sections of libraries and theses on the topic. This won't be the case in the New Las Vegas. There will be sculptures and paintings and performance artists a-plenty depicting this never-gets-old cornucopia of fun. The hand down the pants of a twat-owner is one of the supreme sublime pleasures of humankind, exceeding wine tasting and cigar-sniffing for civilizing excellence. Ah, the wet, sloppy playground of female slittage. It never gets old even when it's old: teen ager and granma alike are qualifying candidates for finger-fondling fur-searchers. Fingerfucking induces a trancelike state in both participants that rave gatherings are in total denial about. Noise on a hot desert playa is a poor meditation substitute for relaxed and never-ending fingerfucking. A moment's contemplation on this produces instant universal agreement, as I am sure you will instantly and universally agree.
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