Call me h. Some years ago--never mind how long precisely--having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me outside, I thought I would go on steam a little and see the "gaming" part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's air pods out--then, I account it high time to get on my computer as soon as I can. This is my substitute for a chair and rope. With a philosophical flourish Etika throws himself into the East River; I quietly take to Steam. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards video games as me.

There now is your insular home of the Store page--commerce surrounds it with her ads. Right and left, the banners take you to new games. Its extreme downtown is the 18+ games, where that noble mole is washed by degeneracy, and cooled by debauchery, which a few years previous were illegal to behold. Look at the crowds of gamers there.

Circumambulate the Store page on a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from FPS games to Visual Novels, and from thence, by tags, downward. What do you see?--Posted like silent sentinels all around the internet, lay thousands upon thousands of H-games fixed in censored reveries. Some last but a nut; some for many play-throughs; some unplayables from China; some with haughty price points, as if porn on the internet isn't free. But these all live in the shadow; the shadow cast by a game you may not know yet. How then is this? Are the good games gone? What shall you play?

But here is Futa Fix ♥♥♥♥ Dine and Dash. It desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all of the H-games. What is the chief element they employ? The futanari, each with a massive trunk, as if stolen from the face of an elephant. Deep you go into the game as its story winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of choices bathed in futanari artwork. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this gorgeous artwork shakes down its ♥♥♥♥♥ like leaves upon the forest path, yet all were vain, unless the player's eye were fixed upon the magic before him. Go visit
the Gym girl, when for scores on scores of miles you can look and still see her massive behind--what is the one charm wanting?--Censorship--there is not a drop of censorship there! Were Niagara but a cataract of pixels, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of dollars, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in this game? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy for futas? Why upon your first voyage as a player, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that this game was publicly visible on your profile? Why did the old Japanese hold the H-games holy? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper we fear futas, because we think ♥♥♥♥♥ are gay. But that same image, we ourselves see in all mirrors and reflections. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.