Once upon this one time, there was a woman who laid with me. She said, “I was a virgin four inches ago.” What she meant to say was six. That’s when I said, “Didn’t you mean six?” She thought that was the funniest thing…six inches. “I meant what I had,” she replied.
Back then, my stamina was as short as my temper and still is. When I finished, she was just starting. Her skin glistened with my haughty discharge. I grabbed her and then a towel. The towel was beach. It had sand on it. After that, I had sand on me and then on her and then, because of an awkward hug she refused, on me again. She was not pleased. She hated hugs.
Dry as desert and sweet as dessert, we attempted her second try. Our relationship ended four inches after that. My parting words were, “I can’t believe you get paid to do this.” Her parting words were more like tears. “Who’s going to clean all of this sand?” I thought. That’s when I remembered that the cleaning lady would be back in the morning.
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3===) · · ·· O-: (FYI – that graphic display represents a winker and his hot bod with all that c*ck, balls and a sh*t ton of c*m about to hit that pretty little number’s O-face). I’m looking for two things. The first is hot girls. I’m just perusing the street driving public and all of their assets. First and foremost, I am attracted to nice hair. Shiny, yes. Long, yes. Slightly curly, God yes. The best part of the hair is it often times cascades down the body inadvertently pointing to other delectable treats such as the neck, chest, breast, and sometimes abs, buns, and legs. A great head of hair and a hot set of chest blossoms is the luxury model I want to see on the road. It’s usually marked by something flowery hanging from the rear view mirror; usually a flower. Oh, unless it’s hanging from a minivan. Forget it. Usually, it’s some chicks ugly step dad. Which brings me to the second thing. I’m looking for some punk dude that’s younger, older, smaller, dumber-looking, worse car, and/or smug that I could kick the sh@t out of. I’ll tell you that I’m going to stare that @sshole down until he looks over and then I’m going to look away quickly. If I’d stare longer we might have fisticuffs. He does not want that. Actually, if it ever came down to that, I’m not going to do that because I can’t fight (I’m a bit of a screamer). But if I did fight, maybe one of those pretty little ladies with the lai in the windshield might just stop and ask if she can dissolve the conflict with her nipple tits. This would be the point when I get out my insurance information and check book. Lady, you can take anything you want. People are so great.
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