When a new woman asks where I work, I usually say, “At home. My boss is a prick.” Once she realizes I am unmarried, and the prick is me, the next question concerns my occupation, then what I’ve written, and what the books are about. I can usually find common ground around The Fifty Shades of Grey since I’ve written parodies thereof. I always ask what she thinks of the original. Her reaction gives me substantial insight.
The woman last night said she wasn’t crazy about the writing, but loved the sex parts.
“Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner!” said Phil’s willy.
Above the waist, I wasn’t quite ready to display my leather case of clamps and such. I inferred her kinkiness because she liked the sex parts, which were (*yawn*) kinky. I wondered to what extent.
Be thankful, dear reader, that when you meet the fleshy version of me, I’m somewhat filtered. In print, I’m less filtered, and inside my head, it’s a fucking free-for-all.
Hence, my bone bowl of gelatinous, yet amateurish kinkery (a.k.a. gin-soaked brain) told my mouth to present the following options:
- “Awesome! Can I stick it in your pooper?”
- “Ever had someone pee on you?”
- “I will pierce your nipples with rusty thumbtacks.”
- “Bartender, hand me thy muddler. I’m gonna pound me some punani.”
- “Hey, let’s grab a fat chick, and go play doctor in the bed of my Tundra.”
Those were all excellent night-enders—lady repellants if you will. But, I had cabernet left and a wild hair on my scrotum. The thoughts were returned to sender, and I demanded kinder, gentler versions, which could ease insertion instead of a wine bath.
- “Which parts got you dewy, darling?”
- “Rich guys with whips have all the fun. Would you settle for a man swimming in debt holding a baseball belt?”
- “If you let me tie you up, I promise to keep your face out of the pictures.”
- “If I were the ideal penis, what size, width, and color would I be?”
- “This face was made for sitting.”
I said none of the such. Yet, I bet if I deployed a few, there’d be a slight possibility that she’d find my honesty refreshing, then offer to make a foot vagina. (I saw this on Playboy TV last night. Not sure how I feel about it. Athlete’s Cock sounds horrible, does it not?)
Alas, harmless, boring banter is all there was. No ball gags, dildos, or trampolines. Sometimes my life is dull as missionary.
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