dvandelmar
-
10:50:03 am on August 21, 2008 | # |
The Squirter
Rest assured scotch is involved. But usually on my end. 2 am after the country club on a random Wednesday evening there may be a voice mail. I may turn the wheel. This gal drowns me. It’s more like having sex in a swamp. Went to Evita in Boston, and she wanted to fuck prior to the show which meant I had to sleep in it. Sorry. The bed is so soaked I cannot sleep. Not in my house any longer. If you go down on her, a minimal requirement is a snorkel, dry suit and mask. My friend the sex Phd says I have a squirter. It’s at least 6 to 8 ounces of fluid. Makes me nauseous. The first time it happened I thought she pissed on me. She was on top and I had to close my eyes and not look at her any more. I was so disgusted I couldn’t finish. I was angry. The sex Phd made me sniff my mattress. He claims no smell of urine is indicator of squirtage. It didn’t last long.
A male antelope with all four hooves firmly planted, legs cocked. The final hope is a thrusting hard right turn. All the foward momentum must change direction in one quick motion with no loss of speed. Behind, a hungry lioness with fully extended claws and one paw up ready to swat once again at an already bloodied hind quarter. Life as a single male: An antelope, running for his life.
Damn did I take it on the chin tonight.
